CHAPTER IX.

A DINNER OF CELEBRITIES.

Mr. Duval, punctual to his appointment, pulled up the spanking chestnuts on to their haunches at Miss Montressor's door exactly at four o'clock on Sunday afternoon. They were very spanking chestnuts indeed, and the mail-phaeton glistened with varnish, and on every place on the harness where it was possible massive pieces of silver-plate had been put. All this was, of course, exaggerated and _outré_, and quite foreign to Bryan Duval's good taste; but that good taste had been swamped by a long connection with theatricals, and the wondering stares of the public, which he would formerly have shrunk from, he now took delight in, and disdained no method by which they might be attracted.

The phaeton, the horses, and the harness; the huge bearskin rug, with the French viscount's coronet, in red, elaborately displayed in one corner of it, which enwrapped his legs; the very costume of Mr. Duval himself, far more French than English, in its curly-brimmed hat, its brilliant necktie, its small jean boots with glittering tips, and its faultless _peau de Suède_ gloves--all these were merely so many component parts of the general advertisement.

When people stopped in the street and nudged each other, muttering, as he could plainly see by the motion of their lips, 'That's Bryan Duval!' the actor-author inwardly winked, chuckling at the notoriety, and recognising the success of the performance--inwardly only, for he knew what a mistake it would have been to do away with the mysterious interest with which he was regarded by dropping into the comedian or buffoon, and therefore, when any public eye was on him, his face preserved the look of suffering earnestness which it was accustomed to wear on the stage.

When the garden-gate was opened, at the ring of the very elaborate groom who had slid himself into the road before the horses stopped, Miss Montressor appeared at the inner door of the villa; and very pretty and picturesque she looked in her velvet skirt, and her upper dress of fine gray cloth velvet, bound and buttoned, and her small _chic_ bonnet to match.

'How good of you to be so punctual!' she said, with a bright smile.

'And how noble of you to be ready at the appointed time!' he cried, from the phaeton. 'I will give you two extra sobs in your next tragic part as a reward.'

'You are a horror,' she said, shaking her handsome parasol at him, 'to speak of your own genius in that way--won't you come in?'

'No, thanks,' said Bryan, with a smile, which was so peculiar that Miss Montressor flushed slightly, and said in reply:

'There is no one here.'

'O, I don't mean that,' said Duval; 'and I should not have minded in the least if there had been; but we may as well take advantage of the brightness of the day, and have a stroll in Richmond-park before dinner.'

'O, that will be delightful!' said Miss Montressor. 'I am perfectly ready to start at once. Justine, have I got everything?'

Justine, who was really Jane Clark, but who had adopted her present appellation from the name of a soubrette in a melodrama, replied in the affirmative, and Miss Montressor having taken her place by Bryan's side, they drove away.

The wind was cool, but there was a bright sun, and the road was enlivened with crowds of people making the most of this, the first day of anything like fine weather, to escape from the dark streets to which they had been so long confined. They were off to the river-side public-houses of Putney and Mortlake, where they would talk over the details of the race between Oxford and Cambridge, which had recently been decided, or to the gardens of Kew, where they would pant in the tropical houses, and examine with intense interest the prospects of the budding trees and shrubs. They were pleasure-going people for the most part, who were accustomed to rank the theatre as one of their chief amusements, and who, from their hard benches in the pit, made a point of seeing any play which had a successful run at least once. So that Bryan Duval was well known by sight to most of them, as well as to the omnibus drivers, who would lean back, and roar in a hoarse voice behind their wash-leather gloves to the conductor: 'Know him? Dooval, the hactor!'

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Duval was unmindful of the sensation he caused. When the omnibus men touched their hats to him, he raised his own with a grave graceful bow; but even when he spoke to his companion he still preserved the same impressive look upon his face.

