Part 6

“Mr. Morton,” he observed, quietly, “we have tracked you at last. You are arrested for the robbery of ten thousand pounds from the British Bullion Bank.”

“Old Boots” stood before them erect and even dignified. Jessie flew to him, and throwing her arms round his neck, wept bitterly.

“I am ready,” said Mr. Morton, the peccant secretary of the Bullion Bank. “May I request you to show some consideration for this innocent lady.”

Evelyn Jones stood forward.

“I, sir, do not shrink from knowing you in your—your misfortune. I will take care of your daughter.”

“You brainless puppy!” shrieked the prisoner. “_She is my wife_.”

And so indeed she was.

XIV. _A MISSING HEIRESS_.

A RECENT case of a Missing Heiress—how recent does not matter—attracted a large amount of public attention. Stimulating paragraphs first suggested that an heiress _was_ missing. And eventually still more stimulating paragraphs announced that she had been found—and found under circumstances the most romantic in the world. If the mothers of Missing Heiresses deposit their little charges on strange doorsteps and at an early age, it is no reasonable matter of surprise that difficulty should arise in satisfactorily tracing them. And the heroine of the case under consideration will have the satisfaction of knowing that had it not been for the untiring and disinterested efforts of the heir-at-law, she must have continued to perform menial duties to the end of time. The Missing Heiress having been suddenly transformed into a Discovered Heroine, did not thereupon cease to be an object of public interest. Indeed the interest increased. Editors of penny dreadfuls set their young men to “work up” exciting fictions on the basis of facts, and a sensational evening paper discussed the circumstances in a leading article full of that learning, good taste, and common sense, for which the organ in question has been for so long and so justly celebrated. The righteous example of the sensational broadsheet has been followed with more or less success by the editors of the provincial papers, and the story of the Missing Heiress has become as familiar in our mouths as “household words.” But while Society and its organs have been discussing the romantic history of the Heiress from the area, neither Society nor its journals have so much as heard of the story of Mrs. Stubbs, the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester. And there is nothing more certain in the world than this: that had there been no Missing Heiress there would have been no story to tell of the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester.

When the good fairy of that romance of real life to which we have alluded determined to assure himself of the existence of the Missing Heiress, he went to considerable expense in advertising, in consulting lawyers, in having conferences with detectives, and the like. And it was quite surprising to find how many Missing Heiresses turned up to tell the story of how they had been left upon a certain night on a certain doorstep. Stubbs first heard of the affair from the landlady of the “Six Bells,” and he immediately came to the conclusion that Mrs. Stubbs was the lady in question. Mrs. Stubbs was a foundling. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep in the very identical town where the Missing Heiress had been deposited.

“It tuk my brothe away,” said Stubbs, in afterwards describing his sensations.

Stubbs was a small and secretive umbrella-maker, and kept the news to himself until he had seen a man of law. But though Stubbs kept the news to himself he was unable to disguise its effects. If the truth must be told, Stubbs was a short-tempered, tyrannical man, habitually cruel and contemptuous to the wife of his bosom. She had for a short time after marriage attempted to assert her position and maintain her individuality.

But Stubbs being a Republican and a Freethinker, stood upon his undoubted rights, reduced his wife to what he described as her “proper spear,” and became thenceforward and for ever “mawster in his hown ’ouse.” As he himself explained to the President of the Republican Circle—an influential society holding weekly meetings at the “Six Bells,”—

“I said as ’ow I’d break her, an’ she’s broke.”

On the same evening that brought to Mr. Stubbs the intelligence concerning the Missing Heiress, Mrs. Stubbs was in a great distress of mind because she was behindhand with her husband’s tea. A domestic failure of this kind was always calculated to arouse the dormant eloquence of her lord. Indeed, a very trivial shortcoming on the part of Mrs. Stubbs was apt to bring down on her devoted head hard words and sometimes, I regret to say, hard blows. In her efforts to expedite matters on this particular evening, Mrs. Stubbs—as is occasionally the case—instead of forwarding domestic affairs had delayed them. And when the door suddenly opened, and her irate lord stood on the threshold, _she_ stood in the midst of a “confusion worse confounded.” With trembling accents, and not daring to lift her eyes, she faltered,—

“I’m so sorry I’m a bit late, John, but—”

To her intense surprise, John replied in tones more faltering and deferential than her own,—

“It’s orright, Mary, dear. Better late than never, don’t ye know.”

“He calls me ‘dear,’” said Mary to herself, lifting her eyes to ascertain whether her husband was sober. Yes. He was evidently under no alcoholic influence. And yet there he stood, blushing, stammering, and holding in his hand the hat which heretofore in his own house he invariably carried on his head.

“I’m afraid,” he said, hesitatingly, and blushing more than ever. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit inattentive to you, Mary.”

