Braintop's knock at the door had been unheeded for some minutes. At last
Emilia let him in. The brandy and biscuits were placed on a table, and
Emilia resumed her watch by Mr. Pole. She saw that his lips moved, after
a space, and putting her ear down, understood that he desired not to see
any one who might come for an interview with him: nor were the clerks
to be admitted. The latter direction was given in precise terms. Emilia
repeated the orders outside. On her return, the merchant's eyes were
open.
“My forehead feels damp,” he said; “and I'm not hot at all. Just take
hold of my hands. They're like wet crumpets. I wonder what makes me so
stiff. A man mustn't sit at business too long at a time. Sure to make
people think he's ill. What was that about a doctor? I seem to remember.
I won't see one.”
Emilia had filled a glass with brandy. She brought it nearer to his
hand, while he was speaking. At the touch of the glass, his fingers went
round it slowly, and he raised it to his mouth. The liquor revived him.
He breathed “ah!” several times, and grimaced, blinking, as if seeking
to arouse a proper brightness in his eyes. Then, he held out his empty
glass to her, and she filled it, and he sipped deliberately, saying:
“I'm warm inside. I keep on perspiring so cold. Can't make it out. Look
at my finger-ends, my dear. They're whitish, aren't they?”
Emilia took the hand he presented, and chafed it, and put it against her
bosom, half under one arm. The action appeared to give some warmth to
his heart, for he petted her, in return.
A third time he held out the glass, and remarked that this stuff was
better than medicine.
“You women!” he sneered, as at a reminiscence of their faith in drugs.
“My legs are weak, though!” He had risen and tested the fact. “Very
shaky. I wonder what makes 'em--I don't take much exercise.” Pondering
on this problem, he pursued: “It's the stomach. I'm as empty as an
egg-shell. Odd, I've got no appetite. But, my spirits are up. I begin
to feel myself again. I'll eat by-and-by, my dear. And, I say; I'll tell
you what:--I'll take you to the theatre to-night. I want to laugh. A
man's all right when he's laughing. I wish it was Christmas. Don't you
like to see the old pantaloon tumbled over, my boy?--my girl, I mean. I
did, when I was a boy. My father took me. I went in the pit. I can smell
oranges, when I think of it. I remember, we supped on German sausage; or
ham--one or the other. Those were happy old days!”
He shook his head at them across the misty gulf.
“Perhaps there's a good farce going on now. If so, we'll go. Girls ought
to learn to laugh as well as boys. I'll ring for Braintop.”
He rang the bell, and bade Emilia be careful to remind him that he
wanted Braintop's address; for Braintop was useful.
It appeared that there were farces at several of the theatres. Braintop
rattled them out, their plot and fun and the merits of the actors,
with delightful volubility, as one whose happy subject had been finally
discovered. He was forthwith commissioned to start immediately and
take a stage-box at one of the places of entertainment, where two great
rivals of the Doctor genus promised to laugh dull care out of the spirit
of man triumphantly, and at the description of whose drolleries any one
with faith might be half cured. The youth gave his address on paper to
Emilia.
“Make haste, sir,” said Mr. Pole. “And, stop. You shall go, yourself; go
to the pit, and have a supper, and I'll pay for it. When you've ordered
the box--do you know the Bedford Hotel? Go there, and see Mrs. Chickley,
and tell her I am coming to dine and sleep, and shall bring one of my
daughters. Dinner, sittingroom, and two bed-rooms, mind. And tell Mrs.
Chickley we've got no carpet-bag, and must come upon her wardrobe. All
clear to you? Dinner at half-past five going to theatre.”
Braintop bowed comprehendingly.
“Now, that fellow goes off chirping,” said Mr. Pole to Emilia. “It's
just the thing I used to wish to happen to me, when I was his age--my
master to call me in and say 'There! go and be jolly.' I dare say the
rascal'll order a champagne supper. Poor young chap! let his heart be
merry. Ha! ha! heigho!--Too much business is bad for man and boy. I feel
better already, if it weren't for my legs. My feet are so cold. Don't
you think I'm pretty talkative, my dear?”
“I am glad to hear you talk,” said Emilia, striving to look less
perplexed than she felt.
He asked her slyly why she had come to London; and she begged that she
might speak of it by-and-by; whereat Mr. Pole declared that he intended
to laugh them all out of that nonsense. “And what did you say about
being in love with him? A doctor in good practice--but you needn't
commence by killing me if you do go and marry the fellow. Eh? what is
it?”