'You see, Clara, my dear,' he said, with easy familiarity, though his lips never relaxed one whit, 'you see how very effective this is. People often ask me why I keep a mail-phaeton, and a brougham, and these chestnuts, and all the rest of it; they wonder I don't go about in a hansom cab; they say I should be much more independent, and it would be so much cheaper; but independently of the fact that I prefer my own handsome phaeton and comfortable brougham to any hansom cab, I find that the expense of them is almost met by the purposes they serve as an advertisement. Now this drive to-day is worth to me considerably more than a half column over the clock in the _Times_. These people would glance at that--they wouldn't read it; they never do read long advertisements--and forget all about it the next minute; but when they go home to-night, they will say to the children who are sitting up for them, or to the old man for whom it was too long a walk, "Who do you think we saw to-day? Why, Dooval, the performer--him that makes love so well--and driving such a swell trap!" and then one or the other of them will say they haven't seen me on the stage for some time, and wonder what I am doing, or what new piece I have written; and then they will look out the advertisement in the weekly paper, and you may take your oath that the money for a couple of hundred pit seats is as good as in my pocket at present.'

As they turned into Richmond-park they saw approaching them, by another road, a well-appointed drag, with four splendid roan horses, and driven by a tall gentlemanly-looking man, with a wonderfully woe-be-gone countenance. On the box beside him sat an over-dressed young person with blonde hair, and a face that was blue in the sun and streaky in the shade. She was talking volubly to her companion, but none of her sallies seemed to have the slightest effect in rousing him.

'That's Laxington,' said Duval, as the two vehicles neared each other, 'and Patty Calvert by his side, of course. You know Laxington, don't you? Ah, then don't be surprised if the bow which he gives you is a very cool one; it is as much as his life is worth to take notice of any other woman when the fair Patty is by him. He is too much of a gentleman not to be courteous to everybody, but my idea is, that he has a very bad time of it. And now just look at those fellows on the top of the drag. Two or three of them can trace their descent back to the Conqueror--though they would have no pull over me there; there is no better blood than that of the Duvals in all France, my dear Clara, though that, perhaps, does not interest you--and the rest are the sons of fellows who have made their money by brewing, or mining, or carrying goods by railway, or some other gentlemanly occupation of the same kind, and yet there is not a ghost of an idea among the whole lot! I assure you, beyond telling a broad story and retailing the gossip of the backstairs, they have not a word to say for themselves. Dining in their company is the hardest work I know--harder even than it must be for you to listen to the odoriferous protestations of Mr. Hedger's Romeo.'

'I can fancy it,' she said, 'from my little experience in that line. But,' she added, looking saucily up at him, 'what do you do it for? I am always seeing your name in the papers as dining with swells--if you dislike it so, why do you do it?'

'As a matter of business, my dear,' said he, bending down, and speaking to her quietly, 'because the Duvals lost all their property in the first revolution, and because the beautiful estate of Knochnabocklish, County Tipperary, which belonged to my mother's family, was long since sold in the Encumbered Estates Court; because I have my own way to fight in the world, and to do that, I must take whatever weapon comes ready to my hand. Do you imagine that I like going to these dinners? Do you think I don't know the terms on which I am received--as a superior Jack Pudding, a table buffoon, a breaker of that dead dull silence, which without me, or some one equivalent to me, would reign unrelieved throughout the whole dreary banquet? By Jove, when the thought comes over me sometimes, I am ready to start up and rush out of the place, I am so ashamed of myself for having descended to such depths;' and Mr. Duval sent his whip curling over the beads of the chestnuts, causing them to plunge and dart off into a mad gallop.

Miss Montressor neither felt nor showed the smallest fear. Had Lord Laxington or any of his friends been her charioteer on the occasion, she might possibly have speedily arranged an impromptu little scene; but she knew that any such device would be thrown away upon Bryan Duval, so she merely said:

'How a burst of passion suits you! You look remarkably well when you are in a rage.'

'Thanks, generous stranger,' said Bryan, conscious that the deer were his sole audience, and therefore permitting himself to lapse into a grin. 'It is ages since I have let out in that way, and it will be ages before I do so again. Thank Heaven, we shall have none of that sort to-day. Foster left the invitations in my hands, and I think I have got together rather a good party.'

