CHAPTER VIII.
A DAY-DREAMER IN LONDON STREETS.
Now as to the Lethbridges, concerning whose characters and peculiarities it is necessary to say something more.
There was Mrs. Lethbridge, whom we already know, affectionately called Aunt Leth, not only by Phœbe, but by a great many young people who were on terms of friendship with her. And to be on such terms with such a woman was worth while, for she was not only a magnet that attracted love, she was a sun that bestowed it. There was Mr. Lethbridge, for the same reason called Uncle Leth by his young friends, and delighted in being so called. There was Fanny Lethbridge, their only daughter, between whom and Phœbe passed, under the seal of sacred secrecy, the most delicious confidences. Lastly, there was Robert Lethbridge, their only son, a young gentleman of vague and unlimited views, just entering into the serious business of life, and who, when things were perfectly smooth between him and his cousin Phœbe, was addressed as Bob, and at other times, according to the measure of dignity deemed necessary, as Robert or Cousin Robert. But it was generally Bob.
Mrs. Lethbridge, on her last birthday, forty-four; Mr. Lethbridge, onhislast birthday, forty-eight; Fanny onherlast birthday, nineteen (with many a sigh at being compelled to bid farewell to teens); Robert, onhislast birthday, twenty-two. These comprised the family.
To hark back for a moment. It was an undoubted love match with Aunt and Uncle Leth. He a bank clerk, with limited income; she a young lady, with no income at all. That was of small account, however. Cupid—the real one, not the counterfeit—does not pause to consider. They had a boundless income in their love, and they drew large checks upon it. Expectations they had none, except that of being happy. Unlike the majority of expectations, theirs was fulfilled.
Outwardly and inwardly happy. For instance: their honey-moon. Was there ever a honey-moon like it, though it was not spent on the Continent? Never. It was their opinion, and if you dispute it you do so upon insufficient evidence. Then, their children. Parents never drew sweeter delight from their offspring than they from theirs. It is a species of delight which cannot be bought, being far more precious than silver and gold, and in the hourly and daily return for love invested it proclaims itself an incomparable speculation. Robert came first, Fanny next. This was as it should be. The boy to protect the girl, who of the two was infinitely the wiser. This is often the case with boys and girls.
The loving couple had a hard fight of it, and much to learn. They buckled to with willingness and cheerfulness, took their rubs lightly, and spread their pleasures so that they lasted a long time—not making light of them, as some do, and thus depriving themselves of the greater part of the enjoyment to be derived from them. As an example: a visit to the theatre, for which they were now able to obtain "orders." But it was not so during the first years of their married life. The contemplated visit used to be planned weeks beforehand—discussed, laughed over, enjoyed in the anticipation, but not half so much as in the realization. As to which theatre, now, and which play? The grave conversations they had on the point! It was really worth while listening to them. Those nights were gala-nights. After the theatre, a bit of supper, perhaps—occasionally, but rarely—in a restaurant. The careful study of the bill of fare; the selection of the modest dishes; the merry words with which they banished the expensive ones and chose the cheapest—nothing could be more delightful, nothing more truly enjoyable. They went out to meet the sun, and revelled in its beams. Worth laying to heart, this!
Their income of a hundred and eighty sufficed. They could not save money—but what a mine was the future!
Of the two, the one who drew most largely upon it was Mr. Lethbridge. The extraordinary demands he made upon it, and the extraordinary readiness with which his demands were met! It will be not unpleasant to linger a little over this phase of his character, premising, for lucidity, that in all London could not be found a brighter, more agreeable day-dreamer.
Thus: Walking to the bank to save the 'bus fare, Mr. Lethbridge beguiled the way. He had kissed his wife and Fanny, and saw them smiling at the window, and waving their hands to him as he passed the house. He went on his way rejoicing, and straightway began to dream.
What is this he hears? A meeting of the bank directors is being held. A messenger appears before Mr. Lethbridge's desk.
"The directors wish to see you, sir."
He prepares to obey the call, leaves his papers and books in order, pulls up his shirt collar, pulls down his cuffs, straightens himself generally, and presents himself in the board-room. There they are, the great magnates, all before him. The chairman, white-haired, gold-spectacled, and pleasant-voiced. Others of the directors also white-haired, gold-spectacled, and pleasant-voiced. Comfortable-looking gentlemen of the highest respectability, with country houses, carriages and horses, first-class railway tickets, and famous cellars of wine—all plainly visible in their shirt fronts and gold watch chains. They gaze at him in approval. He bows to them. The chairman bends his head slightly, and smiles a welcome. The other directors follow suit. They bend their heads slightly, and smile a welcome. It is really very pleasant.
"Take a seat, Mr. Lethbridge. We wish to say a few words to you."
He sinks into a chair, and waits for the chairman to unfold himself. The chairman coughs to clear his voice.
"You have served the bank, Mr. Lethbridge, man and boy, for twenty-eight years. We have observed you for many years, and are happy to express our approval of the manner in which you have performed your duties."
What could be better than that? How delighted they will be at home when he tells them!
"Always punctual at your post, Mr. Lethbridge. Never an error in your accounts. We have had no occasion to complain of the slightest irregularity."
Positive facts, and, although not mentioned till now, carefully noted by those in authority over him. Of that there could be no doubt; and how pleasant and agreeable it was to hear it! He had always been confident that his time would come.
"As a substantial mark of our approval, Mr. Lethbridge, we offer you the desk of our second chief cashier, who is about to retire on a pension. You will take his place at the end of the present month, and your salary will be six hundred pounds per annum."
The chairman rises and shakes hands with him; the other directors rise and shake hands with him. He retires from the board-room, filled with joy. Everybody in the bank congratulates him; he has not an enemy in the establishment.
