XIII.
“OLD BOOTS.”
About five years ago, on days when the sun shone warmly, an old man might have been observed taking the air in Kennington Park. He was one of those seedy and aimless old gentlemen usually described as having seen better days. He was generally supposed to have been engaged in the City in early life, and to live upon a small pension tendered to him out of the generosity of his old employers. He lived in humble apartments in a street which ran off the Camberwell New Road, and he attended twice on Sundays the conventicle of a strict sect of Dissenters, by whose minister he was much respected, although his small means prevented his subscribing liberally to the chapel funds.
In Kennington Park he was treated with less respect—the geniuses of that famous resort having christened him “Old Boots,” in friendly recognition of the very disreputable manner in which he was shod, and the fact that his boots were never subjected to the necessary operations of the blacking brush.
Accompanying him in his walks was his only daughter, a maiden of nineteen or twenty years—a sparkling brunette, who, by her talent as an amateur milliner, was enabled out of very poor materials to dress herself becomingly and even with taste. She appeared quite devoted to the old gentleman, and many who saw them at once admired her for her filial affection, and also deplored the fact that a young woman so elegant and amiable should have her chances of matrimony spoiled by the caprice of an old man.
For, although Mr. Lowndes—that was the old gentleman’s name—attended his religious duties with great regularity, he was shy of making acquaintances, and reticent with a few whom chance had forced upon his society. And this by such people of the world as vegetate in Camberwell was put down to his selfishness. He was unwilling, they said, to give his daughter a chance of marrying, not because his love for her was great, but because he did not wish to lose so invaluable a nurse.
In this they did “Old Boots” a grievous wrong, for he loved Jessie better than anything else in the world.
Among the very few whose acquaintance the Lowndes family had made was a Mr. Evelyn Jones, a clerk in a bank in the City. This exemplary young gentleman belonged to the same conventicle as Mr. Lowndes, was a teacher in the Sunday-school, and bade fair to become a bright and shining light in the City. But these circumstances would not in themselves have led to a friendship. The fact is that he lodged in the same house as the superannuated City man and his daughter, and was in the habit of purchasing out of his own small means certain delicacies which the old man was too poor to provide. Evelyn was a frank, unsuspicious youth, and was permitted sometimes to join his fellow-lodgers for half-an-hour of an evening, when it was quite apparent that his pleasure was contributed to rather by the presence of Jessie than by the highly-improving conversation of her parent.
“How much do you think a man could afford to marry on?” he asked, during one of these visits.
“It depends,” replied Mr. Lowndes, “on the man; but more especially upon the woman. But why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve got a rise of ten pounds to-day.”
“And what, may I ask,” went on the old man, “does that make your salary?”
“Ninety pounds a-year,” replied Evelyn, with a flush of honest pride.
The old man smiled and shook his head.
“Isn’t that enough to keep a house on—a very small house, you know?”
The old man shook his head again.
“And how much would be enough?” queried the youth.
“I don’t think any young couple should commence housekeeping on less than a thousand a-year.”
Evelyn looked in blank amazement at his host.
“A thousand a-year!” he exclaimed.
“That was the amount I mentioned,” replied the old gentleman, with some asperity.
“But I shall never make such an income,” he said, in great despondency.
“Then you should never get married,” added the philosopher, calmly. Feeling, however, that he had been a little too harsh in his manner, he went on,—
“But you must not despair. Much money is made in the City by honesty and application. Be industrious, my young friend, and be honest. Heaven has rewarded other City men for the illustration of these qualities; Heaven may reward you. And now good evening. Jessie and I have some private business to transact.”
Poor Jones was dreadfully cast down by this interview. Because, truth to tell, he had fallen in love with the patient and beautiful lady who attended so assiduously on her broken-down father. And he had thus artfully contrived to obtain from the old gentleman a general opinion on the subject of matrimony. The result of his investigations was that he came to regard Mr. Lowndes as a perfect monster of selfishness.
“He guessed at what I was driving,” said Evelyn to himself, when he gained his own room. “He suspects that I want to marry Jessie, and has put a thousand a-year upon her as his price for making the sacrifice.”
Now, Evelyn Jones had been bred in the country, and had imbibed certain old-fashioned notions on the matter of courtship from his parents. He would have considered it a dishonourable act on his part to approach Jessie with an offer of marriage without having first consulted her only surviving parent. He inferred from a hundred little signs that she was not indifferent to him. But his highly moral training prevented his taking advantage of these circumstances to press his suit.
