Chapter XLIX

That building which in Frewenham was now devoted to the drama, bore, in general, but little resemblance to a theatre. It was a long narrow room enclosed by four isolated walls, and had been built by an enterprising master-mason as a speculation. It was the public room of Frewenham. Here balls took place; here lectures were delivered; here public meetings were held. It served all sorts of opposite purposes; and here--where only a few days before an enthusiastic missionary had collected plates-ful of money from the devout inhabitants of Frewenham in aid of a project for convincing the Kaffirs, by the power of moral reasoning, of the advantages of universal peace and brotherhood, and subsequently forming them into a great South African Tee-total Society--here such of the pleasure-loving portion of the townsfolk as could command the price of admission, were now assembled to witness Sheridan’s comedy.

One end of this room was divided from the rest, partly by a painted wooden partition, which stretched across the ceiling and down the sides, partly by a green baize curtain in the centre of it. In front of the curtain flared and smoked a row of footlights, diffusing an odour suggestive at once of train-oil and boiled mutton.

The stage being on the ground-floor, there was no pit, properly so called--a row of forms, at a few feet from the footlights, evidently represented the boxes, inasmuch as their occupants paid highest for their seats; but this was the only advantage they possessed over the pit and gallery behind them, except that the vapour of the footlights was there inhaled in greater freshness and perfection. The orchestra was raised on one side of the boxes, and consisted of a violoncello, a serpent, and two fiddles, all belonging to the county militia. The musicians were perfectly well known to the audience, which was a great comfort to those impatient persons in the gallery, who had stormed the door and rushed in about an hour and a half before the play commenced, for they were enabled to relieve their otherwise painful suspense by calling to them by name for favourite airs, and making them the subjects of many playful allusions. “Rub your elbow with the rosin, Jim,” shouted a wag to the leader of the band, who was preparing his violin-bow with that substance; “there was too much rheumatism in that last tune.” “Your serpent’s got a hoaze, Biffin,” cried another, to the performer on that wind instrument: “put him in ’ot flannel when you go home, and don’t bring him out no more o’ nights.” “Cherry ripe!” shouted a chorus of voices. “Music, play up!” “Polly, put the kettle on!” demanded an opposition chorus--and faction ran so high between the adverse connoisseurs, that, when the music struck up, nobody knew what they were playing--while the gallery, with its darkness visible, and the confusion that reigned in its obscurest nooks, where the choice spirits had collected, presented the aspect of an amiable pandemonium, till the rising of the curtain produced an instantaneous calm.

Fane had entered early, and stood leaning against the wall watching the entry of the spectators, who gradually filled the house. The green baize on the seats in the boxes became invisible foot by foot, as careful fathers and matrons selected good points of view for themselves and offspring--as a young ladies’ school entered in a body, and with demureness, relieved by private titters under each other’s bonnets, ranged themselves in order--as gay bachelors, who had been chatting with female acquaintances at a distance, rushed to secure their places. Cheerfulness and expectation prevailed; but the person among all the audience, whose feelings Fane envied most, was a sharp-looking little boy, in a red frock with black specks on it, and a magnificent feathered hat, who came in with his papa and brothers, and, being placed on his feet in the front row, gazed round him with intense delight. Fane remembered that the last time he had been in such a place he was about that age and size, and he knew that the scene was, to that little boy, the most charming spot on earth; that he had dreamt of it for two or three previous nights, at least--that the smell of the footlights was a sweet savour in his nostrils, the noise in the gallery solemn music in his ears--the whole place paradise--and that he would watch the progress of the drama with breathless interest, and most uncriticising faith. There was an elder brother of his, too, who appeared, probably for the first time in his life, in Wellington boots and a shirt-collar, to his great pride and discomfort; and Fane guessed with considerable correctness that this youth would conceive an ardent and respectful passion for the lady who did Lydia Languish.

Presently, as the place began to fill, a stout gentleman stood up and blew his nose like a trumpet, and, after replacing his handkerchief with much ceremony in his pocket, gazed round him with great sternness and dignity. He was evidently a man of the first importance in a civic point of view--his bunch of seals was massive, his hair was brushed ferociously up from his forehead, and his shirt-collars appeared to be cutting his ears off. As the noise in the gallery increased, he lifted up his hand majestically, as if to calm the tumult; still it went on--he shook his head as if at so many noisy children, when a voice was heard to shout amid the din, “Hark to old Bribery and Corruption!” which was the nickname the stout gentleman was known by among his fellow-townsmen, in consequence of some valuable electioneering qualities--whereupon he turned away redder than ever, and stooping down, pretended to whisper to another stout gentleman, who shook his head, frowned fiercely, and said the rascals had been getting more impudent every day since the passing of the Reform Bill.