Being now in the enjoyment of a salary more than three times as large as that upon which he and his wife have had to manage since their marriage, he proceeds to the disposal of it. A little extravagance is allowable; he must work down his feelings somehow. A new dress suit for himself, a new black silk for his wife. His dress suit had lasted him for Heaven knows how long, and his wife's black silk has been made over and turned till it really could not be made over and turned again. Bob shall have the gold watch he has been promised since childhood, and which father's ship—which certainly has made one of the longest passages on record—has been bringing home for the last dozen years. Fanny shall be suitably provided for. For wife and daughter, each one dozen pairs of kid gloves, four button, eight button, a hundred button if they like; new bonnets, mantles, and boots; and also for each a ten-pound note, in a new purse, to do just as they please with. Phœbe, also, must not be forgotten. She shall have new gloves, and bonnet, and mantle, and boots, and money in a new purse. He goes out with them to make the purchases, and they have the most delightfully grave consultations and discussions. And just as the shopkeeper in Regent street is pressing upon him a most extraordinary bargain in the shape of a new silk——
Yes, just at that moment Mr. Lethbridge arrives at the bank, punctual, as usual, to the minute. He is in the best of spirits. His walk from Camden Town has been as good as a play. Better; for he is convinced that his dreams will come true one of these fine days. What does it matter, a week or two sooner or later?
CHAPTER IX.
A NEW DOMESTIC DRAMA, BY UNCLE LETH.
On the evening of the day on which Phœbe received from her father the gift of a florin, which munificent sum he deemed to be sufficient to provide for his daughter's birthday treat to her aunt and uncle Leth and her cousins, Mr. Lethbridge wended his way homeward from the bank, indulging, as he walked, in a more than usually glowing day-dream. There exists in a great number of poor and struggling families a common sympathetic legend of a relation who ran away from home when very young, who has made a fabulous fortune in a distant land, and who will one day suddenly present himself to his astonished kinsfolk, and fill their hearts with joy by pouring untold gold into their laps. This good genius is always a gray-headed old man, with bright eyes and a soul of good-nature, and is, of course, invariably a bachelor—a delightful fiction which insures comfortable portions to the marriageable girls. "The Indies" used to be the favourite locality in which the runaway uncle or cousin made and saved his fortune, but of late years Australia and America have been pressed into service. Such a legend had existed in Mr. Lethbridge's family when he was a youngster; and as he now walked toward Camden Town, who should turn up—in his dreams—but a fabulously wealthy old gentleman, who had come home for the express purpose of presenting Mr. Lethbridge with no less a sum than twenty thousand pounds? Here was a foundation for the day-dreamer to work upon! but it was not all. There was a most important connection nearer to his heart, and altogether of a more tangible character. Among the friends of the family was a certain Fred Cornwall, a young barrister waiting for briefs, regarding whom Mrs. Lethbridge had more than once confidentially unbosomed herself to her spouse to the effect that she was certain "he came after Fanny." Up to the present moment, supposing that Fred Cornwall had really any serious intentions, this was as far as he had got; but it was far enough for Mr. Lethbridge. The slenderest foundations were sufficiently strong for his castles. Now, on this evening, Fred Cornwall was abroad on a little summer trip, and before Mr. Lethbridge had started for his bank in the morning his wife had whispered to him that Fanny had received a letter from Fred. What more was wanting for fancy with open eyes in London streets?
He has left the bank. They gave him a dinner and a testimonial on parchment, and another in gold, which is now ticking in the left-hand pocket of his waistcoat. It was the pleasantest affair. Such things were said of him! And the choicest flowers from the banquet table were sent by hand to his wife and daughter. Simply to think of it made the tears come into his eyes.
He has bought the lease of the dear old house in Camden Town. He has no ambition to live in a better, despite the fact that he is master of twenty thousand pounds. Well, not quite so much, perhaps, because there was the lease to pay for, and the smartening up of the house, and some new furniture to buy for the best rooms. But quite enough, quite enough.
There is still something to do before the new arrangements are completed, and for this purpose he and his wife and Fanny are jogging along happily through fashionable thoroughfares, where the tradesmen have provided in their windows a veritable Aladdin's cave for their entertainment, and wherein the ladies of his family, intent upon killing two birds with one stone, have decided to indulge in a "little shopping"—of all female occupations the most attractive and fascinating.
In Regent Street whom should they meet but Fred Cornwall? Here he is, face to face with them. Mr. Lethbridge greets him cordially.
"Hallo, Fred! Who would have thought of seeing you? Why, where have you been these last three weeks? On the Continent? Of course, of course—I remember your telling us you were going. Enjoyed yourself, I hope? Yes! Very glad, very glad. How brown you look! When did you return? A few hours ago only—ah! Come round and see us this evening. You intended to! That's right. You'll see an improvement—we've been buying some new furniture and doing up the house. Do you know anything of roses, Fred? I want to put a few dozen standards in the garden; I've got some apple and pear trees in already. Our own fruit next year, Fred. Fact is, I've had a windfall. Ever heard me tell of a relation of mine who ran away from home when he was a boy, and who made a great fortune abroad? Well, to our astonishment, he turned up a little while ago, and behaved most handsomely to us; so handsomely, indeed, that I've resigned at the bank. No occasion to work any more, my boy; can take it easy. Pleased to hear it? Of course you are. It makes no difference in us, Fred. We're just the same as we always were—just the same—just the same. Now how about the briefs, Fred? Are they rolling in? No! But of course you must wait, as I have waited. Don't be discouraged, my lad! Hope—hope—hope; that's the best tonic for youngsters. Perhaps I may put something in your way. Anything particular to do this morning? We are making a few purchases, and, now I think of it, I have heard Fanny say, repeatedly, that your taste in ladies' dress is perfect. What are you blushing for, Fanny? Give Fred your arm. I have no doubt he will be happy to accompany us."
Mr. Lethbridge's day-dream was here snapped in the middle. He was recalled to earth by a clap on his shoulder and the sound of a mellow voice.
"The very man I was coming to see! How are you, Leth, old man?"