As he spoke, they drew up to the door of the Star and Garter. Patricians as well as plebeians had taken advantage of the brightness of the day; there was a goodly show of drags and private carriages, from which the horses had been removed, and the hall was filled with persons who had either just arrived, or who were waiting for other members of their party. The groom was moving slowly off with the spanking chestnuts, and Bryan Duval, with Miss Montressor on his arm, was just ascending the steps, when a gentleman, separating himself from a knot of persons with whom he had been in conversation, advanced towards him--a man about the middle height, and a little under middle age, with a thick dark moustache and frank honest eyes.

'What, Foster, arrived already?' cried Bryan Duval. 'This is delightful. You know Miss Montressor, I believe?'

'Miss Montressor's reputation was familiar to me before I left my own country,' said Mr. Foster, raising his hat, 'and _I_ have had the pleasure of becoming personally acquainted with her since my arrival here.'

'Very prettily said, Foster,' said Bryan Duval, as they shook hands. 'We came down early, in order that we might have a stroll in the park before dinner, and get an appetite for all your good things.'

'That's just what I proposed myself,' said Mr. Foster. 'I was naming it to our friends when you drew up. Let's join them, and all go together.'

They passed through the house into the garden, where some ten or a dozen people were gathered together on the lawn. There, in a loose brown overcoat, with heavy fur collar and cuffs, bell-crowned hat, fashionably-cut trousers, and patent-leather boots, was Pierrefonds, the celebrated dramatist, the man who had first introduced burlesques to the English stage--not the music-hall and breakdown ribaldry of the present day, but a combination of polished verse, of Attic wit, and French allusion which, some years ago, had made the fortunes of the Parthenon Theatre, and mainly helped to establish the great reputation of Madame Vaurien, its directress. Pierrefonds's bodily strength is not so great as in those days; his back is a little bowed, and his walk is somewhat shaky; but he is as quick-brained in his work, and as clever at tongue fence, as when the public thronged the pit to roar at his puns, and the brightest spirits of the day gathered in the green-room to revel in his repartee.

The heavily-built, heavy-browed man in the dark-red beard, dressed in a suit of dark gray, with his hands in villanous mauve-coloured gloves, clasped behind his back, is Bob Spate, whose sparkling little comedies have in the last few years made the fortune of the little Imperial Theatre, and who is, perhaps, at the present time the most popular dramatist in England. He is a sad man, sparing of his speech and more sparing of his smile, giving one the idea either of being fond of solitude, or unaccustomed to and uncomfortable in the style of company in which he found himself. People who did not know his story wondered at such a successful man, wondered how one on whom the world's favour shone so brightly could be so melancholy, almost so morose.

They did not know that years ago, when the Imperial Theatre was called 'Higg's Hall of Amusement,' Bob Spate, then a young man, had written several of the comedies which had since so entranced the world, and had hawked them about here and there to London and provincial managers, always receiving them back upon his hands with a half civil, half contemptuous refusal. How was he, they argued, who was only a fifth-rate actor at a pound a week, to be able to write a comedy, or even, could he do so, what benefit could they reap by the production of the work of an unknown man? So Bob Spate struggled and struggled in poverty, in sickness, and ofttimes in hunger; struggled on, and saw his wife die, and his children shrunken and wan and ailing, with the bitter knowledge that what he had written was better than nine-tenths of what he saw so highly paid for, but with the conviction that Fate was against him.

When bright little Lotty Bennett made her first attempt at establishing herself in life, and taking the dirty old Higg's Hall, changed it into the bright Imperial, she thought that as she herself was new in management, and she had a new company of actors, she might try a new author; and remembering Bob Spate, who had been an old friend of hers, and in whose energy and talent he had always faith, produced one of his comedies on her opening night. The success was immense, and from that time Bob Spate's fortune was made; wealth is his now, and honour, and such position as he chooses to take. What are they to him? Can they bring back to him the wife of his youth, whom he saw die by his side, not from actual starvation, indeed, but from lack of such necessaries as her delicate condition required? Can they efface from his mind the privations suffered by his children and himself? Can they bring back to him the youthful energy, the sanguine hope, the bright happy view of life so long since fled? I trow not. It is no wonder to me that Bob Spate is grave and reticent.

