THUS, at length, was Sir Robert the younger informed of the history of his inheritance. Thus, also, was it an aggravation of that wounding recital that, to all appearance, he might have earlier induced Mr. Creel to it—at a period when he himself was less bound to the conduct of a responsibility which he now knew he had undertaken upon terms that seemed to him unnecessarily humiliating, and which he could not but think he would surely otherwise have declined. For, if any love had dictated the gift—the new chance to a repentant prodigal—it was harder than Roman in its expression.
So he thought, smarting under the lash of his father’s prejudgment; and it was only by and by, in one of those elastic rebounds that were characteristic of the man and constitutional, that he came to consider that it was a prejudgment, and that, had his father lived to see it verified, he might have modified at least the asperity of his language.
This was little comfort; but it was some.
At first he had had a wild temptation to reject, at the eleventh hour, a gift which only his ignorance had accepted. It passed, however, in the reflection that, whatever the pre-history of “Delsrop” (with which he had no concern), the property was indubitably his at the present moment to do with as he chose; that he had already incurred, in his management of it, responsibilities that he could not with honour repudiate; and that the manliness to assert himself in the world should be altogether independent of adventitious moral support.
Still, he was something depressed and unhappy; and was become, perhaps, an essentially graver man than he had been before his interview with the lawyer.
This interview had taken place on the day after his arrival in London. On his way to it, he had left a message at the “Golden Cross,” conveying his respects and his hopes that the travellers had rested well. But the travellers themselves he had no intention to intrude himself on, until convinced, if possible, that the nature of his inheritance offered no bar to his suit with Miss Royston.
Satisfied on this point, he had desired and obtained Mr. Creel’s consent to his using his new knowledge, if necessary, for the furtherance of his addresses—but to how great a degree must be left to his own discretion.
This matter he pondered on his way home; and, pondering it, he must acknowledge to himself that his position with the lady was scarcely improved on; for, whatever its extenuation, the fact of the case remained that he was a distitled beneficiary, whose tenure of his property must be held to rather justify the contempt that secured it to him.
So circumstanced, it was a relief to him, upon calling at the “Golden Cross,” in the dusk of the afternoon, to find that his fellow-travellers were gone visiting. But Sir David had left a message that they were to be at the Haymarket Theatre in the evening, to witness a performance of a new musical piece—in which the celebrated Mr. Fawcett was to appear in a popular part; together with the beautiful Miss De Camp, and Mrs. Mountain of Vauxhall Gardens fame—and that he hoped Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure to join their party.
Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure—or his duty. He felt that possibly the somewhat dramatic character of the explanation he was bidden to, would find its appropriate background more in “wings” and “flats” than in the walls of a drabby inn-parlour; that hautboys and fiddles—if he could seized an opportunity to speak out under cover of their harmonious gossip—might play a fitter accompaniment to the tale of his raptures than would the clank of dishes and bawling of ubiquitous waiters.
As to that risk he must run of recognition by old associates—why, he momently invited such a contretemps; and he could really not bother his head with idle speculations as to what he should do in so likely an eventuality. Truly, the main condition under which he held his estate made no provision for such accidents, and his sole concern was, not to escape identification, but to save himself the worry of being questioned as to the why and wherefore. Moreover, it must be confessed, he would claim a little malicious pleasure in denying Miss Angela that knowledge of his real position which would serve as a better argument to her favour, he shrewdly suspected, than any personal merit of his could advance; and he was resolved, if possible, to be taken—if taken he should be—for himself alone.
Therefore, with the determination to that very evening put his fortunes to the proof, he addressed himself to his careful toilet, dined daintily and deliberately, at the “Bedford” Coffee-house in Covent Garden, off “a little lobster, an apricot-puff or so, and some burnt champagne,” and in due time summoned a coach and was driven to the theatre.
In the vestibule he was treated to a brief scene of temper that was like a lever de rideau to usher in the serious business of the evening. An arrogant-looking lady of a very vain and truculent expression of countenance, accompanied by a youth some eleven or twelve years of age, had entered the theatre at the same time as himself. This boy, a plump-faced, kimbo-eyed youngster, with well-oiled chestnut curls and a pugnacious mouth, limped slightly as he walked a little in advance of his companion.
“Tread over, Geordie!” said the latter peevishly, and in a pretty loud voice.
The boy took no notice; but he flushed up, for there was other company present. Thereupon the lady called louder, as if to advertise her authority over him:
“I’ll bid ye listen, ye vicious brat! Tread ye over, as Mr. Lavender directs.”
Now the boy turned round, with a scarlet face; and cried he—and we must not hold him excused: “D—n Mr. Lavender for a hav’rel quack!”
At that the lady came after him in a fury; and immediately he flung up his hand, with a lorgnette in it, and says he: “If ye touch me, I’ll hwhang this on to the floor!”
“Fie, young gentleman!” said Mr. Tuke, who was standing near. “Is that your challenge to a lady?”
He got no profit of his question, however; for, while the boy only stared at him with an angry scowl, the dame spoke up with a fine contempt of his interference.
“We’re beholden to ye, sir,” said she. “But the Lord Byron will have his schooling in manners from better than a pouther’d fribble”—and, catching at the boy’s arm, the two passed on together, making common cause against the enemy.
That person laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and went in search of his friends.
There were many empty boxes round the middle tier, and some with liveried fellows sitting back in them to keep the seats against their masters’ coming. Once and again a man of them, his attention caught by some new arrival, would incautiously project his head, with the result that a storm of nuts and orange-peel, flying from the gallery, would send it jerking in again, to the huge merriment of the house. Amongst these “retainers” was one who wore the Dunlone livery of blue and silver. Mr. Tuke recognized it from where he stood, and a sudden thought, half-comical, twitched at his risibilities.