As Mary had never had to complain of his want of attention she very wisely replied,—

“Not at all, John.”

“But I ’_ave_,” he insisted, “and you’re lookin’ pale like. Let’s git our tea over an’ go to a theayter.”

The surprise of Mrs. Stubbs blossomed into a wild and astounded amazement. She looked straight at Mr. Stubbs to see whether he was in earnest, and coming to the conclusion that sincerity was defined there, she deliberately went up to her husband and kissed him. He submitted to the infliction with a good grace, though still blushing consumedly. The play was to Mrs. Stubbs the height of earthly bliss. She was a person of small intellect and simple tastes, and followed with childlike wonder the moving histories illustrated on the stage. It mattered not to her whether the play was comedy or tragedy; burlesque or melodrama. There were colour and ornament and music. These sufficed. And from the rise of the curtain till its fall she watched the proceedings open-mouthed and wondering. That her husband should not only permit her to enjoy her favourite amusement, but absolutely offer himself to accompany her to the theatre overwhelmed her, and so in the first moment of surprise she had kissed him.

His conduct all through the evening was delightful. He comported himself like a very squire of dames; purchased for her ginger-beer and oranges, and reminded her, as she coyly suggested, of the happy days of their courtship. His conduct then was but a foretaste of his conduct for many days to come. He discovered that Mary was overworked, and insisted on having a girl in to assist her in the house. Every moment, when not employed in his small shop—it was little better than a stall—he spent in his house, usually appearing with a votive offering in the shape of a lobster or a basket of mushrooms, or even a box of chocolate creams. Except on “meeting evenings,” he never now entered the “Six Bells,” but spent the precious hours at home like a devoted husband, smoking his pipe, sipping gin and water, and reading for her such extracts from the daily broadsheets as contained no allusion direct or remote to Missing Heiresses.

The lawyer who had been consulted by Mr. Stubbs was like his client, a Member of the Republican Circle. Also, like his client, he was a Socialist and Freethinker; and his name was Chatham. From the first instruction given him by Mr Stubbs, he expressed the greatest confidence in the claim of his wife, and prosecuted his inquiries with the utmost zeal and goodwill. Mr. Stubbs had at the time of his important discovery a hundred pounds in the bank. The most of this money soon found its way into the office of Mr. Chatham. Inquiries of the kind cost something. There are so many journeys to be made, so many witnesses to be interviewed; so many reams of foolscap to be crossed, all at the rate of so much per folio. But Mr. Stubbs, strong in the belief that his wife would soon be worth untold gold grudged none of it. Indeed, when it was all gone, he borrowed other sums. It was, after all, only the proverbial sprat to catch the proverbial whale. The blubber would repay him when realised. Until everything was made clear, however, he preferred to keep his wife in the dark. And the interval—it could only be a short one—he magnanimously devoted to cultivating the acquaintance of a helpmeet whom he had long neglected.

When the hundred pounds had all gone, and when the obliging persons who had lent him sums of money to “go on with,” became clamorous for repayment, he had his moments of depression. He was, however, sustained by the assurance of his lawyer, and consoled by the unremitting attention of his wife. At times when the fit of melancholy was particularly bad, he would break into some exclamation such as in less happy days he had used to Mrs. Stubbs. But he immediately checked himself, and called her his “angel,” and his “guiding star.” And she, poor woman, accepted the amendment, soothed and comforted her ruffled consort, and expressed a belief that his monetary troubles would soon be over.

Her prophecy was verified. His monetary troubles _were_ soon over. Once again Mrs. Stubbs was expecting her husband’s return to tea. But there was no confusion now. The table was laid, the kettle boiling, the bread and butter cut, and the shrimps and water-cresses gracing the festive board. The master of the house was late. But he would soon return, no doubt bearing a peace-offering—now invariably delivered to his spouse when he failed to be punctual. She was thus reflecting when the door burst suddenly open, and John Stubbs entered with his hat on his head. His face was pale, his eyes seemed to start from his head. He approached the table, struck it with his closed fist and—I regret to have to record it—called his wife “a she devil.” It was one of the dear old words of an earlier and more tempestuous period. She bore it in silence. But when he yelled,—

“She’s found, you swindler! D’ye hear, y’imposter, the real Heiress is found, ye deceitful hussy,” she was puzzled beyond measure.

“Where’s my money?” he howled, as he pulled the cloth from the table and dashed the shrimps and water-cresses to the ground. “Where’s my hundred pounds. Where’s the money I spent in bonnets an’ in theayters an’ in chocolate creams? Eh, you thing! _You_ born on a doorstep! Bah!”