Fane saw Kitty Fillett steal in, accompanied by her young brother, and silently seat herself in the pit--a sort of purgatory, or middle state between the inferno of the gallery, and the paradise of the boxes. She seemed anxious to avoid notice, but in this she was disappointed, for she was presently recognised by some vigilant censors in the gallery. “Won’t Miss Fillett ask a blessing?” cried one. “No backsliders,” shouted another. “Give her the Old Hundredth,” said a third, addressing the orchestra--whereat Miss Fillett, wrapping her shawl nervously about her, looked around, sniffing in high scorn and defiance.

Presently a little bell rang, and the curtain drew up.

Fane recognised the dragoon directly Captain Absolute entered, and saw in a moment that the high encomium passed by Mr Payne on Langley’s powers as an actor was no more than just. He infused great spirit into the part, and made the points tell admirably. He was dressed in perfect taste, and looked so handsome and high-bred, that the entire young ladies’ school fell in love with him, and two teachers began to pine away from that very night; while Lydia Languish, a showy-looking girl, acted the love scenes with a degree of warmth that showed she must either be a mistress of that kind of acting, or else not acting at all. Sir Anthony, too, was remarkably well acted by an old man, the manager of the company, who called himself Mr Cavendish. The costumes were correct, and in excellent taste; and some of the scenes were admirably painted in a style that Fane at once ascribed to Langley’s pencil.

The curtain fell at the end of the last act amid great approbation. Shortly afterwards, old Mr Cavendish made his appearance before the curtain, to announce that the Infant Roscius was about to appear as Young Norval, and to request that, however much the audience might approve his performance, they would refrain from loud applause, as that would probably put such an inexperienced performer out in his part.

Again the bell rang, and the curtain ascended creaking. After a pause Young Norval entered, clad in full Highland costume. He seemed about four or five years old, and came in with a sort of mock manliness in his gait, which at once insured him the sympathies of the female portion of the audience. In fact, Fane heard one young lady near pronounce him a “darling” before he opened his mouth, while another expressed a desire to kiss him.

The juvenile tragedian having informed the audience, in a bold lisp, that his name was Norval, and having mentioned the “G_w_ampian hills” as the place of his paternal abode, was proceeding to describe his connection with the warlike lord, when a voice in the pit was heard to exclaim, “Master Juley! O goodness gracious, Master Juley!”

Young Norval paused with an amazed air--fumbled with his dirk--looked about him for a moment, and, forgetting his heroic character, began to cry. Again the voice in the pit was heard. “Master Juley,” it cried, “come to Kitty!” when the drop-scene suddenly descended, with great swiftness, and hid him from view.

A great commotion now took place in the house, especially the pit, where the fainting form of Kitty Fillett was seen passed from hand to hand on its way to the open air. Fane, on hearing her exclamation, had quitted the house, and ran round to the stage-door, which he entered. The first person he encountered was Captain Absolute, who was standing with his back towards him, but who turned instantly as Fane called out “Langley.”

“You know who I am then?” he said, advancing. “I saw you among the audience.”

“I’ve been following you these six weeks,” said Fane, shaking his hand. “First let me see the child, and I’ll speak to you afterwards.” At that moment the old manager passed, making for the stage-door, with Julius kicking and struggling in his arms. Fane, laying one hand on the shoulder of the old gentleman, lifted the boy from him with the other. Julius recognised Fane at once, and, calling him by name, ceased crying.

Mr Holmes (for the manager was no other than that venerable person) surrendered the boy at once. “Allow me to speak to you one moment, sir,” he said, drawing Fane aside by the arm. “Doubtless you intend to restore him to his friends,” said Mr Holmes, in a calm business-like tone.

“Instantly,” said Fane. “But how came he with you, when he is believed dead by his friends? You will have to account for this.”

Mr Holmes looked round, to see that no one was within earshot, and, motioning to Fane to stoop, he whispered in his ear.

“Good God!” said Fane, as Mr Holmes ceased. “I can’t believe it. And yet, why not? But this may be a slander of yours, to screen yourself, and gain time to escape.”

“Me!” said Mr Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, and spreading out his palms. “I shall make no attempt to escape. My account of the matter is plain, so far as I am concerned. I was requested to take charge of the young gentleman, and accepted it. Then naturally comes the question. By whom were you requested? And whether a public answer will be satisfactory to the young gentleman’s family and friends, you may judge for yourself.”