The mellowness of the speaker's voice was matched by the mellowness of his personal appearance. Good spirits and good-nature oozed out of him. His clean-shaven face was round and rubicund; his eyes had a cheery light in them; a jolly smile hovered about his mouth. He was a large man; his hands, his nose, his head, were massive—it is the only word that will describe them. But nothing in him was out of proportion, and the geniality and jollity of the man were in keeping with his physical gifts. As there is no occasion for mystery, he may at once be introduced: "Mr. Kislingbury—the reader."
A famous man, Mr. Kislingbury, as you know. Has he not afforded you opportunities innumerable, of which, as a sensible man, you have taken full advantage—for it is not to be doubted that you are an enthusiastic play-goer—for hearty laughter? Has he not made your sides ache this many a time and oft, and have you not gone home the better for it? Is there not something so contagious in the merry notes of his rich voice that your mouth wreathes with smiles the moment it reaches your ears? Yes, everybody knows Kiss—though his name be Kislingbury, he is never spoken of but as Kiss by his friends and the public—and everybody has a kindly feeling toward him. With reason. His humour is unctuous, but never coarse; he bubbles over with fun, but never descends to buffoonery; great in old comedies, to the manner born, and, perhaps because of that, a little out of date. But Kiss, although fortune has not been over-lavish toward him, is contented with his lot. And he has, perhaps, a rarer virtue than all—he respects his author, and when he plays a new part and makes a hit in it, does not take all the credit to himself. This is the man who clapped Mr. Lethbridge on the shoulder in the midst of that gentleman's glowing day-dream, and cried: "The very man I was coming to see! How are you, Leth, old man?"
"Very well, I thank you," said Mr. Lethbridge, a little slowly, not immediately recognizing his friend; he was not in the habit of taking a harlequin leap out of his musings; it generally occupied him a few moments to get back to earth. "Very well, very well. Why, it's Kiss! Glad to see you, Kiss, glad to see you!"
"Day-dreaming, Leth?" inquired Kiss, merrily and kindly.
Mr. Lethbridge's flights in this direction were well-known to his friends.
"Yes, Kiss, yes. Amusing myself as usual. Upon my word, I hardly know a better way of passing the time. Almost as good as a theatre."
Kiss and Mr. Lethbridge were related—second or third cousins, or something of that sort; one of those genealogical connections with mixed marriages which make the head ache—and it was from Kiss that Mr. Lethbridge obtained orders for the play. Kiss had other and nearer relations, some of whom were in the habit of visiting Mr. Lethbridge's house, where, it need scarcely be said, they were more than welcome, the younger members of Aunt Leth's family, and all her other young friends, looking up to these luminaries with a kind of awe.
"Better than a theatre, I dare say," said Kiss, heartily; "at all events, a great deal cheaper. So easy to get up your pieces, so easy to write 'em, so easy to get them played. No jealousies and heart-burnings; all plain sailing. And no rehearsals, my boy; no rehearsals"—at which contemplation Kiss joyously rubbed his hands. "Everybody pleased and satisfied with his part. Lessee, stage-manager, every soul in the place, down to the check-taker at the gallery—I should rather say up, shouldn't I?—in a state of calm beatitude. Why? Because success is assured beforehand. No expense for dresses, none for scenery. Such a first-night audience! No blackguards paying their shillings in the hope of a chance of hooting and hissing. There are such now-a-days, I regret to say. Then the critics! Not at all a bad lot, Leth, let me tell you, though they have given many a poor devil the heartache. I often pity them for the sorry stuff they have to listen to and write about. Not a bed of roses, theirs! And I'd sooner be Kiss, first low comedy, than dramatic critic of the best paper going. As you play your pieces, Leth, do you ever think of the fine notices written about 'em in the next morning's papers?"
"I seldom get as far as that," replied Mr. Lethbridge, smiling.
"Ah!" said Kiss, "that's because you have no vanity."
"I have a great deal," said Mr. Lethbridge, shaking his head.
"You're no judge of yourself; none of us are of ourselves. But let your mind run on it a bit; it will make your nerves tingle with delight. Not for yourself, perhaps; for others—for Aunt Leth, now; and pretty Fanny; and Bob, the rascal!"
"Yes, for them, for them!" said Mr. Lethbridge, eagerly. "I will, Kiss; I will!—that is, if it comes to me to do it. For, do you know, what you call 'my pieces' are really very curious things, not only in themselves, but in the way they happen. Quite unexpectedly, Kiss—quite unexpectedly. Now what do the critics say about the piece—just by way of example—I've been playing in my walk home from the bank? But it's rather foolish of me to ask you such a question, as you are in complete ignorance of the kind of piece it is."
"Wrong, Leth, wrong. I know a great deal about it; more than you are aware of."
"Really?"
"Really, and in very truth, my liege lord."
"Now this is interesting. It is quite a pleasure, meeting you in this way. Go on about my piece."
"First and foremost," said Kiss, "to settle the style of it. I pronounce that it is not a tragedy."
"Right; it is not."
"It is not a farce."
"Nothing like it—that is, broadly speaking."
"I am speaking broadly. It is not a blood-thirsty melodrama, with a murder in it, and a wedding; or, if not that, a pair of lovers, just about to be tied together; or, if not that, a husband and wife torn from each other's arms. It amounts to the same thing, because the main point is that the man is falsely accused of the murder."
"Of course he is," said Mr. Lethbridge, "or where should we be?"
"Exactly," said Kiss, with a humorous imitation of Mr. Lethbridge's manner. "If that was not the case, where should we be? Worth considering. Perhaps worse off; perhaps better. I will not take it upon myself to judge. We are talking now of the regulation pattern—good old style, Leth,butold. Would stand a bad chance if it were not for the magnificent scenery and the wonderful dresses, mechanical changes, houses turned inside out, exteriors turned outside in, gas lowered to vanishing point to assist the delusion—splendid opportunity that for the lover and his lass, in the pit! Wish I was young again, and before the foot-lights, instead of behind them, so that I might take my imaginary little girl (whom I adore, from the crown of her pretty head to the tips of her little shoes) to the pit when such a melodrama, with the lights turned down, is being played. When I say 'regulation pattern,' Leth, don't mistake me; I am not speaking against it. As for originality—well, perhaps the least said about it the better. We were rehearsing a new melodrama the other day, and the subject cropped up on the stage. The scene-painter was there, and he took part in the discussion, though he spoke never a word."