Emilia was too much entangled herself to attempt to extricate him; and
apparently his wish to be enlightened passed away, for he was the next
instant searching among his papers for the letter from Riga. Not finding
it, he put on his hat.
“Must give up business to-day. Can't do business with a petticoat in the
room. I wish the Lord Mayor'd stop them all at Temple Bar. Now we'll go
out, and I'll show you a bit of the City.”
He offered her his arm, and she noticed that in walking through the
office, he was erect, and the few words he spoke were delivered in the
peremptory elastic tone of a vigorous man.
“My girls,” he said to her in an undertone, “never come here. Well! we
don't expect ladies, you know. Different spheres in this world. They
mean to be tip-top in society; and quite right too. My dear, I think
we'll ride. Do you mind being seen in a cab?”
He asked her hesitatingly: and when Emilia said, “Oh, no! let us ride,”
he seemed relieved. “I can't see the harm in a cab. Different tastes, in
this world. My girls--but, thank the Lord! they've got carriages.”
For an hour the merchant and Emilia drove about the City. He showed her
all the great buildings, and dilated on the fabulous piles of wealth
they represented, taking evident pleasure in her exclamations of
astonishment.
“Yes, yes; they may despise us City fellows. I say, 'Come and see,'
that's all! Now, look up that court. Do you see three dusty windows
on the second floor? That man there could buy up any ten princes in
Europe--excepting one or two Austrians or Russians. He wears a coat just
like mine.”
“Does he?” said Emilia, involuntarily examining the one by her side.
“We don't show our gold-linings, in the City, my dear.”
“But, you are rich, too.”
“Oh! I--as far as that goes. Don't talk about me. I'm--I'm still cold in
the feet. Now, look at that corner house. Three months ago that man was
one of our most respected City merchants. Now he's a bankrupt, and can't
show his head. It was all rotten. A medlar! He tampered with documents;
betrayed trusts. What do you think of him?”
“What was it he did?” asked Emilia.
Mr. Pole explained, and excused him; then he explained, and abused him.
“He hadn't a family, my dear. Where did the money go? He's called a
rascal now, poor devil! Business brings awful temptations. You think,
this'll save me! You catch hold of it and it snaps. That'll save me;
but you're too heavy, and the roots give way, and down you go lower and
lower. Lower and lower! The gates of hell must be very low down if one
of our bankrupts don't reach 'em.” He spoke this in a deep underbreath.
“Let's get out of the City. There's no air. Look at that cloud. It's
about over Brookfield, I should say.”
“Dear Brookfield!” echoed Emilia, feeling her heart fly forth to sing
like a skylark under the cloud.
“And they're not satisfied with it,” murmured Mr. Pole, with a voice of
unwonted bitterness.
At the hotel, he was received very cordially by Mrs. Chickley, and
Simon, the old waiter.
“You look as young as ever, ma'am,” Mr. Pole complimented her
cheerfully, while he stamped his feet on the floor, and put forward
Emilia as one of his girls; but immediately took the landlady aside, to
tell her that she was “merely a charge--a ward--something of that sort;”
admitting, gladly enough, that she was a very nice young lady. “She's a
genius, ma'am, in music:--going to do wonders. She's not one of them.”
And Mr. Pole informed Mrs. Chickley that when they came to town, they
usually slept in one or other of the great squares. He, for his part,
preferred old quarters: comfort versus grandeur.
Simon had soon dressed the dinner-table. By the time dinner was ready,
Mr. Pole had sunk into such a condition of drowsiness, that it was hard
to make him see why he should be aroused, and when he sat down, fronting
Emilia, his eyes were glazed, and he complained that she was scarcely
visible.
“Some of your old yellow seal, Simon. That's what I want. I haven't got
better at home.”
The contents of this old yellow seal formed the chief part of the
merchant's meal. Emilia was induced to drink two full glasses.
“Doesn't that make your feet warm, my dear?” said Mr. Pole.
“It makes me want to talk,” Emilia confessed.
“Ah! we shall have some fun to-night. 'To-the-rutte-ta-to!' If you could
only sing, 'Begone dull care!' I like glees: good, honest, English,
manly singing for me! Nothing like glees and madrigals, to my mind. With
chops and baked potatoes, and a glass of good stout, they beat all other
music.”
