Scene III.--MUSICAL COMEDY

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven.--_Pope_.

When Flora awoke she discovered a pink envelope addressed in Maude’s careless caligraphy, lying beside her morning cup of tea. She hurried over her toilet, made her way into the garden; and seating herself luxuriously in an easy chair beneath an arch of honeysuckle, read and laughed over the selfish sentences inscribed upon two sheets of perfumed paper.

The little lady was very miserable. London was dusty and desolate. She had read the new books, seen the new pictures, and heard the new plays; she had done everything and enjoyed nothing, because she was losing all her prettiness. Lately no one had admired her, at least no one had told her so, and it was because she was growing old. She felt perfectly convinced she would never attract anybody again. What would happen to her if she became a widow she dared not contemplate. As for Herbert, he was always in the city, which was of course the proper place for him, but he was bad-tempered when he did come home, and always declaring money was dreadfully scarce, which she didn’t believe, but he had always been fearfully stingy. And he declared he would not take her into the country, so she had made up her mind to go away by herself, before her health was completely wrecked. And if Flora was staying for any time at Kingsmore, would she look out for a furnished cottage, upon rather high ground, but not in an exposed spot, well away from standing water, with a nice garden, which could be guaranteed free from toads and owls, with plenty of lavender bushes, and green blinds to all the windows, but not Venetians, which always broke directly they were touched…

Then a bell jangled in the house, and Flora rose at once, because she desired to find her uncle in a good humour; and she knew nothing upset the old gentleman more than being kept waiting for his breakfast.

Because it had been the custom of his ancestors, and Mr. Price was an ardent conservative, a service was held for the labourers early every morning in one of the barns. The squire had not only accomplished this duty, but had ridden round the farm and signed the death-warrant of several pigs, before entering the dining-room where his niece immediately joined him. The old gentleman kissed the girl on both cheeks, according to custom, and plunged into discursive talk which had nothing to do with the guest of the previous night, or the empty decanters upon the sideboard; while Flora, so soon as she was allowed the opportunity, told him of Mrs. Juxon’s requirements, and read such extracts from the letter as were fit for publication.

“Bless my soul,” exclaimed the squire, as he dropped a drumstick of cold chicken noisily into his plate. “What more will the woman ask for? Why does she not say at once that she intends to have the entire scheme of nature altered to suit her convenience, and engage angels for landscape gardeners. Lavender bushes and green blinds! I hope she may get them.”

After sundry remarks on Flora’s part Mr. Price stumbled into his niece’s snare, and suggested that she should take the light cart and drive round the neighbourhood, with a view to finding a cottage sufficiently idyllic to suit the spoilt beauty. When this matter had been settled, Flora placed her elbows on the table, rested her chin upon her hands, and introduced a fresh topic with the statement, “I have been thinking, uncle.”

“Have you, my dear?” the squire replied, adding with a chuckle, “You look none the worse for it.”

“I think mother would be willing to let our house this year,” Flora went on. “We have heaps of applications, on account of the river. And then she could come here, and keep house for you all the summer.”

“Before agreeing, I shall require an undertaking that my liberty is not to be interfered with,” answered the squire, who was in very good spirits that morning, despite the excesses of the previous night. As a matter of fact Flora’s suggestion was entirely after his heart, and had been made by himself without success in former years. “You know, child, I will never consent to have my study tidied,” he went on, “and the privilege of the latchkey I must retain. Your dear mother has a weakness for what she calls order, therefore, before admitting her into this house, I shall require a signed agreement granting me full licence to continue in my untidy ways.”

“Oh, you shall have all your old privileges,” said Flora. “I will write to mother at once, and then go cottage-hunting for Maude. Remember,” she added carelessly, as she rose to go, “we are due at Thorlund this afternoon.”

Flora had her way. At half-past-four the Kingsmore carriage entered the valley of Thorlund, bringing the vicar and his niece to visit the Strath. The old gentleman wore his best coat, which had left the tailor’s hands not more than five years back. He had also put on a fresh white tie, which was already showing finger-marks, and had brought out his dusty silk hat, the wearing of which when visiting a neighbouring squire being a point of etiquette upon which he was particular. During the journey across the four miles of chalk hills he talked sheep and turnips, and was continually putting his head out of the window, to examine the state of the road, or to shout a simple joke for the appreciation of some passing son of toil.

