i was telling you about the young lady, who was so ill in our house, when i was interrupted through harry insisting on my coming to supper. no matter whether i want any supper or not, harry won’t let me stop away. he always makes the excuse, that he hates to have his meals alone. certainly it is not very nice, but often and often i could get a quiet half-hour at my writing but for supper. after supper i can never do anything, for, somehow or other, i settle down in my easy chair and get sleepy directly.
harry smokes one pipe—his quiet pipe, he calls it—looks at the paper, and then we go to bed. sometimes, if there is a very exciting or very amusing case in the law courts, he reads it out loud to me. if we have friends staying with us, or come to spend the evening, sometimes after supper we have a hand at cards, but it is not often. we are generally very glad indeed to get to bed, as most people are who have done a hard day’s work, especially as we are always up very early in the morning, which is necessary in an hotel, where everybody wants looking after personally, or else it very soon goes wrong.
after the doctor had told me the story of the young lady, who was so ill in our house, you may be sure that i took more interest in her than i had ever done before. there is nothing which touches a woman’s heart so much as an unhappy love affair, and poor miss elmore’s was unhappy enough in all conscience, for it had brought her to what looked like being her death-bed.{184}
one day the doctor told me he had had a very serious talk with mrs. elmore—i told you about her being so hard—and had as good as said to her that there was only one thing could save the young lady, and that was to let her see her sweetheart again.
mrs. elmore sniffed and tossed her head, and said, “and what about my daughter’s soul? was it a fit preparation for the other world, if she was dying, to have a play-actor standing by her bed-side? the only persons who had a right there were the doctor and the clergyman.” it was no good to argue—all mrs. elmore would say was that never, with her consent, should her daughter see that lost young man again. “what was the good?” she said. she would never consent to the marriage, and if what the doctor said was true, that she was breaking her heart about the young fellow, what was the good of seeing him if she couldn’t marry him? besides, she was sure her daughter wasn’t so bad as the doctors tried to make out. she would be better again if she would only make an effort, and allow herself to rally, and fix her thoughts upon respectable things instead of play-actors.
you wouldn’t think a mother would talk like it, but mrs. elmore did. the human nature in her seemed to have dried up—if i may use the expression.
the doctor said it was no good talking to the mother any more, so he went and saw our local methodist clergyman, that mrs. elmore sat under every sunday, and that came sometimes to visit the sick young lady.
he put the case straight to him, and told him he believed that the poor girl’s life might be saved if her mother could be induced to consent to the match, and perhaps he, the clergyman, might be able to persuade her.
now, our methodist clergyman was a very nice gentleman indeed, and he was quite affected by the way the doctor told the story. he said, “i don’t know that i could induce mrs. elmore to let her daughter marry this young play-actor, while he is still acting in what we, rightly or wrongly, consider to be a sinful place, and a place full of devilish wiles and temptations; but if he would give up his present life, and take to another calling, perhaps it might be different.{185}”
“well,” said the doctor, “there is no time to lose. he ought to come down at once, but it’s no good his coming down while he is a play-actor, because the mother wouldn’t allow him to see his sweetheart. i can’t go to london, because i have a lot of people ill here, and a case i can’t leave. would you go to london and see the young fellow?”
“why not write to him?” said the clergyman.
“that’s no use,” said the doctor; “it couldn’t be explained in a letter. come, it is a life that hangs on your decision. won’t you go?”
the clergyman hesitated. he said he didn’t know the young fellow, and he wasn’t authorized by the young lady or her mamma, and it seemed such a queer thing for him to do.
but at last he consented, and the doctor so worked him up, that he promised to go that very evening. they didn’t know the young fellow’s private address; but the doctor knew the theatre he was playing at, because, of course, he was advertised among the company.
the clergyman said it was a dreadful thing for him to have to go to a theatre. he had never been inside one in his life, and he didn’t feel quite sure what would happen to him. he told the doctor that he looked upon it that perhaps he might be going to rescue a young man from perdition, and to do that, of course, a clergyman might go into a worse place than a theatre.