“The old scoundrel is right,” muttered Fane. “It cannot be kept too quiet.” Then he said aloud, “This will be matter for his friends to decide on; in the mean time, I shall take him to his mother.”

“One word more,” said Mr Holmes. “I have reason to believe it was intended to restore the young gentleman to his family very shortly. It was with that view, I imagine, that I received directions to proceed to this place; though I didn’t know they were in this neighbourhood.”

Fane, still holding Julius in his arms, now went towards the door. As he passed Langley, he stopped and drew out his watch. “It is now ten,” said he. “Can you, in an hour from this, meet me, Langley, at the hotel in Fore Street?” Langley assented, and Fane left the theatre.

Miss Fillett having been conveyed by charitable hands into the open air, had been forthwith surrounded by a circle of her own sex, who fanned her face, stuffed hartshorn and smelling salts up her nose, beat her hands, and adopted other established remedies for her restoration. These had so far recovered her that, on seeing Fane emerge with Julius, she broke from the sympathetic females around her, and, snatching the young baronet, cast herself on her knees on the pavement, and squeezed him in her arms, murmuring hysterically, and shedding tears over him.

“Where is the hold villain?” said Kitty presently, looking round in search of Mr Holmes. “It misgive me, the moment I see him, that I knew his ugly old face. Let me kim to him. I’ll tear his eyes out.”

A word in her ear from Fane, however, induced her to defer her vengeance for the present; and he prevailed on her to come with Julius, whom she would not let out of her clutch for an instant, to the hotel, where a conveyance might be got to convey them to Larches; and thither they accordingly repaired, attended by a considerable crowd, who had been solacing themselves by listening outside the theatre to catch stray sounds and music, and obtaining hasty glimpses of a green baize screen whenever the door was opened.

A quarter of an hour saw them speeding along in a dog-cart, Fane driving, and Fillett holding the recovered little baronet in her lap. He slept there soundly. “Dear soul!” said Fillett, looking down at him, and covering him with her shawl, “he used to be always a-bed by eight o’clock. We shan’t get speech of him to-night.”

They stopt at a little distance from the cottage, and a stable-boy who sat behind took the reins to hold the horse till the return of Fane, who now proceeded with Fillett and her charge to the house.

There was a light in the drawing-room, and Fane, going softly up, and standing on a flower-bed underneath, peeped in. He was very glad to see Orelia seated there reading, alone, and, returning to Fillett, he took Julius from her, and sent her in to prepare Miss Payne for the strange news of his recovery.

Fillett went, and Fane heard the murmur of their voices for a minute or two--when Orelia’s grew louder--the drawing-room door opened, and forth she came in such tempestuous fashion, that it was fortunate she ran against nobody in the passage. Seeing Julius asleep in Fane’s arms as he stood in the porch, and recognising the boy instantly in spite of his Highland costume, she snatched him eagerly, and covered him with kisses. “I wonder what Langley would give for one or two of those,” said Fane to himself, as he followed her to the drawing-room.

In answer to her breathless inquiries, he told how he had found Julius, and the reasons which appeared to exist for keeping his abduction as secret as possible. Then they consulted together as to the best mode of breaking the news to Lady Lee. “I’ll go and tell her immediate,” said the excited Fillett. “I ain’t afraid to face my lady now.”

“Stay, my good girl,” said Fane; “we mustn’t be rash. Miss Payne, you could prepare her better than any one.”

Orelia went away, and, after a short absence, returned to the drawing-room.

“Hester is asleep,” said she; “I was afraid to wake her.”

“Right,” said Fane. “But what do you think, Miss Payne, of placing Julius, who doesn’t seem likely to wake till morning, by his mother’s side?”

“Ho!” said Kitty, “the very thing!--and when my lady wakes, she’ll think ’tis a dream.”

“Do you know,” said Orelia, “that strikes me as a happy thought of yours. I’m resolved it shall be done--yes--it shall.” So saying, she took up the slumbering Julius, and desiring Fillett to accompany her, conveyed him to her own room; while Fane quitted the house to rejoin Langley, saying he would return for news in the morning.

Arrived in her chamber, Orelia desired Kitty to undress Julius, an office she was well accustomed to, and gladly undertook. He fretted a little, in a sleepy way, at being disturbed, and thrust his knuckles into his eyes; but the moment the disrobing was accomplished he relapsed into sound slumbers, with a long-drawn sigh. “Bless you,” said Kitty, “he’d sleep now if you put him standing on his head on the floor, the dear!”