"How could he do that without speaking?"
"Well, he winked."
"I don't see much in that," observed Mr. Lethbridge, somewhat mystified.
"Of course you don't, the reason being "—and good humour beamed in every feature of Kiss's merry face—"that you are not, like myself, a cynic."
"Come, that's good," protested Mr. Lethbridge: "you a cynic!"
"I would not have my enemies say so," said Kiss; "and don't you betray me at home. So it is settled that your piece is not a tragedy, nor a broad farce, nor a melodrama with a murder in it. Nor is it a comedy of character, bristling with smart sayings—everybody saying clever, ill-natured things about everybody else. No, Leth;yourpiece is a simple domestic drama, lighted up by the sweetest stars of life—the stars of pure love and a happy home."
"You have," said Mr. Lethbridge, stirred by the feeling which his friend threw into the words, "a remarkable felicity of expression. You are almost—a poet."
"A bread-and-butter poet, then. Yes; a simple drama of domestic life, upon which the stars of love and home are shining. That's what the critics say the next morning: 'It is refreshing to come across a play so sweet, so natural, so human. Here are no high flights of the imagination; no violent twisting of ordinary events to serve a startling purpose; no dragging in of abnormal, precocious children, to show how clever they are; nothing, in short, out of drawing or out of proportion. The play is an idyl, in which all that is wholesome in every-day life is brought into prominence to gladden the heart and refresh the senses. It leaves a sweet taste in the mouth, and when the curtain fell upon the delightful story, the author was called again and again, and applauded with a heartiness which must have sent him home rejoicing to the bosom of his family. We trust that the success he won and deserved will encourage him to further efforts in this direction, and that on many future occasions he will charm and beguile us as he did last night. His feet are firmly planted on the ladder of fame, and he has only to go on as he has begun, to make his name a household word.'"
"Upon my word," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you almost take away my breath."
"But am I a true diviner?" asked Kiss.
"About the critics?"
"About the piece—yourpiece?"
"You are a wizard. I think if Iwerea dramatic author I should try to write precisely the kind of play you have described. You see, there is little else in my mind. But I am afraid you are wrong about the critics."
"Not at all," persisted Kiss. "Critics are human, like other people; and search the whole world through, you will find no song more popular than 'Home, sweet Home.'"
CHAPTER X.
'MELIA JANE, GODDESS OF POTS AND PANS.
While this conversation was proceeding there stood at a little distance from the speakers a man who had been walking arm in arm with the actor when the friends met, and who fell apart from Kiss when he clapped Mr. Lethbridge upon the shoulder. He was an anxious-eyed man, nervous, fidgety, with a certain tremulousness of limb and feature, denoting a troubled nature. His age was some thirty-five or thereabouts; his clothes were respectable and shabby; and although he took no part in the conversation, and did not obtrude himself, he did not remove his eyes from Kiss and Mr. Lethbridge. Kiss, turning, beckoned to him, and he joined the friends.
"You heard what we've been talking about," said the actor. "What do you think of it?"
"I wish," said the man, "that I could write such a piece."
"Ah," said Kiss, "it is easy to preach as we've been preaching, but to do the thing is a different pair of shoes. It comes by nature, or it comes not at all."
"But," said the man, "I don't believe it would be a success."
"Wait a moment," said Kiss; "I am forgetting my manners. Mr. Linton—Mr. Lethbridge."
The two shook hands.
"Mr. Linton," said Kiss to Mr. Lethbridge, in explanation, "isa dramatic author, and has written plays."
Mr. Linton sighed, and fidgeted with his fingers.
"Has he?" exclaimed Mr. Lethbridge. "And they have been played, of course?"
Mr. Linton sighed again, and inclined his head.
"I am really delighted," said Mr. Lethbridge. "I have never in my life spoken to a dramatic author, and have never shaken hands with one. Will you allow me?"
They shook hands again, Mr. Lethbridge effusively, Mr. Linton with mingled bashfulness, pride, and awkwardness.
"Successful pieces, I am sure," observed Mr. Lethbridge.
"More or less so," said Kiss. "We must take our rubs, my dear Leth."
"Of course, of course. We've got to take them."
"That's what I'm always telling Linton. We've got to take 'em. Why, you, now," pointing his finger at Mr. Lethbridge, "you're not a public man, and you have your rubs."
"I am not free from them," said Mr. Lethbridge, in a cheerful voice.
"There, now, Linton," said Kiss, with the manner of one who desired to point a moral, "our friend Lethbridge here is not a public man, andhehas rubs. So you don't think his piece would be a success? Why, Sempronius?"
"An author must follow the fashion," replied Mr. Linton, "if he wants to live."
"He wants that, naturally." And here Kiss took Mr. Lethbridge aside, with, "Excuse me, Linton, a moment," and whispered, confidentially, "A little dashed. Had a knock-down blow. Last piece a failure. Produced a fort-night ago. Ran a week. I was in it, but could not save it. Consequence, out of an engagement; not serious to me, but to him—very. A man of genius; but not yet hit 'em quite. Will soon, or I'm the worst of actors. Which I am not—nor the best; but 'twill serve. Meanwhile, waiting for the spondulix to pour in, has wife and family to support. A modern Triplet. Has play which will take the town by storm. The play that failed was of a domestic turn. Very pretty; but lacked incident. Too much dialogue, too little action. He feels it—badly. Here," touching his heart, "and here," touching his stomach. They returned to Mr. Linton. "Proceed, Linton."
"The public," said Mr. Linton. "require red fire. Give it them. They want murders. Supply them. They want the penny-dreadful on the stage. Fling it at their heads. Ah! I've not been as wise as some I know."