As the coachman was unwilling to venture with the carriage through the high grass, which completely obliterated what had been the drive, the visitors alighted at the iron gates, and made their way along a faintly defined path to the house. The front door stood open, but there was no sign of any occupant, and their attempts to ring were frustrated by the corroded bell-knob, which remained immovable. Mr. Price shouted and stamped, and, when no one put in an appearance, stepped into the hall. He was the first squire of Kingsmore to enter the Strath since the beginning of the period styled by historians modern England. At the opposite side of the hall a huge fireplace yawned blackly, its iron dogs red with rust. Some old tables, stiff-back chairs, and sofas of tapestry, with a couple of tarnished sconces holding blackened candles, and a curious clock its dial made of white flowered glass, were the principal articles of furniture. The hall was paved with stone. Above, a rectangular wooden balustrade, sadly in need of repair, went round the building, and a few sombre pictures could be seen against the damp stained walls of the first floor. The frames were as black as dead walnut-leaves.

“It will cost the young man a great deal to restore the place,” Mr. Price whispered.

“But where is he?” returned Flora. “I wonder if he is in here.”

She led the way boldly into the drawing-room or saloon, the walls of which were hung with tattered crimson velvet. This room had been cleaned by the late owner with a good deal of care, until traces of what must formerly have been a richly gilded cornice had become here and there apparent. The extinct Hoopers had furnished their home well. There were tables and chairs made of mahogany, a new and expensive wood in the eighteenth century. Cabinets filled with old china occupied the corners, and grotesque footstools with sprawling legs of acanthus pattern were placed before each chair. Mirrors were greatly in evidence, all handsomely framed, the majority bearing sconces which still contained black sticks of wax. Upon a walnut sideboard a massive candelabrum threw out seven silver arms. Above the fireplace were arranged several bizarre ornaments of Indian make, intermingled with porcelain vases painted with gross designs after Giulio Romano. The pictures, which had evidently been lately rehung after having fallen from their original positions, were numerous, but of little artistic worth. The subjects were generally unpleasant, or suggestive; such as Actaeon watching Diana, the loves of Jupiter and Leda, of Venus and Adonis, of Aaron and Tamora, with coloured copies of Hogarth’s Marriage _à la mode_. Upon a Louis Quinze table a fan was sprawling, the scenes of The Harlot’s Progress painted upon its mounts, and beside it a box containing patches. The escutcheon of the Hoopers, set into the central window, cast a bar of colour across the rotten carpet. The squire gazed upon his surroundings without any sense of amazement, but with a distinct fascination, until he discovered himself putting up a hand to adjust the periwig which was not there. Both uncle and niece had altogether forgotten their absent host.

“It seems to be getting rather dark,” the girl said tremulously.

“The sun has gone behind the trees, and the creepers are thick against the window,” replied the squire with extraordinary light-heartedness. “Look here, Flora! A French horn, such as is used upon our coaches. And here a bent sword, twisted I doubt not by our host when in town while defending himself against the Mohawks, and here one of the furred caps which we old men wear while our wigs are with the barber. And now let me hear you draw some music out of this beautiful harpsichord.”

The girl laughed, waking echoes in that strange place, and saying lightly, “I will endeavour, my respected relative, to give you the gratification which you desire,” drew up a chair, and sat down before the impossible instrument.

“By God! what a place for a dance,” cried the reverend squire, cutting a fantastic caper, then bounding after his hat as it rolled across the room. “Look at these boards, where they show through the carpet. All of oak, a foot and more in width, somewhat worm-eaten, but none the worse for that.” Holding out his coattails, the old gentleman bowed gravely to his niece, and commenced to dance round her.

There came a sound of heels clicking upon the stones of the hall, followed by a rich voice:

“Bravo! bravissimo! That step was worthy of a dancing-master. If I had but a fiddle I would play you a measure which should set you skipping.”

A handsome man strolled into the saloon, an open snuff-box between his finger and thumb, attired in laced coat and embroidered waistcoat, silk knee-breeches and stockings, silver-buckled highlows, and a big white wig. A quantity of lace surrounded his throat, and his smiling face was highly powdered and his chin patched.