Emilia sang softly to him.
When she had finished, Mr. Pole applauded her mildly.
“Your music, my dear?”
“My music: Mr. Runningbrook's words. But only look. He will not change
a word, and some of the words are so curious, they make me lift my chin
and pout. It's all in my throat. I feel as if I had to do it on tiptoe.
Mr. Runningbrook wrote the song in ten minutes.”
“He can afford to--comes of a family,” said Mr. Pole, and struck up a
bit of “Celia's Arbour,” which wandered into “The Soldier Tired,” as he
came bendingly, both sets of fingers filliping, toward Emilia, with
one of those ancient glee--suspensions, “Taia--haia--haia--haia,” etc.,
which were meant for jolly fellows who could bear anything.
“Eh?” went Mr. Pole, to elicit approbation in return.
Emilia smoothed the wrinkles of her face, and smiled.
“There's nothing like Port,” said Mr. Pole. “Get little Runningbrook to
write a song: 'There's nothing like Port.' You put the music. I'll sing
it.”
“You will,” cried Emilia.
“Yes, upon my honour! now my feet are warmer, I by Jingo! what's that?”
and again he wore that strange calculating look, as if he were being
internally sounded, and guessed at his probable depth. “What a twitch!
Something wrong with my stomach. But a fellow must be all right when his
spirits are up. We'll be off as quick as we can. Taia--haihaia--hum. If
the farce is bad, it's my last night of theatre-going.”
The delight at being in a theatre kept Emilia dumb when she gazed on
the glittering lights. After an inspection of the house, Mr. Pole kindly
remarked: “You must marry and get out of this. This'd never do. All very
well in the boxes: but on the stage--oh, no! I shouldn't like you to
be there. If my girls don't approve of the doctor, they shall look out
somebody for you. I shouldn't like you to be painted, and rigged out;
and have to squall in this sort of place. Stage won't do for you. No,
no!”
Emilia replied that she had given up the stage; and looked mournfully at
the drop-scene, as at a lost kingdom, scarcely repressing her tears.
The orchestra tuned and played a light overture. She followed up the
windings of the drop-scene valley, meeting her lover somewhere beneath
the castle-ruin, where the river narrowed and the trees intertwined. On
from dream to dream the music carried her, and dull fell the first words
of the farce. Mr. Pole said, “Now, then!” and began to chuckle. As
the farce proceeded, he grew more serious, repeating to Emilia, quite
anxiously: “I wonder whether that boy Braintop's enjoying it.” Emilia
glanced among the sea of heads, and finally eliminated the head
of Braintop, who was respectfully devoting his gaze to the box she
occupied. When Mr. Pole had been assisted to discover him likewise, his
attention alternated between Braintop and the stage, and he expressed
annoyance from time to time at the extreme composure of Braintop's
countenance. “Why don't the fellow laugh? Does he think he's listening
to a sermon?” Poor Braintop, on his part, sat in mortal fear lest his
admiration of Emilia was perceived. Divided? between this alarming
suspicion, and a doubt that the hair on his forehead was not properly
regulated, he became uneasy and fitful in his deportment. His
imagination plagued him with a sense of guilt, which his master's
watchfulness of him increased. He took an opportunity to furtively
to eye himself in a pocket-mirror, and was subsequently haunted by an
additional dread that Emilia might have discovered the instrument; and
set him down as a vain foolish dog. When he saw her laugh he was sure
of it. Instead of responding to Mr. Pole's encouragement, he assumed a
taciturn aspect worthy of a youthful anchorite, and continued to be the
spectator of a scene to which his soul was dead.
“I believe that fellow's thinking of nothing but his supper,” said Mr.
Pole.
“I dare say he dined early in the day,” returned Emilia, remembering how
hungry she used to be in the evenings of the potatoe-days.
“Yes, but he might laugh, all the same.” And Mr. Pole gave Emilia the
sound advice: “Mind you never marry a fellow who can't laugh.”
Braintop saw Emilia smile. Then, in an instant, her face changed its
expression to one of wonder and alarm, and her hands clasped together
tightly. What on earth was the matter with her? His agitated fancy,
centred in himself, now decided that some manifestation of most shocking
absurdity had settled on his forehead, or his hair, for he was certain
of his neck-tie. Braintop had recourse to his pocket-mirror once more.