Orelia, on her first visit to Hester’s room, had left a light there. Very softly she now re-entered, bearing her young friend, with his head against her bosom, his bare legs dangling perpendicularly from the bend of her arm, and, stealing to the side of the bed, stood looking at its occupant, while Kitty, with elaborate caution, crept after. The youthfulness of Hester’s look, as she lay with her face turned up till her chin approached her upraised shoulder, struck Orelia--she beheld the Hester of five years before. She stood a moment gazing at her, figuring to herself the astonishment that would appear in those eyes when their lids were next raised; then she motioned to Fillett, who turned down the bed-clothes far enough to admit Julius, and Orelia, stooping silently down, deposited him with his head on the pillow near Lady Lee’s. It seemed a matter of indifference to him what they did with him; he merely rubbed his nose with his hand, as if something tickled it, made a noise with his lips as if tasting something, and slept on. Lady Lee, too, slept quietly; and Orelia, after having once or twice turned to look at them, withdrew with Kitty. She closed the door softly, then, listening, thought she heard a noise--re-opened it--it was only Lady Lee turning in her sleep; she now lay with her face turned to the boy’s, and her arm across his neck--and Orelia retired to her own room.

Fane found Langley waiting at the hotel door, and, taking his arm, drew him into a private room. As he had dined early, and imagined his cousin had probably done so too, he ordered supper forthwith. “We should be hungry enough before we had half done talking,” said Fane. “First, while supper is getting ready, I’ll have my say.”

Accordingly he told his cousin how he had got a clue to their relationship by means of the seal ring at the silversmith’s--of his late visit to their uncle--of his uncle’s smothered affection for Langley--of the visit with Miss Betsey to his old apartments--of his conversation with Mr Payne; which last, however, he recapitulated only so far as it related to the manner in which Langley had first provoked his uncle, saying nothing at present about the forgery, which he wished to hear Langley’s own version of.

His cousin listened eagerly--seemed surprised at the share his ring had borne in detecting him--smiled at Fane’s mention of Miss Betsey, and interrupted him to characterise her as a “jolly old woman.” But the account of the rooms, still preserved in the state he had left them in, and of his uncle’s nocturnal visits to them, excited deeper emotion. He rose from his chair, walked about the room, and, when he resumed his seat, brushed off some moisture from his eyelashes.

“I believe in my soul,” said Langley, “that he once loved me better than anything on earth. But his last letter to me was so harsh, so severe in tone, that I imagined I should not have obtained forgiveness, even had I sought it. To seek it, however, was far from my thoughts; my uncle’s condemnation of my conduct was mild compared with my own, and I had resolved, before his letter came, never to look on his face again till I could do so without shame.”

“You must have played the very deuce,” observed Fane, “to call forth these feelings in him and yourself. ’Twas play, I suppose, that did it.”

“Yes,” said Langley, “that finished me; but I had no turn for saving, and I had, besides, dropt a good deal on a favourite for the Leger. All my uncle’s allowance went. I asked for more--’twas sent with some caustic remarks; next time, the remarks were angry, instead of caustic--then bitter. At last, while playing to win back, I lost all I had. I sold everything, and was still a hundred pounds short. This sum I wrote to my uncle for, assuring him ’twas the last time I should ever trouble him. He evidently didn’t believe me, for, with the check for a hundred, came the letter I already told you of, the harshest he had ever written.”

“Well?” said Fane impatiently, seeing him pause.

“I paid my gaming debts, in some of which I suspected foul play, though it would have been difficult to prove that. All paid, I found myself with about fifteen shillings, and a suit of clothes, as my sole possessions, to make a fresh start in the world with. I left London, making my way on foot towards a seaport; and, while making a meal of bread and cheese, to be paid for with my last remaining coin, a recruiting sergeant spoke to me, and I enlisted directly. You know my career afterwards, till I left the Heronry Lodge.”

“But the last check from my uncle,” said Fane, “I want to hear about that. To whom did you pay it?”

“To the man I had lost most to, and who had the greatest share in my ruin,” said Langley. “He came to my lodgings on the day I received it. I threw it across the table to him, telling him, calmly enough outwardly, that I was done for, and that he would never hear of me more, for that my intention was to quit the country that very day.”

“And you saw nothing more of him?” said Fane.

“Never till we met on the day of the review in the Heronry grounds,” returned Levitt, “when he seemed confused enough at the meeting, as well he might, for, as I say, Seager had more to do with my ruin than anybody.”