“Why, Sir John! my dear Sir John!” exclaimed Mr. Price, ceasing from his gambols, and bowing to the new-comer with his toes turned out in most approved style. “This is a very extraordinary and unexpected pleasure, I do assure you, good Sir John.”

“Nay, but you are mistaken,” came the answer, as the speaker bowed low to the lady at the harpsichord. “The humble personage before you is merely the poor parson of Thorlund parish.”

At that the squire of Kingsmore went very red and awkward; and finally blurted out the remarkable statement:

“I am totally at a loss to explain why we are here in these preposterous garments. Flora, my dear, what could your tiring-woman have been thinking of, to send you out with not an atom of powder to your head, nor a patch to your face. And I believe we are expected to drink a dish of tea. Where is our host that I may apologize in a suitable manner?”

“He has been for some hours in a state of drowsiness,” Dr. Berry explained, with a careless wave of the snuff-box. “I am unable to understand what has come over him. He is dressed ready to receive you, but I cannot keep him awake. I will, however, inform him that you have arrived. As for your clothes that is a matter which can be easily attended to. There are, in the rooms upstairs, presses filled with apparel for both sexes, secure against dust and moth.”

“Pray show me the way,” said the squire with old-fashioned urbanity. “My charming niece, shall we accompany the learned doctor and make ourselves presentable?”

The strange characters passed out, making for the stairway and the unexplored regions above. For them the clock of time had been set back, or rather the hands were continuing to move at the point where their progress had been arrested more than a century back. The drama had been suddenly broken into during the eighteenth century; and now that figures had come again upon the scene the drama went on, as though there had been no interval, and those who were present had to take their cue, and assume the parts of those men and women, Hoopers or Branscombes, long since driven off that stage.

After a short interval of silence a sound of singing filled the long saloon. The vocalist was Dr. Berry, who was drawing an accompaniment of broken music from the harpsichord, while Conway lolled sleepily upon a sofa, costumed as a _beau_ of a past age. To them entered a lady and an old man, the latter exceedingly quaint and undignified, the former tall and handsome; both attired after the best manner of the time in which they dimly believed they were drawing breath and inspiration.

“It is certainly growing very dark,” said the squire of Kingsmore, as he advanced with mincing step into the saloon. “And it is still early in the evening.”

“The clouds are coming up thickly,” replied the musician. “The windows are also obscured by ivy, and trees surround this peaceful retreat upon every side. Our host continues to be drowsy,” he went on, pointing to the sofa and its silk-clad occupant; and having spoken he crossed over, shook the sleeper gently by the shoulder, and called, “Wake, my friend, here are your guests.”

Conway opened his eyes. His face was perfectly pallid, but there were lines of laughter drawn about his mouth which gave him a curious resemblance to the mask of comedy, hanging in the room across the hall. He rose slowly, and with perfect breeding, altogether unlike his usual manner, bowed silently to his guests. Then he seated himself again, and became aesthetically engrossed upon a painted vase.

Flora came forward, and asked, “Are you tired, Mr. Conway?”

“I have still a sleepy humour upon me,” the owner of the Strath replied, passing as he spoke a hand across his forehead.

Dr. Berry was posing before one of the mirrors.

“Shall we play?” Conway suggested, stretching out his arms and smiling vacantly.

“By all means let us play,” assented the old squire, admitting into his nostrils a pinch of dust which had no doubt been choice _rappee_ a hundred years before.

A small sane voice whispered to these mummers that they were playing at folly, just as the drunkard may be conscious that he is making a deplorable exhibition of human frailty, although the knowledge in no way aids him to act like a sober being. They set out a table, old-fashioned cards and markers were produced; and they commenced to play. The silence of the house was only disturbed by a faint moaning of wind in the chimneys.

“Gott in Himmel! as our gracious king would say. I am scarce able to read my cards,” cried Mr. Price, after they had played the first hand.

“It is growing damnably dark,” muttered Conway, not ashamed to swear before the lady because such was the custom of the time. “Set a light to the candles, doctor. There is a tinder-box upon the mantel. The king,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Price, the sane intellect struggling to assert itself. “Who is our king?”