“I wish she had a mother,” he sighed; “I’d soon talk her over. And to hear that selfish old paragon talking of a thousand pounds! I’ll be bound he never had so much money in his whole life.”
Depressed spirits are but temporary afflictions with the young and sanguine. What appears at first to be an overmastering despair clears off. “Hope springs eternal” in the lover’s breast. And in a week’s time Evelyn Jones had recovered his equanimity, and determined once more to address “Old Boots” on the subject nearest to his heart. He purchased a pound of grapes and a bottle of port, and having returned to the suburban delights of his apartments off the Camberwell New Road, he watched the door of his fellow-lodger until he saw Miss Lowndes disappear to the lower regions to consult with her landlady.
This was his opportunity. He knocked at the door of Mr. Lowndes, and was bidden in short and querulous tones to enter. He presented his gifts to the old man, who, under the circumstances, could not do less than request him to remain. The port was opened—and so was the conversation. At first it meandered lightly among generalities. But eventually the young man “plucked up a spirit,” as the phrase hath it.
“D’you remember, Mr. Lowndes, my talking to you on the subject of matrimony?”
“I do,” answered the other, curtly.
“Well, I am in love. I want to marry.”
“And I say again, that on ninety pounds a-year it would be idiotcy.”
“But,” persisted the ardent Jones, “she is so good, such a clever housekeeper that I think she could make ninety pounds a-year go very far indeed.”
“And who, may I ask, is this paragon?”
“Oh! Mr. Lowndes, forgive me—pity me. I love your daughter.”
Mr. Jones, in all the scenes which his lively imagination had conjured up as likely to follow his proposal, did not imagine that which really occurred. Lowndes jumped from his chair; he became erect, his eyes flashed as he cried,—
“You scoundrel! You fool! Have you breathed word of this to her?”
“Not a word, upon my soul.”
“Old Boots” sank back into his chair, apparently much relieved.
“Then don’t,” he said, menacingly. “Tomorrow I will leave this. Do not attempt to follow us. The consequences be on your own head if you do.”
At that moment the door of the sitting-room opened, and two men entered, followed by Jessie, pale and alarmed.
One of the men spoke,—
“Mr. Morton,” he observed, quietly, “we have tracked you at last. You are arrested for the robbery of ten thousand pounds from the British Bullion Bank.”
“Old Boots” stood before them erect and even dignified. Jessie flew to him, and throwing her arms round his neck, wept bitterly.
“I am ready,” said Mr. Morton, the peccant secretary of the Bullion Bank. “May I request you to show some consideration for this innocent lady.”
Evelyn Jones stood forward.
“I, sir, do not shrink from knowing you in your—your misfortune. I will take care of your daughter.”
“You brainless puppy!” shrieked the prisoner. “She is my wife.”
And so indeed she was.
XIV.
A MISSING HEIRESS.
A RECENT case of a Missing Heiress—how recent does not matter—attracted a large amount of public attention. Stimulating paragraphs first suggested that an heiress was missing. And eventually still more stimulating paragraphs announced that she had been found—and found under circumstances the most romantic in the world. If the mothers of Missing Heiresses deposit their little charges on strange doorsteps and at an early age, it is no reasonable matter of surprise that difficulty should arise in satisfactorily tracing them. And the heroine of the case under consideration will have the satisfaction of knowing that had it not been for the untiring and disinterested efforts of the heir-at-law, she must have continued to perform menial duties to the end of time. The Missing Heiress having been suddenly transformed into a Discovered Heroine, did not thereupon cease to be an object of public interest. Indeed the interest increased. Editors of penny dreadfuls set their young men to “work up” exciting fictions on the basis of facts, and a sensational evening paper discussed the circumstances in a leading article full of that learning, good taste, and common sense, for which the organ in question has been for so long and so justly celebrated. The righteous example of the sensational broadsheet has been followed with more or less success by the editors of the provincial papers, and the story of the Missing Heiress has become as familiar in our mouths as “household words.” But while Society and its organs have been discussing the romantic history of the Heiress from the area, neither Society nor its journals have so much as heard of the story of Mrs. Stubbs, the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester. And there is nothing more certain in the world than this: that had there been no Missing Heiress there would have been no story to tell of the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester.
When the good fairy of that romance of real life to which we have alluded determined to assure himself of the existence of the Missing Heiress, he went to considerable expense in advertising, in consulting lawyers, in having conferences with detectives, and the like. And it was quite surprising to find how many Missing Heiresses turned up to tell the story of how they had been left upon a certain night on a certain doorstep. Stubbs first heard of the affair from the landlady of the “Six Bells,” and he immediately came to the conclusion that Mrs. Stubbs was the lady in question. Mrs. Stubbs was a foundling. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep in the very identical town where the Missing Heiress had been deposited.