"In point of ability," whispered Kiss again to Mr. Lethbridge, "he could wipe out the authors he refers to. Excuse him; he is not a bit malicious or envious; but he has been stung, and he's writhing. If you heard me read the play that failed, you would require a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs. He slaved at it for eight months; and dreamt of success with empty platters on his table. I wonder if people know anything of this, or ever give it a thought? But it won't do to encourage him. It does him good to lash out; but we must not agree with him when he's wrong. In his new play there's a part I should like to take. He wrote it with me in his eye. All will come right; till the time arrives, he must grin and bear it. 'Suffering is the badge of all his tribe.' But there are big plums in the pudding, old fellow, and his day to pick 'em will come." Then he said aloud to the moody author: "Don't talk stuff and nonsense. You don't copy, as a rule; you're original, and I make my bow to you; but in what you said youarecopying the platitudinarians. What the public want are good plays, such as you can write, and good actors, who are not so scarce as croakers would have us believe. Cheer up, Linton! Where would be the glory of success if we could have it by whistling for it? Why, here we are at your very door, Leth! Now I call that singular."
"Why?" asked Mr. Lethbridge.
"Because we were coming to see you, to ask a favour."
"Anything I can do," said Mr. Lethbridge, knocking at the door, "you may depend upon."
"I told you so, Linton," said Kiss.
The dramatic author brightened up for a moment, but fell again immediately into a state of despondency.
"You're just in time for tea," said Mr. Lethbridge, kissing his wife, who opened the door for them. "Come in, come in. I've brought you some visitors, mother."
"How do you do, Mr. Kiss?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, shaking hands with the always welcome actor.
"Mother," said Mr. Lethbridge, "this is Mr. Linton, the celebrated author."
"I am glad to see you, sir," said Mrs. Lethbridge, inwardly disturbed by the thought that she had not got out her best tea service. "Mr. Kiss, will you take Mr. Linton into the drawing-room? You are at home, you know. Fanny and Bob will be in presently. Phœbe is here, father."
In point of fact, Phœbe, Fanny, and Bob, excited by the sound of the arrival of visitors, were on the first-floor landing, peeping over the balustrade to see who they were.
"It's Mr. Kiss," whispered Fanny.
"And a strange gentleman," whispered Bob.
"Uncle Leth said," whispered Phœbe, "'the celebrated author.' I wonder if he's joking?"
"They are going to stop to tea," whispered Fanny, "and mother has sent them into the drawing-room while she gets out the best tea-things. We must go and help her."
Aunt Leth, from the passage below, coughed aloud, having detected the presence of the young people, and there was an instant scuttling away above, and a sound of smothered laughter. To Aunt Leth's relief, this was not noticed by her visitors, who made their way into the drawing-room. It was called so more from habit than because it was a room set apart for holiday and grand occasions; there was no such room in the house of the Lethbridges, which was a home in the truest sense of the word.
Aunt Leth was deeply impressed by the circumstance of having a celebrated author in her house, and when the drawing-room door was closed, she asked her husband in the passage—speaking in a very low tone—what he had written.
"Why, don't you know, mother?" said Mr. Lethbridge; but the superior air he assumed—as though he was intimately acquainted with everything Mr. Linton had written, and was rather surprised at his wife's question—was spoilt by a shamefacedness which he was not clever enough to conceal.
"No, father," said Mrs. Lethbridge; adding, triumphantly, "and I don't believe you do, either."
"Well, to tell you the truth," said Mr. Lethbridge, with a little laugh, "I don't. But heisvery celebrated. Mr. Kiss says so. He writes plays, and his last one was not a success. It has troubled him greatly, poor fellow. Give us a good tea, mother."
Mrs. Lethbridge nodded, and sent him in to his visitors, and went herself down to the kitchen to attend to her domestic arrangements, where she was presently joined by her children and Phœbe.
"We don't want you, Bob," said Mrs. Lethbridge to her son; "go and join the gentlemen."
"I'd sooner stop here, mother," said Robert.
"Go away, there's a good boy," said the mother; "you will only put things back."
Robert, however, showed no inclination to leave the kitchen, but hovered about Phœbe like a butterfly about a flower.
"Doyou hear what mother says?" demanded Fanny, imperiously; she was given to lord it occasionally over her brother. "Go at once, and listen to the gentlemen, and have your mind improved."
"Now you're chaffing me," said Robert, "and you know that always puts my back up."
Mrs. Lethbridge looked around with affectionate distraction in her aspect.
"Go, Robert," said Phœbe.
"Not if you call me 'Robert,' said he.
"Well, Bob."
"All right, I'll vanish. Fanny, there's a smut on your nose."
Which caused Fanny to rub that feature smartly with her handkerchief, and then to ask Phœbe in a tone of concern, "Is it off?" This sent Robert from the kitchen laughing, while Fanny called out to him that she would pay him for it. She laughed too, when he was gone, and declared that he was getting a greater tease every day. Presently all was bustle; the best cups and saucers were taken from the cupboard, and Phœbe, with her sleeves tucked up, was dusting them; Fanny was cutting the bread and buttering it; Aunt Leth was busy with eggs and rashers of bacon, and the frying-pan was on the fire; while, attending to the frying-pan and the kettle and the teapot, and working away generally with a will, was the most important person in the kitchen—the goddess, indeed, of that region—whose name, with a strange remissness, has not yet been mentioned: 'Melia Jane!
In these days of fine-lady-servants, the mere mention of so inestimable a treasure is an agreeable thing; for if ever there was a devoted, untiring, unselfish, capable, cheerful slave of the broom and the pan, that being was 'Melia Jane. Up early in the morning, without ever being called; up late at night, without a murmur; no Sundays out, as a law, the violation of which was a graver matter than the separation of church and state; cooking, scrubbing, washing, with a light heart, and as happy as the day is long. Could I write an epic, I would set about it, and call it "'Melia Jane."