He then proceeded to demolish the furniture, and his wife displaying that discretion which is the better part of valour, watched her opportunity, and when his back was turned fled out into the street. She believed that he was mad. Perhaps he was—for he managed that night to fall into the river and die there. After the inquest the members of the Republican Circle, with whom he was deservedly popular, gave him a semi-public funeral with banners and music. Towards the cost of the obsequies Mr. Chatham contributed a guinea. And to this day Mrs. Stubbs, who is doing very well in the laundry line of business, has never been able to guess the cause of her deceased husband’s insanity.

XV. _TEDDY MARTIN’S BRIEF_.

TEDDY MARTIN occupied chambers in Lime Court, Temple. His rooms were situated on the first floor, and from his front window the visitor could command an uninterrupted view of the sun-dial over the way, upon which was inscribed one of those useful moral legends which in earlier times our rude forefathers were accustomed to carve upon such slabs as marked the flight of time. Those who trod the well-worn flags of Lime Court would sometimes hear the tinkling of a piano welling out over the geraniums in those front windows, and sometimes the piano would tinkle an accompaniment to snatches of opera-bouffe sung by a showy but somewhat unsympathetic female voice. Barristers’ clerks passing beneath and hearing this harmony would wink knowingly at each other, and interchange opinions regarding the Martin _ménage_.

All the world knows of Martin’s celebrated “Crystal Ale” at nine shillings the nine-gallon cask. Teddy Martin was the son of the maker of that famous brew. It will be, therefore, inferred that the young man was not quite so dependent on the support of solicitors as other members of his Inn. Indeed, his allowance was so large as to make him the envy of many brilliant but impecunious members of the Junior Bar, who hated him for his prosperity, and grudged him the briefs which at long intervals were confided to his care.

Like many other young gentlemen of taste and fortune, Teddy Martin was a persistent supporter of the British Drama. He was quite catholic in his tastes. Irving was not too dull for him; nor was the Gaiety too fast. If, indeed, the truth must be told, he preferred those theatres at which burlesque entertainment formed the staple fare; and even found amusement in the festive society of those vestals whose agreeable mission it is to keep burning the sacred lamp of burlesque. He formed acquaintance with the ladies of the chorus. A member of the Junior Bar, he cultivated the society of members of the Junior Stage.

It was the voice of one of these sirens which woke the echoes in Lime Court after the shadows had fallen and the lamp had been lit in the court below, and which scandalised Mr. Solon, Q.C., struggling with a brief of several hundred folios in the chambers beneath.

Martin has never inquired into my domestic secrets, and I have no wish to inquire into Martin’s. Topsy Varden, it is true, left the stage shortly after she had become acquainted with Mr. Martin; had appeared in his chambers, and had taken possession of his piano. I have met her there, but know no more than the porter whether she resided in Lime Court _en permanence_ or whether she only visited Mr. Martin, for whom she seemed to have a great partiality. Perhaps she came early in the morning and returned late at night to her mother in Camden Town.

At that time I was writing dramatic notices for the _Slough of Despond_—a Society organ—and was, when I visited Teddy’s chambers, the subject of a vast amount of agreeable wheedling on the part of Miss Varden, who assured me that she never would be happy off the stage—_that_ she wouldn’t; that she knew of my influence with Jones of the Royal Bandbox, and with Robinson of the Royal Potentates’ Theatres, and that if I didn’t get her a “shop” at one of the houses in question I was a wretch—_that_ I was. In fact, she talked of nothing else; didn’t appear to know anything that was going on in the world, and never read any newspaper except the _Mummers’ Mouthpiece_.

One morning I called on Teddy Martin, and found him at breakfast. Topsy had arrived very early that morning, apparently, for she was at breakfast with her admirer, and had done him the compliment to come in a white morning gown, with wonderful arrangements in lace at the throat and wrists. I found the ingenuous Martin in high glee over a brief for the prosecution in a case in which he was to appear that day at the Old Bailey.

“Come with me, my boy,” he exclaimed; “it’s a great case. And if only my learned leader _would_ absent himself, I’d give them a taste of my quality.”

I had nothing better to do, and consented.

“Take _me_ too,” said Miss Topsy, with an admirable affectation of piteous imploring. It was bad enough for Topsy to visit at his chambers, but he was not likely to run the risk of flaunting her gay presence in the temple of justice herself. He put her off with a kind word, adding:

“But you’ll be here when we return; we’ll all go to dinner at Verrey’s, have a box at the theatre, and enjoy ourselves amazingly, eh? And you’ll come with us, old fellow, won’t you?”

Again I consented. We took leave of the fair young creature, and when we got to the bottom of the court, heard strains of “The Blue Alsatian Mountains” trilling over the flower-boxes on the window-sill.

“Capital girl that,” said Teddy, pressing my arm; “good as gold—all heart, and that sort of thing.”