“It tuk my brothe away,” said Stubbs, in afterwards describing his sensations.
Stubbs was a small and secretive umbrella-maker, and kept the news to himself until he had seen a man of law. But though Stubbs kept the news to himself he was unable to disguise its effects. If the truth must be told, Stubbs was a short-tempered, tyrannical man, habitually cruel and contemptuous to the wife of his bosom. She had for a short time after marriage attempted to assert her position and maintain her individuality.
But Stubbs being a Republican and a Freethinker, stood upon his undoubted rights, reduced his wife to what he described as her “proper spear,” and became thenceforward and for ever “mawster in his hown ’ouse.” As he himself explained to the President of the Republican Circle—an influential society holding weekly meetings at the “Six Bells,”—
“I said as ’ow I’d break her, an’ she’s broke.”
On the same evening that brought to Mr. Stubbs the intelligence concerning the Missing Heiress, Mrs. Stubbs was in a great distress of mind because she was behindhand with her husband’s tea. A domestic failure of this kind was always calculated to arouse the dormant eloquence of her lord. Indeed, a very trivial shortcoming on the part of Mrs. Stubbs was apt to bring down on her devoted head hard words and sometimes, I regret to say, hard blows. In her efforts to expedite matters on this particular evening, Mrs. Stubbs—as is occasionally the case—instead of forwarding domestic affairs had delayed them. And when the door suddenly opened, and her irate lord stood on the threshold, she stood in the midst of a “confusion worse confounded.” With trembling accents, and not daring to lift her eyes, she faltered,—
“I’m so sorry I’m a bit late, John, but—”
To her intense surprise, John replied in tones more faltering and deferential than her own,—
“It’s orright, Mary, dear. Better late than never, don’t ye know.”
“He calls me ‘dear,’” said Mary to herself, lifting her eyes to ascertain whether her husband was sober. Yes. He was evidently under no alcoholic influence. And yet there he stood, blushing, stammering, and holding in his hand the hat which heretofore in his own house he invariably carried on his head.
“I’m afraid,” he said, hesitatingly, and blushing more than ever. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit inattentive to you, Mary.”
As Mary had never had to complain of his want of attention she very wisely replied,—
“Not at all, John.”
“But I ’ave,” he insisted, “and you’re lookin’ pale like. Let’s git our tea over an’ go to a theayter.”
The surprise of Mrs. Stubbs blossomed into a wild and astounded amazement. She looked straight at Mr. Stubbs to see whether he was in earnest, and coming to the conclusion that sincerity was defined there, she deliberately went up to her husband and kissed him. He submitted to the infliction with a good grace, though still blushing consumedly. The play was to Mrs. Stubbs the height of earthly bliss. She was a person of small intellect and simple tastes, and followed with childlike wonder the moving histories illustrated on the stage. It mattered not to her whether the play was comedy or tragedy; burlesque or melodrama. There were colour and ornament and music. These sufficed. And from the rise of the curtain till its fall she watched the proceedings open-mouthed and wondering. That her husband should not only permit her to enjoy her favourite amusement, but absolutely offer himself to accompany her to the theatre overwhelmed her, and so in the first moment of surprise she had kissed him.
His conduct all through the evening was delightful. He comported himself like a very squire of dames; purchased for her ginger-beer and oranges, and reminded her, as she coyly suggested, of the happy days of their courtship. His conduct then was but a foretaste of his conduct for many days to come. He discovered that Mary was overworked, and insisted on having a girl in to assist her in the house. Every moment, when not employed in his small shop—it was little better than a stall—he spent in his house, usually appearing with a votive offering in the shape of a lobster or a basket of mushrooms, or even a box of chocolate creams. Except on “meeting evenings,” he never now entered the “Six Bells,” but spent the precious hours at home like a devoted husband, smoking his pipe, sipping gin and water, and reading for her such extracts from the daily broadsheets as contained no allusion direct or remote to Missing Heiresses.