Anything but grave and reticent, however, is the gentleman standing next to him. Mr. Orlando Bounce is the youngest of elderly gentlemen, the brightest, cheeriest, emptiest rattletrap who for a half century has been acting light lovers and dashing roués, and who, if rumour is to be believed, has, during the same period, played the very same parts in private life. Old-fashioned is a sad epithet, but it is really applicable to Mr. Orlando Bounce; the peculiar roll of his blue-black hair, the peculiar side-cock of his shiny hat, his swinging gait, the elaborate motions of his arms--all these are essentially old-fashioned; and when he bends in his back, and throws out his right arm and right leg with studied grace, you are reminded of Charles Surface, Captain Absolute, and all the riotous, swaggering young heroes of the comedies of those days. Before the arrival of Miss Montressor he has been paying great attention to the two ladies between whom he was standing, but they neither of them seemed to be much impressed by his attention. 'Get along, 'Lando, you are always talking such stuff,' is what one of them says to him. These are Rose and Blanche Wogsby, daughters of old Wogsby, manager of the northern circuit, and prime favourites in London. There is an extraordinary difference in their appearance: Blanche is very fair, with light-blue eyes and delicate skin, and a pretty bud of a mouth; Rose is tall and angular and swarthy, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and an underhanging lip--Blanche is a fool, Rose a remarkably clever girl. 'Blanche Wogsby is a fool,' frankly remarks Mr. Wuff, the great theatrical impresario, 'but she is always safe for a dozen stalls a night from the young fellows who are spoony about her; but when it comes to the question of the tear-and-tatters fakement, when you want the real grit and no mistake about it, you must go to Rose. She will turn out a regular Rachel, you may depend upon it!' Mr. Wuff pronounced this word like the name of the lady who refused to be comforted, but meant to allude to the great French actress.

All present, both ladies and gentlemen, were, or seemed to be, greatly delighted at the new arrival. Bryan Duval was a general favourite. He was so kind and good-natured, so ready to lend any of his colleagues a helping hand, that they even forgave him his success. Miss Montressor was popular too, considering her prettiness and the position she had won for herself; more especially popular just at this moment, for the news of her American engagement had got wind, and it was felt that she would be out of all competitors' way for some time to come.

When the first greetings were over, Bryan Duval proposed that they should stroll towards the park, and thither they all repaired; Mr. Foster offering his arm to Miss Montressor, and remaining at some little distance behind the others.

'Do you know,' said he, 'that I am really very glad to have made your acquaintance--no, no,' he added quickly, as she looked up in his face and smiled rather maliciously; 'when I say so, it is not the ordinary compliment which you evidently imagine it to be. When you know me better, you will find I am not given to paying compliments, and that I invariably mean what I say.'

'I am glad to hear it in this case, at all events,' said Miss Montressor, with a little bow.

'It is the case,' he said. 'I felt interested in you long before I saw you. The fact is, Miss Montressor, I am a very busy man, far more immersed in business, environed by it, and tied down to it, than any of the gentlemen whom I have met here, and who are called your "City men," and when I am at home in New York the one relaxation I allow myself is the theatre.'

This man was a new experience to Miss Montressor, so far more earnest and dignified than the usual run of her associates. She tried to fall into his vein, and said quietly:

'I can understand its being a great resource to you.'

'It is a great relief,' he replied, 'in enabling me to throw off, for a time at least, the dull cares and worries, and to fill my mind with pictures and stories sufficiently absorbing to prevent its straying to Wall-street and its ties. I have the pleasure of acquaintance with Mr. Leonard Serbski; you have heard of him?'

'Certainly,' said Miss Montressor; 'he is the son of old James Serbski, who was so great in the _Bandit_, and whose portrait hangs in all the theatrical print-shops, is he not?'

'The same,' replied Mr. Foster; 'a very handsome and gentlemanly fellow, and a very good actor. He has heard of you too, not merely through the medium of the English theatrical newspapers, but from people who have seen you, and has more than once mentioned your name to me.'

Miss Montressor was delighted with the compliment, under which she purred like a cat.

'I had no idea,' she said, raising her eyebrows, and throwing an expression of childish incredulity, which she knew was very becoming, into her face--'I had no idea that anybody in America had ever heard of poor little me; I thought I was going out there entirely unknown, and that I should have great difficulty in making my way.'