There was a perplexed interval, occupied by a mental conflict between enlightenment and possession, before Mr. Price replied somewhat testily, “Why, George the Second. Though ’tis said he has not long to live. God save our Augustus!”

“Truly the spirit of comedy prevails this evening,” observed the sober voice of the doctor, who was lighting the ancient candles with a modern wax vesta.

“Ha!” exclaimed the old squire, picking at the yellow ruffles upon his wrist. “What is that, doctor? Comedy! Why, to be sure, let us laugh and sing. Where are the servants? Let us have a bowl of punch and a few long pipes.”

He stumbled in his big shoes towards the bell-rope, tugged it, and the cord came away in his hand.

“I have no servants,” said Conway meditatively. “But there is wine in the house. I will bring you some.”

He left the saloon, and they could hear him laughing across the hall. Dr. Berry went on lighting the old candles in the sconces, in the ormolu chandelier, and the candelabrum, until the saloon began to glitter. He closed the decayed shutters and drew the torn folds of the crimson curtains, singing a ballad as he worked. The light revealed a painted ceiling, in the centre of which appeared a nymph entwining the stem of an apple-tree with garlands of flowers.

“A forest of lights!” cried Mr. Price, standing before the chimney-glass and lifting his hands in rapture. “The view of this handsome apartment regarded thus is indeed exquisite. The lights dazzle and shine from one mirror to another in an endless vista. Ha! here comes our wine. What elegant glasses, my dear Sir! What a superb piece of workmanship is this salver!”

They drank, to the health of their dying king, to George William Frederick, Prince of Wales, to a lord admiral, and a great duke, all of whom had left the body many generations back. They drank confusion to the French and prosperity to their country. Then the scholar took Flora by the hand, and leading her out into the centre of the saloon danced with her a minuet.

The prosaic figure of a coachman appeared startlingly at the entrance. Having failed to make himself heard, and finding the front door open, he had taken the liberty to enter, and now stood struggling with amazement and some little fear, and yet without finding anything of an incongruous nature in the scene before him.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, addressing the capering little gentleman whom he recognised as his master. “Do you want the horses to stand, sir, or shall I put them up at the Inn?”

Another wave of sanity passed across Mr. Price’s brain. He understood that it was his duty to leave that present company and go into an altogether mysterious world. With many apologies, and much snuff-taking, he approached the master of the house to take his leave.

“I shall see you at Almack’s or White’s, when we are next in town,” he said after a final warm good-night, glibly repeating the words that were forced upon his tongue, although feeling them to be absurd.

There was still daylight upon the village. A couple of labourers, their day’s work done, had proceeded towards the iron gates, attracted by the Kingsmore carriage, and had been summoned by the coachman to hold the horses while he went in search of his master. These men stood craning their necks towards the garden, until they saw in the twilight two figures approaching; an old gentleman in a monstrous periwig, handsomely embroidered sack coat, flowing waistcoat, and gleaming silk stockings, assisting the progress of a young and beautiful lady, with protruding panier and powdered head, a fan swinging from her wrist, and a soiled Pamela hat upon her whitened hair.

ENTR’ACTE

An avowal of poverty is a disgrace to no man; but to make no effort to escape from it is certainly disgraceful.--_Thucydides_.

A fortnight had passed since Conway’s departure from his rooms in town, and still the profligate gave no sign of his existence. Every morning, when the postman’s knock sounded along the street, a weary man crept down a dirty flight of stairs from his attic, praying for a letter which might cheer his heart, but finding none. After a meagre breakfast he would venture out to another house, to inquire if there was anything for Mr. Drayton. The answer was always in the negative.

The hack-writer had been compelled to abandon Conway’s rooms, not so much because the place was being subjected to a thorough cleansing, as owing to the fact that the rent was overdue, and the attentions of the agent had become pressing. Drayton had written several letters to his patron, acquainting him with this fact. As these letters were not returned, he concluded they had been received, and yet nothing came from the distant country to prove that Conway was alive. This continued silence was becoming a serious matter for Drayton, who at that time was in a desperate state of poverty. Younger men were jostling him out of the ranks of an overcrowded profession, his one suit of clothes was more than threadbare, and his health had begun to fail for want of sufficient food. He knew that Conway hated country life, and would never separate himself from the pleasures of town unless compelled to do so. Concluding that the missing man was ill, or had met with an accident, Drayton resolved to go down into the country and find his way to the Strath.