The lawyer who had been consulted by Mr. Stubbs was like his client, a Member of the Republican Circle. Also, like his client, he was a Socialist and Freethinker; and his name was Chatham. From the first instruction given him by Mr Stubbs, he expressed the greatest confidence in the claim of his wife, and prosecuted his inquiries with the utmost zeal and goodwill. Mr. Stubbs had at the time of his important discovery a hundred pounds in the bank. The most of this money soon found its way into the office of Mr. Chatham. Inquiries of the kind cost something. There are so many journeys to be made, so many witnesses to be interviewed; so many reams of foolscap to be crossed, all at the rate of so much per folio. But Mr. Stubbs, strong in the belief that his wife would soon be worth untold gold grudged none of it. Indeed, when it was all gone, he borrowed other sums. It was, after all, only the proverbial sprat to catch the proverbial whale. The blubber would repay him when realised. Until everything was made clear, however, he preferred to keep his wife in the dark. And the interval—it could only be a short one—he magnanimously devoted to cultivating the acquaintance of a helpmeet whom he had long neglected.
When the hundred pounds had all gone, and when the obliging persons who had lent him sums of money to “go on with,” became clamorous for repayment, he had his moments of depression. He was, however, sustained by the assurance of his lawyer, and consoled by the unremitting attention of his wife. At times when the fit of melancholy was particularly bad, he would break into some exclamation such as in less happy days he had used to Mrs. Stubbs. But he immediately checked himself, and called her his “angel,” and his “guiding star.” And she, poor woman, accepted the amendment, soothed and comforted her ruffled consort, and expressed a belief that his monetary troubles would soon be over.
Her prophecy was verified. His monetary troubles were soon over. Once again Mrs. Stubbs was expecting her husband’s return to tea. But there was no confusion now. The table was laid, the kettle boiling, the bread and butter cut, and the shrimps and water-cresses gracing the festive board. The master of the house was late. But he would soon return, no doubt bearing a peace-offering—now invariably delivered to his spouse when he failed to be punctual. She was thus reflecting when the door burst suddenly open, and John Stubbs entered with his hat on his head. His face was pale, his eyes seemed to start from his head. He approached the table, struck it with his closed fist and—I regret to have to record it—called his wife “a she devil.” It was one of the dear old words of an earlier and more tempestuous period. She bore it in silence. But when he yelled,—
“She’s found, you swindler! D’ye hear, y’imposter, the real Heiress is found, ye deceitful hussy,” she was puzzled beyond measure.
“Where’s my money?” he howled, as he pulled the cloth from the table and dashed the shrimps and water-cresses to the ground. “Where’s my hundred pounds. Where’s the money I spent in bonnets an’ in theayters an’ in chocolate creams? Eh, you thing! You born on a doorstep! Bah!”
He then proceeded to demolish the furniture, and his wife displaying that discretion which is the better part of valour, watched her opportunity, and when his back was turned fled out into the street. She believed that he was mad. Perhaps he was—for he managed that night to fall into the river and die there. After the inquest the members of the Republican Circle, with whom he was deservedly popular, gave him a semi-public funeral with banners and music. Towards the cost of the obsequies Mr. Chatham contributed a guinea. And to this day Mrs. Stubbs, who is doing very well in the laundry line of business, has never been able to guess the cause of her deceased husband’s insanity.
XV.
TEDDY MARTIN’S BRIEF.
Teddy Martin occupied chambers in Lime Court, Temple. His rooms were situated on the first floor, and from his front window the visitor could command an uninterrupted view of the sun-dial over the way, upon which was inscribed one of those useful moral legends which in earlier times our rude forefathers were accustomed to carve upon such slabs as marked the flight of time. Those who trod the well-worn flags of Lime Court would sometimes hear the tinkling of a piano welling out over the geraniums in those front windows, and sometimes the piano would tinkle an accompaniment to snatches of opera-bouffe sung by a showy but somewhat unsympathetic female voice. Barristers’ clerks passing beneath and hearing this harmony would wink knowingly at each other, and interchange opinions regarding the Martin ménage.
All the world knows of Martin’s celebrated “Crystal Ale” at nine shillings the nine-gallon cask. Teddy Martin was the son of the maker of that famous brew. It will be, therefore, inferred that the young man was not quite so dependent on the support of solicitors as other members of his Inn. Indeed, his allowance was so large as to make him the envy of many brilliant but impecunious members of the Junior Bar, who hated him for his prosperity, and grudged him the briefs which at long intervals were confided to his care.
Like many other young gentlemen of taste and fortune, Teddy Martin was a persistent supporter of the British Drama. He was quite catholic in his tastes. Irving was not too dull for him; nor was the Gaiety too fast. If, indeed, the truth must be told, he preferred those theatres at which burlesque entertainment formed the staple fare; and even found amusement in the festive society of those vestals whose agreeable mission it is to keep burning the sacred lamp of burlesque. He formed acquaintance with the ladies of the chorus. A member of the Junior Bar, he cultivated the society of members of the Junior Stage.