Not a beauty; somewhat the reverse, indeed. But "Lor!" as she used to say, scratching her elbow, "beauty's only skin-deep." Nevertheless, she worshipped it in the persons of Fanny and Phœbe, to whom she was devotedly attached. Of the two, she leaned, perhaps, more closely and affectionately to Phœbe, for whom she entertained the profoundest admiration, "Wenus," she declared, "couldn't 'old a candle to 'er." And had she been asked, in the way of disputation, under what circumstances and to what intelligible purpose that goddess could be expected to hold a candle to Phœbe, she would doubtless have been prepared with a reply which would have confounded the interrogator.
She had a history, which can be briefly recorded.
Like all careful housewives with limited incomes, Mrs. Lethbridge had her washing "done" at home, and 'Melia Jane's mother, in times gone by, was Aunt Leth's washer-woman. She died when 'Melia Jane was ten years old, and the child, being friendless and penniless, was admitted into Mrs. Lethbridge's kitchen as a kind of juvenile help. She proved to be so clever and willing, and so "teachable," as Mrs. Lethbridge said, that when the old servant left to get married, 'Melia Jane took her place, and from that day did the entire work of the house. For the present, this brief record is sufficient. More of 'Melia Jane anon.
Robert burst into the kitchen in a state of great excitement.
"Mother, you didn't tell me Mr. Linton was a dramatic author. Just think, Phœbe; he writes plays! Isn't it grand?"
The girls opened their eyes very wide. There was indeed a luminary in the house, a star of the first magnitude. A dramatic author! It was enough to make them tremble.
"But why have you left them, Bob?" asked Mrs. Lethbridge.
"I was told to go," replied Robert. "They did not want me. They're talking business."
"Business!" exclaimed Mrs. Lethbridge. "What business can they have with father?"
"Perhaps," suggested Robert, "he is going to take a theatre, and Mr. Linton is going to write the plays, and Mr. Kiss is going to act in them."
"What nonsense you talk!" said Mrs. Lethbridge.
"Mother," said Robert, solemnly, "my mind's made up."
"A very small parcel," remarked Fanny, thus paying him off for the smut on her nose.
"I'm serious," said Robert; "I'm fixed—yes, fixed as the polar star. That sounds well. I shall go on the stage."
"And off again, very quick," said Fanny.
"What! turn actor, Bob?" exclaimed Mrs. Lethbridge.
"Yes," said Robert, folding his arms; "a second Irving."
"Avaunt, and quit my sight!" cried Phœbe, seizing the rolling-pin and striking an attitude.
They all fell to laughing, and 'Melia Jane stared at the young people, with her eyes almost starting out of their sockets.
CHAPTER XI.
KISS HAS SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT THEATRICAL MANAGERS.
Meanwhile the gentlemen upstairs were discussing a serious subject.
"I told you about our friend's play," said Kiss to Mr. Lethbridge—"his undeservedly unsuccessful play, produced a fort-night since at the Star Theatre. There are lines in it which would make the fortune of a poet, but these are not poetical days—on the stage. At a certain theatre, where an eminent brother of the craft, to whom I take off my hat"—he had no hat to take off, but he went through the necessary action—"has the ear of the public, and a following which is simply amazing to contemplate—at that theatre, I grant you, the poetical drama can be produced with great results; and also at one other temple of the drama, where a lady, admired and loved by all, reigns as queen; but produced elsewhere, it is risky, very. It requires, for success, a perfect and harmonious combination of rare forces, and such a following as I have spoken of, and these are only to be found in those two theatres. Do you take?"
"Do I understand you?" said Mr. Lethbridge, deeply interested. "Yes."
"Withsuchactors," continued Kiss, "withsuchan organization, withsuchresources, withsuchlavish, but not unwise, expenditure, withsucha following, not only the poetical drama, but any kind of drama, may be staged with assured result. Had Linton's play been producedthere, you would see him now all smiles instead of down in the dumps. I don't say to him 'What is the use?' A man has his feelings, and a dramatic author has a double share, which makes it bad for him when the reverse happens. Linton's play was not produced at one of the theatres I have indicated—more's the pity. But a time may come. Do you hear me, Linton?"
"I am deeply grateful to you," said Mr. Linton. "You are the best fellow in the world."
"That is sentiment, mere sentiment," said Kiss, coughing down the compliment. "We are now talking business, and I am, so to speak, showing our mutual friend the ropes, and letting him behind the scenes. Not quite the fairy-land most people imagine. I was engaged for the run of Linton's play, and as it ran off instead of on, I am now out of an engagement. Do I blame him? Not a bit of it. He would have as much reason to blame me. You see, Leth, there are certain rules and certain fashions in our line which it is as dangerous to violate as in most lines of business. For instance, would you take a shop on the wrong side of the road?"
"No," replied Mr. Lethbridge, rather vaguely.
"There are business sides and unbusiness sides. Here, a shop is worth five hundred pounds a year; across the road it isn't worth fifty. So with theatres. Here, comedy; here, comic opera; here, melodrama; here, spectacle; here, Shakespeare and the classic; and so on, and so on. Risk the unsuitable and you come to grief. That's what we did; for I'm bound to confess that Linton was largely influenced by my advice in the matter. I had so firm a belief in the play that I thought it would score anywhere. Itdidscore at the Star, but it scored the wrong way, because it was played at the wrong theatre. A knock-down blow! What then? Why, rise, and at it again!—yes, though you get a dozen knock-down blows. Nil desperandum: that's my motto. Life's a fight. Are you waiting for a cue, Linton?"
"You are quite right in your observations," said the poor author, with a sad smile; "but it is easier for you to rise after a knock-down blow than it is with me. You are a favourite with the public; they welcome you the moment you make your appearance. The last time I appeared before them they howled at me. And it meant so much! It was not only a case of disappointed ambition and wounded vanity, but there was, at home——I beg your pardon; I scarcely know what I was about to say."
Mr. Lethbridge thought of the empty platters which Kiss had spoken of, and he gazed commiseratingly at Mr. Linton.
"Now, wouldn't you suppose," said Kiss, addressing himself to Mr. Lethbridge, "that Linton was so overwhelmed at his failure that he had no heart to try again? I am happy to say that is not the case. He has already got another play ready, a better one than the last, a play that is bound to hit 'em?"