It afforded him a rapid interchange of glances with a face which he at
all events could distinguish from the mass, though we need not.
The youth was in the act of conveying the instrument to its retreat,
when conscience sent his eyes toward Emilia, who, to his horror,
beckoned to him, and touched Mr. Pole, entreating him to do the same.
Mr. Pole gesticulated imperiously, whereat Braintop rose, and requested
his neighbour to keep his seat for ten minutes, as he was going into
that particular box; and “If I don't come back in ten minutes, I shall
stop there,” said Braintop, a little grandly, through the confusion of
his ideas, as he guessed at the possible reasons for the summons.
Emilia had seen her father in the orchestra. There he sat, under the
leader, sullenly fiddling the prelude to the second play, like a man
ashamed, and one of the beaten in this world. Flight had been her first
thought. She had cause to dread him. The more she lived and the dawning
knowledge of what it is to be a woman in the world grew with her, the
more she shrank from his guidance, and from reliance on him. Not that
she conceived him designedly base; but he outraged her now conscious
delicacy, and what she had to endure as a girl seemed unbearable to her
now. Besides, she felt a secret shuddering at nameless things, which
made her sick of the thought of returning to him and his Jew friends.
But, alas! he looked so miserable--a child of harmony among the sons
of discord! He kept his head down, fiddling like a machine. The old
potatoe-days became pathetically edged with dead light to Emilia. She
could not be cruel. “When I am safe,” she laid stress on the word in
her mind, to awaken blessed images, “I will see him often, and make him
happy; but I will let him know that all is well with me now, and that I
love him always.”
So she said to Mr. Pole, “I know one of those in the orchestra. May I
write a word to him on a piece of paper before we go? I wish to.”
Mr. Pole reflected, and seeing her earnest in her desire to do this,
replied: “Well, yes; if you must--the girls are not here.”
Emilia borrowed his pencil-case, and wrote:--
“Sandra is well, and always loves her caro papa, and is improving, and
will see him soon. Her heart is full of love for him and for her mama;
and if they leave their lodgings they are to leave word where they go.
Sandra never forgets Italy, and reads the papers. She has a copy of
the score of an unknown opera by our Andronizetti, and studies it, and
anatomy, English, French, and pure Italian, and can ride a horse. She
has made rich friends, who love her. It will not be long, and you will
see her.”
The hasty scrawl concluded with numerous little caressing exclamations
in Italian diminutives. This done, Emilia thought: “But he will look up
and see me!” She resolved not to send it till they were about to quit
the theatre. Consequently, Braintop, on his arrival, was told to sit
down. “You don't look cheerful in the pit,” said Mr. Pole. “You're above
it?--eh? You're all alike in that. None of you do what your dads did.
Up-up-up? You may get too high, eh?--Gallery?” and Mr. Pole winked
knowingly and laughed.
Braintop, thus elevated, tried his best to talk to Emilia, who sat
half fascinated with the fear of seeing her father lift his eyes and
recognize her suddenly. She sat boldly in the front, as before; not
being a young woman to hide her head where there was danger, and
having perhaps a certain amount of the fatalism which is often youth's
philosophy in the affairs of life. “If this is to be, can I avert it?”
Mr. Pole began to nod at the actors, heavily. He said to Emilia, “If
there is any fun going on, give me a nudge.” Emilia kept her eyes on her
father in the orchestra, full of pity for his deplorable wig, in
which she read his later domestic history, and sad tales of the family
dinners.
“Do you see one of those”--she pointed him out to Braintop; “he is next
to the leader, with his back to us. Are you sure? I want you to give him
this note before he goes; when we go. Will you do it? I shall always be
thankful to you.”
Considering what Braintop was ready to do that he might be remembered
for a day and no more, the request was so very moderate as to be painful
to him.
“You will leave him when you have given it into his hand. You are not to
answer any questions,” said Emilia.
With a reassuring glance at the musician's wig, Braintop bent his head.
“Do see,” she pursued, “how differently he bows from the other men,
though it is only dance music. Oh, how his ears are torn by that
violoncello! He wants to shriek:--he bears it!”
She threw a piteous glance across the agitated instruments, and Braintop
was led to inquire: “Is he anything particular?”
“He can bring out notes that are more like honey--if you can fancy a
thread of honey drawn through your heart as if it would never end! He is
Italian.”