It was the voice of one of these sirens which woke the echoes in Lime Court after the shadows had fallen and the lamp had been lit in the court below, and which scandalised Mr. Solon, Q.C., struggling with a brief of several hundred folios in the chambers beneath.
Martin has never inquired into my domestic secrets, and I have no wish to inquire into Martin’s. Topsy Varden, it is true, left the stage shortly after she had become acquainted with Mr. Martin; had appeared in his chambers, and had taken possession of his piano. I have met her there, but know no more than the porter whether she resided in Lime Court en permanence or whether she only visited Mr. Martin, for whom she seemed to have a great partiality. Perhaps she came early in the morning and returned late at night to her mother in Camden Town.
At that time I was writing dramatic notices for the Slough of Despond—a Society organ—and was, when I visited Teddy’s chambers, the subject of a vast amount of agreeable wheedling on the part of Miss Varden, who assured me that she never would be happy off the stage—that she wouldn’t; that she knew of my influence with Jones of the Royal Bandbox, and with Robinson of the Royal Potentates’ Theatres, and that if I didn’t get her a “shop” at one of the houses in question I was a wretch—that I was. In fact, she talked of nothing else; didn’t appear to know anything that was going on in the world, and never read any newspaper except the Mummers’ Mouthpiece.
One morning I called on Teddy Martin, and found him at breakfast. Topsy had arrived very early that morning, apparently, for she was at breakfast with her admirer, and had done him the compliment to come in a white morning gown, with wonderful arrangements in lace at the throat and wrists. I found the ingenuous Martin in high glee over a brief for the prosecution in a case in which he was to appear that day at the Old Bailey.
“Come with me, my boy,” he exclaimed; “it’s a great case. And if only my learned leader would absent himself, I’d give them a taste of my quality.”
I had nothing better to do, and consented.
“Take me too,” said Miss Topsy, with an admirable affectation of piteous imploring. It was bad enough for Topsy to visit at his chambers, but he was not likely to run the risk of flaunting her gay presence in the temple of justice herself. He put her off with a kind word, adding:
“But you’ll be here when we return; we’ll all go to dinner at Verrey’s, have a box at the theatre, and enjoy ourselves amazingly, eh? And you’ll come with us, old fellow, won’t you?”
Again I consented. We took leave of the fair young creature, and when we got to the bottom of the court, heard strains of “The Blue Alsatian Mountains” trilling over the flower-boxes on the window-sill.
“Capital girl that,” said Teddy, pressing my arm; “good as gold—all heart, and that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” I answered. The expression of one’s real sentiments under such circumstances is not only extremely ill-bred, but it will most assuredly serve to fan the flame in your friend’s heart, and gain for yourself his everlasting distrust. So I said “Of course,” and we tramped through Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, and turned into the Old Bailey, closely followed by Teddy’s little clerk bearing Teddy’s blue bag, with his initials beautifully worked in white silk on the outside.
The case in which Teddy was concerned lasted all day. But besides opening it in a somewhat abashed and hesitating way, and thereafter cross-examining an utterly unimportant witness, I could not see that Teddy had much more to do with the case than myself, who had been accommodated with a seat in the row of benches apportioned to the bar, situated just behind my friend. All the real work was performed by Mr. Rowland, Q.C., who prosecuted for the Treasury; and to his skill, resource, and mastery of details, it appeared to me, the conviction of the prisoner was entirely attributable. I merely mention this because I subsequently heard Teddy take to himself all the credit of having secured the verdict on that memorable occasion.
After the unfortunate man in the dock had been sentenced and removed to the seclusion of his cell, Teddy packed up his papers, stuffed them into his bag, and leaving that receptacle to be removed by his clerk, accompanied me back to Lime Court. The piano was still going, and the voice of the siren gave forth the brisk chorus of a bouffe drinking-song.
Topsy Varden must have visited her home with her mother in Camden Town during our absence in Court, for she had abandoned the white breakfast gown of the morning, and was arrayed in a costly dinner dress, so arranged as to exhibit a great amount of her arms and chest. As Teddy saluted her it was evident that his admiration was sincere. Her reciprocal expression was that of an actress—hollow, insincere, worthless.
“I’ve had such a win, Topsy!”
“Have you been bettin’? Am I on?” were the rapid questions of this child of art.
“You little silly! I mean at the Old Bailey. I’ve got my man convicted. He’s to be hanged by the neck until death by strangulation ensues.”