This determination came on a morning when he found himself absolutely penniless.

Leaving the wretched lodging-house, he passed into the street where the sun was showering golden favours upon rich and poor alike, let himself into Conway’s rooms by means of the key which had been left with him, and searching in a cupboard found to his delight a tin of biscuits and some apples. Having breakfasted, he passed into the bedroom and exploited his patron’s wardrobe, remarking as a justification for the act he contemplated, “Conway has always been good-natured, and I don’t think he will mind. Anyhow I will play boldly and take the risk.”

The impecunious writer believed in being thorough in his methods. Having come to a decision, he discarded his own seedy garments in favour of one of Conway’s numerous suits, borrowed a pair of boots, which were not, like his, gaping at the seams, and a change of linen; and presently returned to the sitting-room better dressed than he had ever been in his life. There was a jar of whisky in the cupboard. Drayton helped himself moderately, then sat down to think. As he contemplated a railway journey it was obviously necessary to be provided with cash; and to that end it would be equally necessary to pawn something.

He looked round the room to select a victim. Pictures were too bulky; an inquisitive policeman might meet him at the door and put inconvenient questions. There were, however, numerous small money-bringers, such as a marble clock, a pair of field-glasses, a handsome tantalus, a silver cup, any of which he might very easily hypothecate. He selected the clock, and approaching the chimney-piece had put up his hands to remove it, when the two masks above caught his eye. Straightway his arms dropped at his sides, and his mind became possessed by a new and quaint idea.

Five minutes later he was hurrying down the street towards a familiar pawn-shop, with the pair of grotesque faces wrapped in brown paper beneath his arm. He felt unusually excited, and somewhat conscience-stricken at purloining the heirlooms.

At first sight it seemed as though he was to be sharply disillusioned, for the pawnbroker, who knew Drayton well enough, pushed the parcel back indignantly.

“Having a lark, ain’t you?” he satirically demanded, noting the writer’s unusually well-dressed appearance, and jumping at the conclusion that he had made some money and had spent an undue portion of it in liquor. “There’s a toy-shop round the corner,” he went on, endeavouring to repay insult by insult. “Take ’em there. Maybe they’ll give you a penny for the pair.”

Like many of his profession Drayton was sensitive, and sarcasm hurt him. Muttering an apology, he caught up the masks and slipped out of the shop, hot and awkward, with the idea of returning for the clock that he might convince the pawnbroker of the seriousness of his intentions; but when again upon the street the former influence possessed his mind, and there flashed across his vision the picture of a dusty little shop, a mile westward, beside which he had often lingered, to glance at the fantastic objects exposed for sale, and to wonder how the proprietor made a living, because he had never seen a buyer enter or leave the house. Mechanically he turned his footsteps towards the mean and dirty street, where the little curio-shop survived, while more ornate trading ventures went to the wall.

A swarthy little man advanced from a black recess when the writer entered, and in a guttural voice sought to learn what the gentleman required. Somewhat nervously Drayton explained the object of his visit, and opening his parcel placed the masks side by side upon the counter. The dealer assumed a pair of spectacles, and bent his head to examine the two brown objects; then, with a muttered apology, he lifted the models tenderly and carried them towards the light.

“They are worth very little,” he said deliberately, as he looked back. “I will advance you five shillings upon the pair.”

“That is no good to me,” Drayton replied.

“If you desire to sell I would give you one pound,” the little man said, his foreign accent becoming more pronounced.

“I do not wish to sell,” said the writer. “I want to borrow five pounds.”

The curio-dealer said nothing, but his head inclined slightly. Then he walked away into a back-room and very quickly re-appeared, with five sovereigns and a scrap of pasteboard on his little crooked hand. Drayton confessed that he had not a copper on him to pay for the ticket, whereupon the little man gravely gave him change for one of the sovereigns, bowed him out of the shop without a word, and then scurried back into the dark recess, shouting:

“Jacob! Where is that boy? Jacob! Run, my son--run!”