our doctor—a very jolly sort of man, and fond of his joke, and not above coming into our parlour and having a little something warm when he is out on his rounds late on a cold night—told us all about what the clergyman said afterwards, and he told us that he couldn’t for the life of him help telling the dear old parson to be very careful in the theatre, as there were beautiful sirens there, and he told him to remember about st. anthony. i didn’t know what he meant about st. anthony, no more did harry, because i asked him who st. anthony was afterwards; but i didn’t tell the doctor i didn’t know, because i never like to show ignorance, if i can help it.
i suppose st. anthony went to a theatre and fell in love with one of the lovely ladies. perhaps it was that.{186}
but our clergyman—the methodist one—went. i call him ours, though we are church of england, and our clergyman i told you about, is the rev. tommy lloyd, who carries stones and roots in his pocket—harry, in his exaggerating way, says he carries rocks and trunks of trees there. he went up to london, and, as we learnt afterwards, he got to the theatre about half-past eight in the evening. he saw the place all lit up, and he wondered how he was to find the young fellow—mr. frank leighton his name was.
he went into the place where they take the money, and said, “please can i have a few moments’ conversation with mr. leighton, on a private matter?”
the people in the pay-box stared at him, and said, “stage door.”
“thank you,” said the clergyman. and, seeing a door, he went through it, and up a flight of stairs.
“your check, sir,” said the man at the top of the stairs.
“what?” said the clergyman.
“your check,” said the man; “you’ve got a check, haven’t you?”
“i have a cheque-book,” said the clergyman, “but not with me. what, my good friend, do you want with a cheque from me?”
the man looked at him as if he was something curious, and said, “a voucher; you have a voucher, haven’t you?”
the clergyman thought perhaps they were very particular whom they admitted behind the scenes, and he thought that was very proper, so he said, “i have not a personal voucher with me, but there is my card. i am a clergyman, and well known in the district.”
“can’t pass your card, sir,” said the man politely; “you’d better see the manager.”
“thank you,” said the clergyman; “where shall i find him?”
“here he comes, sir.”
at that moment a gentleman came up the stairs in full evening dress, and with very handsome diamond studs. the clergyman told the doctor that he noticed everything, all being so new and strange to him.
the man took the clergyman’s card, and showed it to{187} the gentleman in full dress, and said, “gentleman wants to be passed in.”
“very sorry,” said the manager; “but we’ve no free list.”
“i think there is some mistake,” replied the clergyman. “i have no desire to see the performance. i want a few moments’ private conversation with mr. frank leighton.”
the manager stared. “oh!” he said. “but, my dear sir, how do you propose to converse with him privately this way? you can’t shout at him from the dress circle.”
“i know nothing of theatres. is not this the stage door?”
“oh, you thought this was the stage door. i see. simmons!”
a commissionaire in uniform stepped forward.
“show this gentleman the stage door.”
“yes, sir.”
and with that our clergyman was taken outside by the commissionaire, and they went along the street and then down a dirty narrow court; and when they got to the end of the court there was a dirty old door, and the commissionaire pushed that open and said, “this is the stage-door, sir,” and left our clergyman there.
he told the doctor that it was a narrow passage, with a little room just off it; and in this little room, which was very dingy, was an old gentleman with grey hair, who said, “what do you want, sir?”
“i want a few minutes’ conversation with mr. frank leighton, on a private matter. there is my card.”
the man took the card, and said, “wait a minute, sir.”
then he pushed another door open and went through.
presently he came back again, and said, “will you take a seat a minute, sir?” and the clergyman went into the dingy little room and sat down.
there was a young lady who had come through from downstairs, and she had evidently just come off the stage, for the doorkeeper said, “is mr. leighton on yet?” “yes,” she said; “he’s on to the end of the act now.”
presently there was the report of a pistol, and the clergyman jumped up.
“good gracious! what’s that?” he exclaimed.{188}
“oh,” said the young lady, “that’s mr. leighton; he’s just tried to commit suicide!”
“good gracious!” exclaimed the clergyman, horrified. “how terrible—let me go to him.” and before anybody could stop him he had rushed through the door.
at first he could not see where he was for things sticking out here and there; but presently, through some scenery, he saw a young fellow lying on the floor, with a pistol beside him. a gentleman was leaning over him and feeling his heart.