“La!” exclaimed Topsy. She would have been much more interested if the win had been on the turf. She, however, thought it well to add, “What did he do?”
“Shot a bobby—desperate character—think he’d have shot me if he’d had a chance. Funny defence that,” he said, turning to me.
The defence had been that his brain had been turned—that he had been a respectable working man until a dearly beloved sister of his had left him and “gone wrong.” He had been “queer” ever since, said some of the witnesses. But that was surely no reason why he should go about the streets shooting policemen. So the jury did its duty and the judge did his—with a black cap on his head.
As this explanation of the defence was given, I noticed that Topsy’s expressionless face grew pale, and her bosom rose and fell quickly above her dress. Her voice was thick as she asked,—
“And—who—was—he? What—was—his—name?”
My friend replied briefly,—
“Jabez Omrod.”
Topsy sprang towards him with flashing eyes, as though to clutch his throat; but before she could accomplish her object, she fell back, and in falling moaned almost inarticulately,—
“You have killed my brother!”
* * * * *
Since that day Teddy has never held a brief, nor does he appear anxious to hold one. His interest in the minor ornaments of the drama has considerably abated. I know not what has become of the ill-fated Topsy. Perhaps she has returned for good to her mother in Camden Town.
XVI.
BLUEBEARD’S CUPBOARD.
Mr. Augustus Lincoln was the manager of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island. He was an actor of the old school, and illustrated with great success the charnel house department of dramatic literature. Regarded simply from an artistic point of view, the performances given at the Theatre Royal may be described as fine and even formidable representations, but commercially considered they could scarcely be regarded as triumphs. The Sheppey Islanders were, at the time of which we are writing, people of a low and degraded taste, and showed a grovelling preference for the entertainments given at the music-halls. The permission to indulge in beer and tobacco, which is accorded in Caves of Harmony, may have had something to do with this preference; but it must be admitted that the Islanders considered “Hamlet,” “The Stranger,” and “The Iron Chest,” a trifle gloomy, even when illuminated by the genius of Mr. Augustus Lincoln. Indeed, had it not been for an accident, this enterprising lessee and manager would have been obliged, long before the incidents about to be related, to shut up his theatre and appear in a highly popular rôle on the stage of the Bankruptcy Court.
Mr. Lincoln’s accident was the Amateur. That most industrious and most sanguine of mortals, having hawked his comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays to all the London managers with all the customary want of success, determined that Something must be Done. If caterers in the West End, blind to their own interests, and careless of the intellectual elevation of their patrons, refused to give him a show, as the bald phraseology of the stage has it, the amateur, with fine philanthropic feeling, determined to give himself a show. Now the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, was very often closed, and on such occasions, when he could raise a sufficient sum to pay for the advertisement, the circumstance was duly announced in the Era. It was through the medium of that highly diverting miscellany that Lincoln and the Amateur were brought together. And from the moment that introduction was effected, Lincoln never knew what it was to have the brokers in the house, an incident which, up to that time, was of not unfrequent occurrence.
The manager was an enthusiast in his way, and threw his whole heart and soul into playing the leading characters in the amateur comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays which he placed on his stage. And the ambitious authors who resorted to this means of publicity, were as a rule, so extremely pleased with the histrionic efforts of Mr. Lincoln, that in addition to the sum agreed upon for the representation, most of the mute inglorious ones would insist on making a little present to the conscientious manager-actor. But Mr. Lincoln was as proud as an Elliston, and carried himself with as much dignity. So that whenever the token of the Amateur’s gratitude was offered in the shape of money, the offended manager would draw himself grandly up and say, “Sir, I cannot accept a gift of money; though should you like to present me with a new hat, I shall not say you nay.” The Amateur usually took the hint, and in a few days a band-box containing a hat, was duly delivered at the stage door of the Theatre Royal. Yet strange to say, no Sheppey Islander had ever seen Mr. Lincoln in a new hat. Indeed, they had never seen him except in a very old one, which by a judicious use of oil and a silk handkerchief, showed bravely enough when cocked on the side of Mr. Lincoln’s head.