“Of course,” I answered. The expression of one’s real sentiments under such circumstances is not only extremely ill-bred, but it will most assuredly serve to fan the flame in your friend’s heart, and gain for yourself his everlasting distrust. So I said “Of course,” and we tramped through Fleet Street, up Ludgate Hill, and turned into the Old Bailey, closely followed by Teddy’s little clerk bearing Teddy’s blue bag, with his initials beautifully worked in white silk on the outside.

The case in which Teddy was concerned lasted all day. But besides opening it in a somewhat abashed and hesitating way, and thereafter cross-examining an utterly unimportant witness, I could not see that Teddy had much more to do with the case than myself, who had been accommodated with a seat in the row of benches apportioned to the bar, situated just behind my friend. All the real work was performed by Mr. Rowland, Q.C., who prosecuted for the Treasury; and to his skill, resource, and mastery of details, it appeared to me, the conviction of the prisoner was entirely attributable. I merely mention this because I subsequently heard Teddy take to himself all the credit of having secured the verdict on that memorable occasion.

After the unfortunate man in the dock had been sentenced and removed to the seclusion of his cell, Teddy packed up his papers, stuffed them into his bag, and leaving that receptacle to be removed by his clerk, accompanied me back to Lime Court. The piano was still going, and the voice of the siren gave forth the brisk chorus of a bouffe drinking-song.

Topsy Varden must have visited her home with her mother in Camden Town during our absence in Court, for she had abandoned the white breakfast gown of the morning, and was arrayed in a costly dinner dress, so arranged as to exhibit a great amount of her arms and chest. As Teddy saluted her it was evident that his admiration was sincere. Her reciprocal expression was that of an actress—hollow, insincere, worthless.

“I’ve had such a win, Topsy!”

“Have you been bettin’? Am I on?” were the rapid questions of this child of art.

“You little silly! I mean at the Old Bailey. I’ve got my man convicted. He’s to be hanged by the neck until death by strangulation ensues.”

“La!” exclaimed Topsy. She would have been much more interested if the win had been on the turf. She, however, thought it well to add, “What did he do?”

“Shot a bobby—desperate character—think he’d have shot _me_ if he’d had a chance. Funny defence that,” he said, turning to me.

The defence had been that his brain had been turned—that he had been a respectable working man until a dearly beloved sister of his had left him and “gone wrong.” He had been “queer” ever since, said some of the witnesses. But that was surely no reason why he should go about the streets shooting policemen. So the jury did its duty and the judge did _his_—with a black cap on his head.

As this explanation of the defence was given, I noticed that Topsy’s expressionless face grew pale, and her bosom rose and fell quickly above her dress. Her voice was thick as she asked,—

“And—who—was—he? What—was—his—name?”

My friend replied briefly,—

“Jabez Omrod.”

Topsy sprang towards him with flashing eyes, as though to clutch his throat; but before she could accomplish her object, she fell back, and in falling moaned almost inarticulately,—

“You have killed my brother!”

* * * * *

Since that day Teddy has never held a brief, nor does he appear anxious to hold one. His interest in the minor ornaments of the drama has considerably abated. I know not what has become of the ill-fated Topsy. Perhaps she has returned for good to her mother in Camden Town.

XVI. _BLUEBEARD’S CUPBOARD_.

MR. AUGUSTUS LINCOLN was the manager of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island. He was an actor of the old school, and illustrated with great success the charnel house department of dramatic literature. Regarded simply from an artistic point of view, the performances given at the Theatre Royal may be described as fine and even formidable representations, but commercially considered they could scarcely be regarded as triumphs. The Sheppey Islanders were, at the time of which we are writing, people of a low and degraded taste, and showed a grovelling preference for the entertainments given at the music-halls. The permission to indulge in beer and tobacco, which is accorded in Caves of Harmony, may have had something to do with this preference; but it must be admitted that the Islanders considered “Hamlet,” “The Stranger,” and “The Iron Chest,” a trifle gloomy, even when illuminated by the genius of Mr. Augustus Lincoln. Indeed, had it not been for an accident, this enterprising lessee and manager would have been obliged, long before the incidents about to be related, to shut up his theatre and appear in a highly popular _rôle_ on the stage of the Bankruptcy Court.

Mr. Lincoln’s accident was the Amateur. That most industrious and most sanguine of mortals, having hawked his comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays to all the London managers with all the customary want of success, determined that Something must be Done. If caterers in the West End, blind to their own interests, and careless of the intellectual elevation of their patrons, refused to give him a show, as the bald phraseology of the stage has it, the amateur, with fine philanthropic feeling, determined to give himself a show. Now the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, was very often closed, and on such occasions, when he could raise a sufficient sum to pay for the advertisement, the circumstance was duly announced in the _Era_. It was through the medium of that highly diverting miscellany that Lincoln and the Amateur were brought together. And from the moment that introduction was effected, Lincoln never knew what it was to have the brokers in the house, an incident which, up to that time, was of not unfrequent occurrence.