"I am delighted to hear it," said Mr. Lethbridge, with a bright smile. "I must come the first night; we'll all come—mother and Fanny and Phœbe and Bob. I dare say we shall be able to find room in the pit."
"Plenty," observed Mr. Linton, moodily.
"And bring good thick sticks with you," said Kiss, "to help the applause."
"When is it to be played," asked Mr. Lethbridge, laughing at the suggestion of the big sticks, "and where?"
"Ah," said Kiss, "that's the rub. It is a question not yet decided."
"There are so many managers after it, I suppose?" said Mr. Lethbridge, innocently. "Look at it from a business point of view; accept the best offer at the best theatre."
Kiss leant back in his chair, and laughed long and loud. He had a particularly merry laugh, and the sound was heard in the kitchen.
("That's Mr. Kiss laughing," said Fanny. "The author has said something funny."
"I hope uncle will remember it," added Phœbe, "and tell us what it is. How wonderfully an author must talk, and what wonderful minds they must have! How ever do they think of things?")
"The fact is, Leth," said Kiss, presently, "we have not such a choice of managers and theatres as you imagine."
"Why, surely," said Mr. Lethbridge, "they are only too ready to jump at a good play when it is offered them!"
"If I were asked," said Kiss, "who were the worst possible judges of a manuscript play, I should answer, theatrical managers. As regards Linton's last effort, which he has at the present moment in his coat pocket"—(Mr. Lethbridge knew from this remark what the great bulge was at Mr. Linton's breast, concerning which he had been rather puzzling himself; every now and then the dramatic author put his hand up to the pocket which contained his manuscript, to make sure that the precious documents were safe)—"as regards that," continued Kiss, "there is a certain obtuseness on the part of managers which has to be overcome before the new play sees the light. They have read it, and have shaken their heads at it. Now I pit my judgment against theirs."
"So will I," said Mr. Lethbridge.
"And I say there's money and fame in Linton's last. By-the-way, Linton, that's not at all a bad title for something—'Linton's Last.' Think of it."
"At all events," observed the despondent author, with a lame attempt at a joke, "there would be an end of me after that."
"Not at all, my boy; couldn't spare you. As I said, Leth, the managers, all but one, shake their heads at Linton's play, and, like asses, refuse it."
"All but one," said Mr. Lethbridge. "He's a fortunate man, whoever he is."
"He is notquiteblind. Now, Leth, that is the real reason of our visit to you."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Lethbridge, in great amazement. "I have no influence, I assure you. I wish I had; I should be only too ready and willing to use it."
"This one manager," pursued Kiss, "who proves himself to possess some glimmering of common-sense, is, curiously enough, the manager of the Star Theatre, where Linton's last piece was produced."
"And he wishes to produce the new one," said Mr. Lethbridge. "That is very good of him."
"Oh, he knows what he is about, and he is awake to the fact that there is a certain fortune in the play. But, for all that, he is a downy bird—a very downy bird. He argues. Says he, 'Your last piece, Linton, was almost a crusher to me.' At which Linton's heart sinks into his shoes, and he groans, instead of meeting it lightly as he ought to do. But that is a matter of temperament. 'I had to close my theatre,' says the manager of the Star, 'not having another piece ready, and here I am paying rent for shut doors. It has cost me so much,' mentioning a sum, which my experience tells me is the actual, multiplied by four. But that's neither here nor there. The manager of the Star goes on: 'To put the new piece on will cost so much,' again mentioning a sum multiplied by four. 'What do you propose to contribute toward it if I make the venture?' 'I give you my brains,' says Linton; 'that is all I possess.' 'In that case,' says the manager, 'I am afraid it is not to be thought of. I can't afford to stand the entire risk.' I, being present at the interview, step in here. I don't intend to apologize to Linton when I tell you, Leth, that he is not fit to manage his own business. 'Youdidproduce a play of Linton's,' I say to the manager—it was calledBoots and Shoes, Leth; no doubt you remember it—'out of which you made a pot of money.' 'A small pot,' says the manager of the Star; 'a very small pot.' 'And,' says I, 'which you bought right out for the miserable sum of fifty pounds.' 'Well,' says the manager, 'that was the bargain, made with our eyes open. When I offered fifty pounds forBoots and ShoesI did it for the purpose of doing Linton a good turn. He was hard up at the time, and I risked the fifty on the off chance. If I make by one piece I lose by another.' 'Let us come to the point,' says I, 'about the new piece. You want something contributed toward the expense of getting it up. How much? Don't open your mouth too wide.' 'Two hundred pounds,' says he; 'not a penny less.' To tell you the truth, Leth, I thought he was going to ask for more. It isn't a very large sum, is it?"
"Not to some people," replied Mr. Lethbridge, with a cheerful smile.
"Pleased to hear you say so. There's more to tell. It is not putting down the two hundred pounds and saying good-bye to it; it will come back in less than no time. The first profits of the piece will be devoted to repaying the amount, so that there is really very little risk, if any. Having stated his conditions the manager of the Star retires, and we retire also, to consider ways and means. Now I needn't tell you, Leth, that we can just as easily lay our hands upon two hundred pounds as we can bring the man in the moon down from the skies. The question then is—how to raise it? A serious question. We consider long, and at length a bright idea flashes upon me. I have, in an indirect way, made the acquaintance of a man who discounts bills. The acquaintance is slight—very slight; but faint heart, you know, and I go to him. I will mention his name to you; but it must be done in confidence—between ourselves."
"Yes," said Mr. Lethbridge.
"His name is Pamflett—Jeremiah Pamflett."
"I know the name of Pamflett," said Mr. Lethbridge. "The father of my niece Phœbe, who is just now on a visit to us——"
"The dearest, sweetest girl!" said Kiss, in explanation to Mr. Linton.
"Has a housekeeper of that name. Can Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett be a connexion of hers?"
"It is not unlikely," said Kiss; "to speak the truth, it is quite likely. But that is not material, is it?"
"No," said Mr. Lethbridge, with a slight pause for consideration; "I don't think it is. I believe he manages some kind of business for Phœbe's father."