“Seager!” exclaimed Fane. “I always thought him a horrible rascal. ’Twas to him, then, you transferred your check?”

“Yes,” said Langley; “and, at the same time, I showed him the letter that accompanied it, that he might see the kind of misery such proceedings as his lead to. He read it--threw it back to me. ‘All up there,’ said he; ‘the old boy’s done with you--what do you mean to do?’ I told him I should quit the country that very day. He approved of this design, and offered to pay my passage to any foreign port I chose. This I declined; and, meeting the recruiting party, I abandoned my first intention, and enlisted.”

Fane stood up, leaning his arm against the chimneypiece, his head upon his hand, deep in thought. “Certainly,” he said to himself, “Langley is innocent of the forgery--and I think I see who is guilty--now, to prove it is the point.”

“Was there any one present when you gave the check to Seager?” he asked.

Levitt paused for a minute to think. “I’m not sure,” he replied, “’twas so long ago; but I rather think Mounteney was present.”

“And knew the amount of the check?” asked Fane.

“Probably,” returned Levitt--“indeed, I should say, certainly, if he was present, as I rather fancy he was. But why do you ask?”

Fane, however, waived this question; it could answer no purpose, at present, to show Langley the suspicion he lay under. Supper appearing at the moment enabled him to change the subject.

“Your health, Durham,” said Langley; “long may you enjoy my uncle’s favour, which you deserve better than I did. By Jupiter!” he added, setting down his glass, “I had almost forgotten the flavour of champagne. It is long since I tasted it, and ’twill, probably, be yet longer before I taste it again.”

“You have told me nothing of your plans for the future,” said Durham.

“They are hardly definite enough to talk about; but I’m not used to despond. My one clear purpose is to leave England. Since I left the service, I have found how difficult it is to make, unassisted, the first step in the ascent of life. Now, I consider myself rather a sharp fellow, Durham, as fellows go. I am willing to turn my hand to any earthly thing it is capable of, in an honest way; and a man who, though naturally impatient, yet performs three years’ service in the lower ranks of the army with credit, has some title to trust his own temper and perseverance. Yet I’ve been for these--let me see, how many weeks is it since I sold my last sketch?--three, I think--hovering on the confines of absolute penury.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Fane. “My dear fellow!”

“Fact,” said Levitt, with a laugh. “So I resolved to try what virtue there was in a stout arm and a gay heart, in a country like Canada or Australia. But the passage-money--there was the rub. I’ve been trying to raise it, as I came along, by selling sketches to booksellers, but that hardly kept me in bread and cheese. Arriving here, however, I found a theatrical company in want of a scene-painter. I offered myself, was approved of, and tolerably well paid; and four or five mornings ago, when their walking gentleman was sick, I volunteered to supply his place. Old Cavendish the manager gave me a benefit to-night, which has put a few pounds in my pocket, and the day after to-morrow I start for the New World.”

“There is only one little point left unaccounted for in your narrative,” said Fane, smiling. “Frewenham is not exactly in the road to any point of embarkation for Canada, or Australia either; and you have not explained what brought you here.”

He fixed his eyes on Levitt, who, spite of his efforts to look indifferent, coloured deeply.

“I’m a confounded fool, Durham--I believe that’s undeniable,” he said. “And yet, I’m not ashamed to say that I came so far out of my way to take a last look at a woman. Such a woman, Durham--ah, you must be, as I’ve been, beneath the very heel of fortune, and habituated to the sense of appearing to others in a false light, to know the true value of a charming woman’s sympathy. If I had met her anywhere, or at any period of my life, I should have preferred her to all the world--but circumstances have made me positively adore her. I would not present myself again before her for the world--that could answer no good purpose--but I could not deny myself one last glimpse of Orelia.”

“Though I smile,” said Fane, “don’t think, my dear fellow, ’tis at your devotion. On the contrary, I honour you for it. I was merely paying tribute to my own penetration at having guessed what brought you here.”

Hereupon there ensued a conversation on the subject of love, its exacting and engrossing nature, its dreams, its power to excite, its anxieties, and the astonishing absurdities which even sensible people commit, without any shame or compunction, under its influence. And as this was a subject more interesting to the two interlocutors than to whole-hearted, devil-may-care people like you and me, reader, who are not yet, heaven be praised, utterly hoodwinked, and have no occasion to pluck cherry lips and neatly-turned ankles out of our eyes in order to see clearly--and as, moreover, it has been touched upon by one or two previous writers, we will merely mention in this place that the two cousins seemed wonderfully unanimous in their opinions and feelings, and separated for the night with a very strong regard for each other.