“he is not dead,” said the gentleman; “thank god! thank god!”
our clergyman said, “thank god!” too, and rushed to where the young gentleman was lying, and said, “oh, my unhappy young friend, how could you do such a terrible thing! i am a clergyman; let me——”
before he could say another word there was a wild roar of voices, and the suicide sat up and said, “what the——”
and the people at the sides yelled, “mind your head.” and the curtain came down with a bang.
and then the clergyman knew he had made a dreadful mistake, and that it was all in the play, because the suicide jumped up and said, “what in heaven’s name do you mean, sir?” and the manager came on and was furious, and the people in front of the house were yelling and hooting, and there was a nice commotion.
the poor clergyman, who was quite bewildered and covered with perspiration, tried to explain that he had never been in a theatre before in his life, and knew nothing about it; that, hearing mr. leighton had committed suicide, he thought it was because of his love affair, and having come from where the young lady he loved was lying very ill, he thought it his duty as a minister to rush on and say a word or two to the poor sinner before he died.
there was quite a buzz of astonishment among the people on the stage when the clergyman told his simple story, and they saw at once that it was true.
mr. leighton, who had been awfully wild at having his scene spoiled, when he heard the clergyman’s story,{189} was very much affected, and said he would see the clergyman after the performance, if he would wait. they asked him if he would like to go into a box; but the clergyman said, “no; he did not want to see anything in a theatre. he would wait outside.”
the manager said perhaps it was as well, for if he went anywhere in the house where he could be seen it would start the people off, and be unpleasant; because, of course, as playgoers, what with the clergyman’s words and manners, and the curtain coming down bang, they knew something had happened that wasn’t in the play.
when the clergyman told the doctor the story, the doctor laughed till the tears came into his eyes; and he chaffed the poor man finely about making his first appearance, and having acted a part.
he was in a very good humour, because, though the clergyman, through his ignorance, had made such a mess of it at the beginning, he had finished by doing what he wanted. he told the young gentleman, after the play was over, all about the young lady, and what the doctor said, and the young fellow told him that he had never known a happy moment since they were parted, and he would make any sacrifice in the world to save his sweetheart’s life.
he quite won our clergyman’s heart by his nice manner and the way he talked. and before they parted he gave the clergyman his word that, if he was allowed to see his sweetheart again, dearly as he loved his profession, he would give it up for ever.
that made the clergyman take his part at once, and feel that he had done a wonderful thing; so he came back and saw mrs. elmore the next day, and told her it would be wicked to keep the young people apart, as, if she allowed them to see each other and be engaged, she would not only save her daughter’s life, but she would rescue a young fellow from play-acting.
it took a long time to convince the woman—she was so hard; but at last she consented, and first the young fellow was told to send his sweetheart a letter. and the clergyman gave it to her, telling her gently to hope that the happiness she thought lost for ever might yet be hers.{190}
and then the young lady read the letter, and it made her cry. but from that day she began to mend slowly, and in a fortnight she was sitting up again on the sofa in the sitting-room.
and one day the doctor came to me, quite beaming, and said, “now, mrs. beckett, who do you think’s coming to your hotel to-morrow?”
“i’m sure i don’t know,” i said.
“why, frank leighton, the young play-actor.”
and then he told me that mrs. elmore had agreed that the young couple should have an interview in her presence, and that the whole matter should be discussed. i was delighted, and i could talk of nothing else. harry at last got a bit tired of it, i think, and he said if i talked about the young play-actor any more he should have to go and put some brickdust on his face, and chalk his nose, or else he would be quite cut out.
harry does say ridiculous things sometimes, and there is no romance about him. perhaps it is quite as well, because an hotel-keeper, or, in fact, any man in business, doesn’t want to be too romantic. it isn’t the way to get rich.
harry said it was lucky we didn’t have many love affairs in our house, or my brain would be turned; and he should be very glad when the young lady had got well enough to go away. he didn’t want a lot of play-actors coming and upsetting all the women in the house, from the missus to the kitchenmaid.
i don’t like to confess it; but there is no doubt that harry is a little jealous. i have told you how disagreeable he was about that dreadful policeman. of course you know what i mean by jealous. he isn’t absurd or ridiculous, but he turns nasty, and says sharp things, if i take too much interest in anything or anybody but himself. he’s jealous of my “memoirs,” and i do believe sometimes he is jealous of baby. that’s the sort of jealousy i mean.
the next morning mrs. elmore called me upstairs, and said that they expected a visitor (of course she didn’t know that i knew everything), and that dinner was to be laid in the sitting-room for five people. i said to myself, “i{191} know who the five will be—mrs. elmore, miss elmore, the doctor, the clergyman, and mr. frank leighton.”
when i told harry, he said, “oh, that’s it, is it? well, i’d sooner him than me.”