Braintop modestly surveyed her hair and brows and cheeks, and taking the
print of her eyes on his brain to dream over, smelt at a relationship
with the wry black wig, which cast a halo about it.
The musicians laid down their instruments, and trooped out, one by one.
Emilia perceived a man brush against her father's elbow. Her father
flicked at his offended elbow with the opposite hand, and sat crumpled
up till all had passed him: then went out alone. That little action
of disgust showed her that he had not lost spirit, albeit condemned to
serve amongst an inferior race, promoters of discord.
Just as the third play was opening, some commotion was seen in the pit,
rising from near Braintop's vacated seat; and presently a thing that
shone flashing to the lights, came on from hand to hand, each hand
signalling subsequently toward Mr. Pole's box. It approached. Braintop's
eyes were in waiting on Emilia, who looked sadly at the empty orchestra.
A gentleman in the stalls, a head beneath her, bowed, and holding up a
singular article, gravely said that he had been requested to pass it.
She touched Mr. Pole's shoulder. “Eh? anything funny?” said he, and
glanced around. He was in time to see Braintop lean hurriedly over the
box, and snatch his pocket-mirror from the gentleman's hand. “Ha! ha!”
he laughed, as if a comic gleam had illumined him. A portion of the pit
and stalls laughed too. Emilia smiled merrily. “What was it?” said she;
and perceiving many faces beneath her red among handkerchiefs, she was
eager to see the thing that the unhappy Braintop had speedily secreted.
“Come, sir, let's see it!” quoth Mr. Pole, itching for a fresh laugh;
and in spite of Braintop's protest, and in defiance of his burning
blush, he compelled the wretched youth to draw it forth, and be
manifestly convicted of vanity.
A shout of laughter burst from Mr. Pole. “No wonder these young sparks
cut us all out. Lord, what cunning dogs they are! They ain't satisfied
with seeing themselves in their boots, but they--ha! ha! By George!
We've got the best fun in our box. I say, Braintop! you ought to have
two, my boy. Then you'd see how you looked behind. Ha-ha-hah! Never
enjoyed an evening so much in my life! A looking-glass for their
pockets! ha! ha!--hooh!”
Luckily the farce demanded laughter, or those parts of the pit which had
not known Braintop would have been indignant. Mr. Pole became more
and more possessed by the fun, as the contrast of Braintop's abject
humiliation with this glaring testimony to his conceit tickled him.
He laughed till he complained of hunger. Emilia, though she thought
it natural that Braintop should carry a pocket-mirror if he pleased,
laughed from sympathy; until Braintop, reduced to the verge of
forbearance, stood up and remarked that, to perform the mission
entrusted to him, he must depart immediately. Mr. Pole was loth to let
him go, but finally commending him to a good supper, he sighed, and
declared himself a new man.
“Oh! what a jolly laugh! The very thing I wanted! It's worth hundreds to
me. I was queer before: no doubt about that!”
Again the ebbing convulsion of laughter seized him. “I feel as clear as
day,” he said; and immediately asked Emilia whether she thought he
would have strength to get down to the cab. She took his hand, trying to
assist him from the seat. He rose, and staggered an instant. “A sort of
reddish cloud,” he murmured, feeling over his forehead. “Ha! I know what
it is. I want a chop. A chop and a song. But, I couldn't take you, and
I like you by me. Good little woman!” He patted Emilia's shoulder,
preparatory to leaning on it with considerable weight, and so descended
to the cab, chuckling ever and anon at the reminiscence of Braintop.
There was a disturbance in the street. A man with a foreign accent was
shouting by the door of a neighbouring public-house, that he would not
yield his hold of the collar of a struggling gentleman, till the villain
had surrendered his child, whom he scandalously concealed from her
parents. A scuffle ensued, and the foreign voice was heard again:
“Wat! wat you have de shame, you have de pluck, ah! to tell me you know
not where she is, and you bring me a letter? Ho!--you have de cheeks to
tell me!”
This highly effective pluralizing of their peculiar slang, brought a
roar of applause from the crowd of Britons.
“Only a street row,” said Mr. Pole, to calm Emilia.
“Will he be hurt?” she cried.
“I see a couple of policemen handy,” said Mr. Pole, and Emilia cowered
down and clung to his hand as they drove from the place.