'You will find that you have happily deceived yourself,' said Mr. Foster, with a smile. 'You will find that we Americans have a much livelier and deeper interest in all matters appertaining to literature and art than our more sober cousins on this side the Atlantic, that all artists of any reputation are known to us, and that when they come to our shores, they may be certain of a right hearty welcome.'

'I am very glad to hear you say so,' said Miss Montressor; 'and I only wish--it is a selfish thing to say, is it not?--that chance had sent you back to New York before our arrival, that I might be certain of having at least one personal friend.'

'It would have delighted me to have been of service to you, and perhaps I may even yet have the opportunity. When do you sail?'

'I think Mr. Duval mentioned the Cuba as the name of the vessel in which our passage was engaged.'

'The Cuba!' repeated Mr. Foster. 'I am almost afraid that I shall be unable to get back by her, although I have made such progress in the business which brought me over here--business, you see, again, Miss Montressor--that I think it will not be necessary for me to remain in England so long as I at first anticipated.'

'If you were a married man, Mr. Foster, that would, I imagine, be very pleasant news to some one who is, what you call, "on the other side."'

'_If I were a married man!_' he exclaimed, with a laugh. 'Why, do you mean to say, Miss Montressor, that you have any doubt on the subject.'

'Well, you certainly have what I may call a family look about you,' she said, casting a careless glance over him; 'but as I have never heard you mention your wife, I concluded you were a bachelor.'

'I take it as a compliment,' he said, with another laugh, but this time more nervously and more seriously than before, 'or rather as a credit to myself, that even in the two short interviews which we have had since I made your acquaintance, I have not said something about my wife. It is the humour of most of my friends in New York to say that--excepting business matters, of course, where I never permit any domestic thoughts to intrude--that Helen's name is scarcely ever out of my mouth.'

'And quite right too,' said Miss Montressor. 'I detest a man who is married and ashamed of it, and who, when away from home, goes about, as it were, sailing under false colours. And so Mrs. Foster is called Helen? It is a very pretty name.'

'And she is a very pretty woman,' said Foster enthusiastically; 'and not merely that, but the best and dearest little woman in the world. Here,' he added, plunging his hands into his waistcoat-pocket, and taking out from thence his watch, 'here is her portrait.' As he spoke, he placed the watch in Miss Montressor's hand.

Miss Montressor took the watch, and looked at its back, which was merely of engine-turned gold; then she pressed her fingers all round in search of some hidden spring, but finding none, shook her head blankly, and gave it back to her companion.

'I can see no portrait,' she said half pettishly.

'Of course not,' said he, with a laugh. 'You would not have me carry such a treasure as that for every one to see whenever I wanted to know the time. There,' he added, as the spring flew back and revealed the miniature, 'now you see my darling.'

'What a sweet face!' cried Miss Montressor, clapping her hands; 'so soft and pensive and loving! I don't wonder at your being fond of her, Mr. Foster, or being anxious to get back to her.'

'She is all that you say,' cried Mr. Foster, 'and more, God bless her!'

'It is quite refreshing, in these times of separation and divorce courts, and all that sort of thing,' said Miss Montressor, 'to find such regular spooniness existing between a married couple. But if you are so fond of each other, why on earth didn't you bring her with you?'

'Didn't I tell you that I came over here on business, and that I never allowed even Helen to interfere with me when I am so engaged? Besides, she could not leave the child, which is indeed,' said Mr. Foster, 'the sweetest and most engaging--'

'Yes,' interrupted Miss Montressor; 'you may spare your rhapsodies about him, or her, or it. I don't go in for babies.'

'I am sure you would feel interested in her, if you only saw it; not merely is she the prettiest, tiniest mite, but she would move your sympathy for her bad health.'

'It has bad health, has it?' asked Miss Montressor carelessly.

'Very bad,' replied Foster. 'My wife's strength is scarcely equal to the discharge of her maternal duties, and she has had to engage a wet-nurse for the little one.'

'I hate wet-nurses,' said Miss Montressor shortly.

'They are not generally very trustworthy,' said Foster, 'but from a