“what do you mean, harry?” i said.
“what do i mean? why, if that young fellow can make love to the young lady before her mother, her doctor, and her clergyman, he’s got more pluck than i give him credit for.”
“he needn’t make love at the dinner table,” i said. “besides, they don’t want to make love—they’ve made it already—long ago. this is more of a family reconciliation.”
“well,” he said, “i’m sorry for the girl. it can’t be pleasant to have a doctor and a clergyman standing like sentries on guard all the time your lover, that you haven’t seen for ever so long, is in the room with you.”
“how did you think they were going to meet, pray?” i asked.
“well, seeing he’s a play-actor, i expected that he’d come outside our house when it was moonlight, and whistle, and that the young lady would open the windows and go out on the balcony, and that they’d talk low, like that.”
i saw what was in harry’s head at once. it was that beautiful play about romeo and juliet. so i said, “a very likely thing. as if a young lady, brought up like miss elmore, and in her delicate state of health, would go talking to a man in the road, standing outside the balcony of a public-house. a nice scandal there would be!”
“well,” he said, “i’ve seen it done on the stage.”
“i dare say; but there’s lots of things that are all right on the stage, but would get parties into trouble if they tried them in real life.”
what an idea, wasn’t it, that we were to have “romeo and juliet” played outside the ‘stretford arms’? of course it would have been much more romantic. “romeo and juliet” wouldn’t be half so interesting if juliet was only allowed to see her lover at dinner, with her mother and the doctor and the clergyman sitting down at the same table. poor girl, if she had, perhaps it would have been much better for her in the long-run. she might have been a happy wife and mother, instead of coming to that creepy{192} end in the family vault, and leading to such a lot of bloodshed.
i was on tiptoe all day, as the saying is, till the young lover arrived. i arranged a very nice little dinner and made up some flowers for the table, and saw to everything myself, being determined that nothing should be wanting on my part in bringing matters to a happy termination, and i know how much a good dinner has to do with the turn that things take.
the only time i can remember harry to have spoken really unkindly to me was when we had a badly-made steak-and-kidney pie for dinner, and he wasn’t very well after it, and that made him tetchy and irritable, a most unusual thing for him, and he was quite nasty with me and lost his temper over a trifle that, if the steak-and-kidney pie had been all right, he would only have laughed at.
about two o’clock a fly drove up to the door, and a young gentleman got out and came in, and said, “this is the ‘stretford arms,’ is it not?”
i knew it was the young actor at once. there is something about an actor that you can always tell, even if you have not seen very many.
he really was handsome. he had lovely wavy hair, and beautiful sympathetic eyes, and his face was just like what you see in some of the statues in the british museum—it was so nicely cut, if i may use the expression.
he spoke in a most eloquent voice, and it was quite a pleasure to listen to him. he was beautifully dressed, and i thought i never saw a young fellow’s clothes fit so elegantly.
our barmaid (a flighty sort of girl, i am sorry to say) stared at him, almost with her mouth open, in admiration, till at last i was obliged to say, “miss bowles, will you please fetch me my keys from the parlour?” i couldn’t say out loud, “don’t stare at the gentleman,” so i did it that way.
as soon as he had said who he was—of course, it wasn’t for me to tell him that i knew—i showed him into the sitting-room, that i had got ready for him, and had a fire lighted in it, so that he might be comfortable, while i went upstairs to announce to the ladies that he had arrived.{193}
poor miss elmore was sitting up in the arm-chair when i went into the room, and her mamma was in the other room.
the young lady knew before i opened my mouth what i had to say. she read it in my face, for i’m sure i was crimson with excitement and pleasure.
the sight of her turned me so that i could only gasp out, “he’s come, miss; he’s come.” and then i saw her cheeks flush burning red, and then go very pale again, and the tears came swimming up into her beautiful, loving blue eyes.
i felt that i would have given the world to have put my arms round her and given her a sisterly hug, and have a good cry with her; but, of course, it would have been forgetting my place.