It is, of course, easy to guess the reason of this. The Amateur donors never thought of consulting their benefactor as to the size of his head, or as to the peculiar shape which he most affected. And so it happened, that not one of the head-dresses sent to him was of any practical benefit. For if it happened to be anything like a fit, it was sure to be of a shape to which Mr. Lincoln would not condescend. He had not, however, discarded them, but had placed them carefully in a cupboard in his bedroom, which cupboard he always kept carefully locked, carrying the key of it on his bunch. At rare intervals he would exhibit his collection to some old crony—just as a collector would show his pictures, or a connoisseur his cellar. Connected with each hat was a memory. The entire assortment was a sort of history of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, and as he pointed out the trophies he would couple with each the name of the amateur drama, the triumphant success of which it was intended to commemorate. Thus he would point to a tall beaver, with preposterous brim, such as comic artists place on the head of John Bull, and say,—“That is my Queen of Circassia’s hat;” or he would exhibit a light gossamer of most undoubtedly dandaical proportions, saying,—“That is my Murdered Monk’s hat;”—so on through the collection. There was a “Prodigal Son’s” hat, and an “Act on the Square” hat. The hat of the “Pilgrim Fathers—a Nautical Drama,” and the hat of “The Little Pig that Paid the Rent; an Irish Tragedy.”
Mr. Lincoln was more proud of his hats than of any other circumstance connected with his theatrical career—save one, and that was, that Mr. Gladstone had seen him play Hamlet and had expressed himself entirely satisfied with the performance.
In an evil moment, and at the mature age of fifty-two, Mr. Augustus Lincoln fell in love, and as often happens with the intellectually great, he fell in love with the very last person in the world whom he ought to have sought. Milly Brassey was a pert, pink-cheeked, saucy-eyed beauty, who played chamber-maid parts in his company. The Amateurs thought very much of Milly, and as she was not proud in the matter of receiving presents, it may be taken for granted that the sealskin jacket and diamond rings came from the gifted creatures whose works she had helped to illustrate. Off the stage she was a giddy, giggling little woman, always ready for a flirtation, and was madly loved by the jeune premier, and the low comedian of the company. Indeed, it is a matter of notoriety that a hostile meeting would have taken place between these jealous lovers had it not transpired that Milly was about to be led to the altar by the manager himself. So instead of meeting in Greenwich Park over the murderous muzzles of revolvers, they met in the “Goat and Compasses” over two glasses of cold gin.
Lincoln’s wedding was a very quiet affair. After all, no such very great change was to take place in the life of the bride. She was already a member of Lincoln’s company. She had now become a member of his household as well. Milly was a clever little actress, and if she did not really love her husband, she made that devoted man think that she did. His faith in her was unlimited, and although others thought that she flirted alternately with Philip Beresford, the jeune premier, and with Alf. Wild, the low comedian, Lincoln with a firm belief in his wife’s honesty and a still firmer belief in his own charms, saw nothing whatever. He was perfectly contented, and the amateurs, increasing in perseverance and impatience, brought him month after month new dramas for illustration, and new hats in token of esteem.
All might have gone well had it not been for the hats. Everybody in Lincoln’s company wanted a hat. Neither a jeune premier, nor a low comedian, can afford an unstinted indulgence in hats on two pounds a week, even when that modest stipend is regularly paid. Actors usually carry large ulster-cloaks that cover a multitude of sins. But a bad hat or a bad boot is always en évidence. To say that Milly was gifted with curiosity is simply to say that Milly was a woman. That she soon began to question her husband as to the contents of the locked cupboard, therefore goes without saying. But although Lincoln would have trusted her with almost any other secret, he was reticent concerning this. He had a sort of prescience that the volatile Milly might turn his collection into ridicule, and merely observing in answer to his wife’s queries that it was “Bluebeard’s Cupboard,” refused to be further cross-examined on the subject. Milly promised not to annoy him any more in the matter, and religiously kept her promise; only when he was out she tried every key in the house on the lock that kept her from a delightful mystery, and at last she found one that fitted, and opening “Bluebeard’s Cupboard” found it full,—not of heads without hats, but of hats without heads. So full was the cupboard of these samples of the hatter’s art, that she selected two, feeling confident, that from so large a bag, a brace would never be missed. These she secreted, and when her husband returned (he had gone to meet an Amateur, who was big with a tragedy called “The Paralytic”), she met him with a kiss, and they were quite happy till it was time to go to the theatre.