"For Miser Farebrother? Yes, that is so; but he does business also on his own account. As I was saying, I go to Mr. Pamflett, and I lay the case before him; but he says he doesn't see his way to doing a bill for me and Linton without other names upon it. I run over the names of a few friends who would be willing to sign it, but Mr. Pamflett still demurs. It was then that the bright idea flashes upon me; I think of you. To come to you and ask you to lend us two hundred pounds was, of course, out of the question."
"I regret to say it would be," said Mr. Lethbridge. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure if it were in my power."
"I know, and therefore we have not come here with any such idea; but your name occurring to me while I was talking to Mr. Pamflett, I naturally mention it. He meets me instantly. He knows all about you and your family."
"He has never been here," interposed Mr. Lethbridge.
"He spoke most kindly of you, and said he had the greatest respect for you——"
"To my knowledge," again interposed Mr. Lethbridge, "I have never seen his face. I shouldn't know him from Adam if he stood before me now."
"Perhaps he knows of you through your niece. However it is, you would not have been displeased had you heard him speak of you. The upshot of the affair is that he makes a proposition by which we shall get the two hundred pounds required to produce Linton's new play. The proposition is—and bear in mind that Mr. Pamflett made it out of pure kindness, and out of the respect in which he holds you—that Linton should draw a bill at six months' date for three hundred pounds, and that you should accept it. Linton, of course, as drawer, will endorse it, and so will I. If I hand this bill to Mr. Pamflett to-morrow he will give Linton his cheque for two hundred pounds, and our friend's fortune is made. The resources of civilization, my dear Leth, are wonderful. That a mere scratch of the pen can make a name famous, can make a worthy fellow happy, can bring joy to the hearts of a good woman and her children—you will love Mrs. Linton when you know her—can snatch a man from the depths of despair—now, is it not wonderful to think of? They will bless you, they will remember you in their prayers—but I will say no more. It remains with you."
In this speech the actor's art, unconsciously exercised, made itself felt, and it penetrated the very soul of good Uncle Leth.
"It does not enter my mind," said Mr. Lethbridge to Kiss, "that you would deceive me——"
"I would cut my right hand off first."
"And therefore you will forgive me when I ask you if there is really no risk?"
"I give you my word and honour, Leth," said Kiss, very seriously, "as a man, and, what is more, as a judge of plays, that there is not the slightest risk. Is my opinion, as an actor and an honourable man, of any value?"
"Of the highest value!"
"There is not an atom of risk. Linton has his play in his pocket: he shall read it to you—or, rather,Iwill read it to you—before we leave you to-night. Linton is an execrable reader of his own works. He is so nervous and fidgety andundramatic that he misses every point. If ever I feel inclined to punch his head it is when he is reading his manuscript to the company in the green-room. Many a good play has been rejected because of this incapacity; many a bad play has been accepted because of the fervour and the magnetism of the author, who, carried away himself (frequently by inordinate vanity), has carried away a theatrical manager, and actors too sometimes, and warped their judgment.Iwill read Linton's play fairly, so that you will be able to form a proper estimate of it. Just consider, Leth: the bill is not due for six months. In three or four weeks at the furthest Linton's piece will be produced. The manager of the Star Theatre would like to rush it on sooner, but I shall insist upon a proper number of rehearsals. I shall stage-manage it myself, and that should be a guarantee. Two weeks after the production of the piece I shall have the pleasure—I beg Linton's pardon:hewill have the pleasure—of handing you the sum of three hundred pounds in a new suit of clothes. Not the money thus clothed, but the happy author. That will be four months before the money is to be paid to Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett. You can keep it and use it for those four months if you wish."
"I shall pay it at once," said Mr. Lethbridge, "and get back the bill."
"Then you will do it?"
"I will do it," said Mr. Lethbridge: "and I wish Mr. Linton every success."
"Linton, old chap," exclaimed Kiss, "your fortune's made!"
Mr. Linton raised his eyes. The tears were brimming over in them, and running down his face.
"How can I thank you?" he said to Mr. Lethbridge. "When everything looked so dark, and when I did not know which way to turn——" He could not go on.
"There's a silver lining to every cloud," said Kiss, "and if it can be seen anywhere in this wilderness city it can be seen here, in my friend Leth's house. I call a blessing upon it. When you crossed this threshold you dropped on your feet. But I told you how it would be. Now, Leth, perhaps you would like to hear that, hearing I was out of an engagement, the manager of the Eden Theatre offered me terms, but I have such faith in Linton's new piece that I refused and kept myself open for it."
"I am perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Lethbridge.
"We can settle the affair at once, if you like," said Kiss.
"Certainly, at once," assented Mr. Lethbridge.
"I brought the bill with me, and here it is on stamped paper."
He produced it, and Mr. Lethbridge, reading it through, accepted it, making it payable at the bank in which he had for so long a time held a position of trust.
"Aunt Leth sent me to tell you," said Phœbe, popping in her head, "that tea is ready."
"Thank you, Phœbe," said Mr. Lethbridge; "come in. I want to introduce Mr. Linton to you."
How little did the bright and beautiful girl suspect that within the last few moments an awful and tragic thread had been woven into her life!
She entered the room, and looked timidly at the poor author.
"Not a word for me?" said Kiss.
"Yes, Mr. Kiss," said Phœbe, giving him her hand.
"Mr. Linton—Phœbe," said her uncle Leth, encircling her waist with his arm. "This is my niece, Mr. Linton, whom I love as a daughter."
"Mr. Pamflett was speaking of you yesterday," said Mr. Linton.
"Mr. Pamflett!" exclaimed Phœbe, shrinking at the name.
"Yes. He said you were the most lovely girl in all London, and that there was no service you could call upon him to render which he would not cheerfully perform."
"I scarcely know him, sir," murmured Phoebe.
"Let us go in to tea," said Mr. Lethbridge, "or mother will be impatient. A terrible tyrant, Mr. Linton; a terrible tyrant!"