“tell mamma, please,” she said, as soon as she could speak.
so i went across to the bedroom door and rapped, and told mrs. elmore that mr. leighton had arrived.
“very good,” she said. “as soon as dr. —— and the rev. —— have arrived, you can show him up.”
“yes, ma’am,” i said; and i went downstairs. and then, oh, such a wicked idea came into my head! it came, and it wouldn’t go away, and i wouldn’t give myself time to think how wrong it was. i knew that mrs. elmore was dressing herself, and wouldn’t be ready for ten minutes, and so i went straight down to the young gentleman, and i said, “this way, if you please, sir.” and i took him upstairs to the sitting-room, where the young lady was all alone, and i opened the door wide, and said, “mr. leighton, miss.”
i heard a little cry from the dear young lady. i saw her rise up and stagger forwards. i saw the young fellow catch her in his arms, and i pulled the door to with a bang, and ran downstairs as if an earthquake was behind me; and when i got to the parlour i went flop into a chair and laughed and cried till harry came running in and slapped my hands, and the barmaid brought vinegar. and right in the middle of it, in walked the doctor and the clergyman.
i couldn’t help it. my nerves were overstrung, i suppose, and the excitement had been too much for me.
but i soon pulled myself together, as harry calls it,{194} and went into the kitchen to see the dinner served up properly. and once i made an excuse, when the dinner was on, to go into the room just to help the waitress.
everything seemed all right, though at first i thought everybody looked a little uncomfortable, including the young play-actor.
it must have been a little awkward for him at first, for the old lady was awfully stiff and stony when she came in, and discovered her daughter with the young man, and no doctor or clergyman present.
but she didn’t say anything to them, only i caught her eye when i went in, and it was evident she’d something pleasant to say to me about it when the company was gone. but i didn’t care what she had to say, so long as i’d made two young hearts happy. and i know i did the very best thing possible in letting them meet like that.
the doctor told me all that happened when i saw him that evening; for, you may be sure, i was very anxious to know how matters had been arranged.
the young fellow had to leave at six o’clock, as he had to get to the theatre at eight; but after dinner he had a long private talk with the clergyman, who, it seems, had mrs. elmore’s instructions in the matter.
the young fellow agreed to give up his profession at once, for the young lady’s sake. of course it was a blow to him, as he was getting on very nicely; and i’ve heard that a man or a woman who has once had a success on the stage is always hankering after the footlights and applause, and it makes them very unhappy to be away from them.
however, mr. leighton gave up acting for miss elmore’s sake. he got the manager to release him from his engagement, and he began to look about for some appointment that would bring him in five hundred pounds a year; as, of course, he didn’t want to live on the young lady’s mother, or the young lady, who, it seems, had three hundred pounds a year in her own right.
the young lady got quite well and left our hotel, and six months afterwards i read of her marriage in the papers, and the next day a three-cornered box arrived by post, and when i opened it there was a lovely piece of wedding-cake for me, with mr. and mrs. frank leighton’s compliments.{195}
and some time afterwards i heard that, through the death of a relative, the young gentleman had come into a large fortune and a title—yes, a title!—and that dear miss elmore, that we thought would die in our house of a broken heart, lived to be a happy wife and mother, and to be called “my lady.”
i am pretty sure that mrs. elmore wouldn’t have given her daughter those “religious whackings,” as harry called them, if she had known that the play-actor the poor young lady was in love with was going to have a title. what i know of the world has taught me that.
when i read the news i said to mr wilkins, “well, mr. wilkins, what about play-actors being rogues and vagabonds now?—here is one that is a person of rank.”
“oh yes,” he said, “i dare say; but rank isn’t what it was in the good old times. i have been told there is a baronet working as a labourer in the docks, and his wife, who is ‘my lady,’ goes out charing.”
wilkins is certainly not so nice as he used to be. perhaps it is age that is souring him; but we have never been such good friends since that business about the “memoirs.” and he has the gout, too. i will be charitable, and put his nasty remarks down to his gout. i have heard it does make people very disagreeable. i once lived in a family where the master had the gout, and——
* * * * *
six people arrived by the train! oh, dear! and we have only four rooms—whatever shall we do? wait a minute; i’ll come and see. we mustn’t turn custom away if we can help it.