“What,” he mused, “if Dunlone is baiting a little trap? He will hardly want me to walk into it.”
The fiddles had squeaked and the curtain gone up while he waited; and at this moment he saw the very party he was in search of enter my lord’s box in company with that gentleman.
Miss Royston came to the front, sparkling and radiant as a post-prandial Hebe. She glanced round the house (it was a tribute to her attractiveness that the self-important boy-lord who sat opposite forgot the play a minute while he plied her with his lorgnette); caught sight of Mr. Tuke, and, treating that gentleman to a little cold bow, turned and addressed her witchery to the nobleman behind her, who was taking his seat with an insolence of clatter and chatter that greatly disturbed the audience.
Not in the least desiring, under the circumstances, to obtrude himself on her further notice—and that for many reasons—Tuke retired into the background and gave his most suave attention to the play. Of this he was afterwards conscious of having a very hazy recollection; and only its title, “What a Blunder!” seemed to stick in his memory from a certain impression it had conveyed of appropriateness with his own condition of mind. The scene had lain in Valencia—he remembered that, as also the presence thereon of a dashing English officer, whose complete mufti of white satin tights, trunk hose slashed with purple, spencer of violet velvet, diamond shoe-buckles, and a grey brigand’s hat with three enormous ostrich plumes in it, had presented such a coup de théâtre as ought to have fully compensated him for the wasteful hour, he might have been otherwise inclined to think, he had spent in the house.
Somewhat in a dream, he heard the glorious Miss De Camp expound her melodious grievances to a baneful chorus of banditti, and withdraw into a cavern, the hostage of their most basso-profundo cupidity. He was, indeed, forming his plans the while; and when the curtain fell on the first act, he made his way determinedly to a certain box—the prominent occupants of which had had, for the last half-hour, his particular attention—fully resolved to end one way or the other his period of suspense.
He tapped on the baize door, and was bidden gruffly by the nobleman to enter—which he did. My lord and Sir David were risen at the moment—the former to fetch a bag of oranges out of his laced surtout—and the baronet came at his friend with a genial greeting and his finest London manner.
“Where have you been?” quoth he. “My Lord Dunlone would insist to honour us with his invitation, or I would have acquainted you of our number, Tuke.”
“Tuke!” exclaimed the viscount. He stood staring, with his hand in the pocket.
“At your service, sir,” said the other gravely.
Miss Angela was turned, her face observant and a little flushed.
“My name,” said Mr. Tuke quickly, seeing the cub’s perplexity, “can be a matter of little importance in your lordship’s recollection. But we have been known to one another in the past, as you will doubtless remember.”
“Oh! very well, sir. ’Tis no concern of mine, as you observe,” said the lord; “and it is not every title that is worth the preserving. We came to a settlement at our last meeting, I believe, and I owe you small thanks for the terms of it; but I’m cursed if I knew the sale of your good name was included in the bargain.”
“Nor was it,” said Mr. Tuke.
He took no offence at the other’s insolence; but was quite urbane and good-humoured in the teeth of it. He even gave the nobleman an ironical bow, as, withdrawing his hand empty from the pocket, that fine creature seized Sir David’s arm, and walked the astounded little man out of the box.
No sooner were they vanished, than the intruder addressed himself to Miss Royston with the most perfect calmness and respect.
“I return,” said he, “to ‘Delsrop’ to-morrow.”
She vouchsafed him a lifted eyebrow of surprise.
“So soon?” said she. “Then your business is concluded—or postponed?”
“It is concluded.”
“To your satisfaction, I trust?”
“Assuredly. I am satisfied I came on a fool’s errand.”
“Indeed?”
She trifled with her fan. Suddenly she leaned back in the shadow of the curtains and looked up at him.
“Mr. Tuke,” she said—“were you ever my lord’s tailor?”
He could only stare his astonishment.
“Or his tool or his creature in any way?” she said, gathering vehemence with speech. “Oh, sir! why should you wonder? And whither were his innuendoes directed, and what the reason that he disavowed your claim of friendship?”
“Surely he did not!”
“Not—not? And you pass under an assumed name. Will you deny it?”
“No, madam.”
She gave a great sigh, and turned her attention to the orchestra, that was beginning to tune up for the second act.
“You will have a cold journey,” she said. “Good-bye!”
He echoed her adieu with a composed gallantry, and stepped from the box, a man of ice. Humming (horribly out of tune, it must be said) a fragment of some late-heard melody, he lounged through his tier of the auditorium, and even paused, before leaving the house, at a point whence he could obtain a comprehensive view of the assembly. Here, glancing down into the pit, his gaze was instantly riveted upon the figure of a man that sat, lolling in an ungainly manner, against the wooden partition that enclosed the orchestra.
“Now, by Heaven,” muttered the observer, “if you are not my old friend of the fishing-rod, there is no virtue in the name of Brander!”
As he thus spoke under his breath, the man below, moved by that telepathic force that is called sympathy, looked up, and catching the other’s eye, started violently, and immediately shifted his position so as to present nothing but a back of rusty broadcloth to the inquisition of the boxes.
“And so my suspicion is confirmed,” thought Tuke; and made his way to the vestibule.
Walking on the stilts, so as to speak, of a sort of incensed exaltation, he issued from the theatre to find a wet sleet falling. The loaded flakes hissed in the torches of the link boys; the whole pavement resounded with the clink of pattens.
“And here is the appropriate wet blanket,” muttered our friend, “to the bed of my own making. I will e’en back to broiled bones and a noggin of punch by the fire.”