A week afterwards another Amateur wanted to see Mr. Lincoln. On this occasion the appointment was made at a Club in Adelphi Terrace. The interview was a short one, and Mr. Lincoln was able to bend his steps eastward some two hours before the time he had mentioned to Milly. He had to make a call in Greenwich, and in the Main Street of that highly-depressing village, he happened to look over the blind in a pastrycook’s window. He stopped suddenly, and shouted in a tone of the utmost consternation, “My ‘Murdered Monk’s’ hat!” And then after a pause, “My ‘Prodigal Son’s’ hat.” He looked again, and saw that the hats covered the empty heads of Philip Beresford and Alf. Wild, between whom sat his wife devouring open tarts, and laughing consumedly at her own jokes. He entered stealthily, and soon heard enough to show that he, her husband, was the subject of her witticisms. He strode up to them, and smashed the hats over the heads of the wearers, calling them varlets and minions. The Amateur of Adelphi Terrace had been good. So he was enabled to put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, and withdraw six sovereigns. Handing two to each, he said solemnly, “In lieu of a week’s notice. Begone!” and then on his wife making a gesture of remonstrance, he said, in louder tones, “D’ye hear. All of ye. Begone!” They went. And he has never seen any of them since.
XVII.
TRUE TO POLL.
It was a splendid morning in the leafy month of June—though down by the East India Docks “leafy” is scarcely the adjective which one would naturally select to qualify any month of the whole twelve. It was the morning on which Jack Tarpey, mariner, led Polly Andrews, spinster, to the altar. There is no altar in a Registrar’s Office, consequently the expression which I have used must be regarded as somewhat figurative. But an altar is by no means essential to the civil ceremony, and Jack and Poll were as much married as if they had been united by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, assisted by all the “Honourable and Reverends” in the service of the Church of England, as by law established. There, in a small parlour near the Commercial Road, Jack and Poll were made man and wife, or, to put it in the forcible language of the former, “had tied a knot with their lips as they couldn’t undo with their teeth.” The bride was accompanied by a lady friend—for, alas! she was an orphan—while the bridegroom was accompanied by his “shipmet,” young Joey Copper, who was selected to discharge the onerous duties devolving upon him, for a reason which may also be given in Jack’s own words: “Why,” he said, “do I ’ave Joey for my best man? Stan’ by, mate, an’ I’ll tell ye. I ’ave’s Joey for my best man because he is the best man in all this ’ere blessed world. That’s why I ’ave’s Joey, d’ye see?” It may be taken for granted that they saw; because no one, having once asked the question, thought of putting it a second time.
Breakfast was provided at the residence of the landlord of the bridegroom, a house of public entertainment, at the corner of one of the somewhat melancholy streets abutting on the East India Docks. The sign of the house was the “Tartar Frigate,” and mine host had obligingly set apart his back parlour for the entertainment of Jack and his party, now increased by an addition of two other “shipmets.” The landlord of the “Tartar Frigate” was not, perhaps, a Gunter, but he understood the tastes of his patrons, and gave them what he called “a greasy and substawnshul set out.” There was a fine round of boiled beef, with carrots, boiled potatoes, and suet dumplings of great weight and sappiness. Following this there was a liberal dish of plum-duff; and to wind up with, there was half a Dutch cheese and pats of butter, about the composition of which, the less said here or elsewhere the better. The more solid part of the repast having been removed, all hands were piped to hot grog; a fiddler was introduced into the apartment, and all was jollity and dancing, until some difference of opinion arose between Jack’s male guests, as to which of the three should claim Poll’s lady friend as a partner. Jack, like the gallant and honest fellow that he was, stopped all disputes by announcing that there was to be no quarrel on his wedding-day, and that the proceedings, so far as he was concerned, were at an end. Then the punctilious tar paid the reckoning, and conveyed his wife to the apartments which she had engaged for them in Belt Alley, E.
A life on the Ocean Wave is regarded by some as the most jolly and enjoyable of all possible lives. But it must be admitted that the Ocean Wave is a relentless master, and has no more regard for the tender feelings of the mariner, and those who are dear to him, than the whale that swallowed Jonah. Jack and Poll had not been married three weeks, before his ship—The Promise of the May—was ready for sea, and Jack was ordered to join. Now I would call to my aid that which is not permitted to the Unvarnished writer—the lyre of the poet. For how shall I attune my harsh prose to the music of their sighs, the liquid measure of their tears?
It came, that final, that inevitable scene.
They stood on the quay, his arms round her waist, her head on his manly shoulder.
“Good-bye, lass,” he whispered, as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes.
“Goo—goo—good-bye,” she said, in an agony of sobbing.
“You’ll always think o’ me, Poll?”
“Aw—aw—always,” she cried, shaken with emotion.
“An’ you’ll always be true to me?”
“Aw—aw—always,” she moaned.
“Kiss me, lass.”
Their lips met in a fervent salute. Then he was led away to his ship by Joey Copper, his best man; and she, in a half fainting, half hysterical state, was conducted back to her apartments by her faithful female companion.