Volume I Part 5 (2/2)

'Who goes there?' he exclaimed as he caught sight of the well-known figure. 'To what happy circ.u.mstance am I indebted for the honour of a visit at this unreasonable hour, or has Ariel any commands for the humblest and most devoted of her slaves!'

'Of course she has,' was the reply, 'or she would not be dancing down here at a time when all respectable people are in bed.'

'Your angels.h.i.+p has only to speak, and I am at your feet,' said the smoker with a theatrical flourish, dimly seen, and scarcely appreciated.

'Well, I am in a mess, and I want your help.'

'Of course you do; come up and talk it over.'

'No, I cannot stop a moment.'

'Well, let me put on my hat, and I will be down in the twinkling of any eye,' and Wentworth withdrawing himself for that purpose, in another moment he was by her side.

'I want you to take charge of a boy I've brought from Sloville; he is waiting in the bougham outside. He is a little waif I've picked up, and I want to save him from going to the bad. Here he is,' she exclaimed, as she walked hurriedly to the brougham, and then opened the door. Mr.

Wentworth, or Ted, as his familiar friends termed him, was not a little astonished at what he saw. 'What a jewel! Is he not?'

'Rather a rough one, apparently,' said the gentleman; 'but I suppose I must take him. He can sleep on my coal-box, and, perhaps, when the laundress comes in the morning, she will be able to clean him up a bit, and I'll see what can be done for him.'

'There, I knew you would. It is so like you,' said the lady fondly, as she bade him good-bye, telling the little forlorn lad to be a good boy, and drove to her little bijou residence in Mayfair.

As she went off to sleep that night, there came to her the words of the Master, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it to the least of these My little ones, ye have done it unto Me.' At any rate, her reflections were more pleasant than those of the Bishop's wife next door, whose father was a City banker, and who, as she heard the brougham set its mistress down, said to herself: 'What shocking hours these actresses keep! What shocking lives they must lead, to be sure! What a misfortune it is to have such a person for a neighbour!' It is to be believed the Bishop himself had rather a different train of thought. As a curate he had often frequented the theatre, nor had he given up the habit when he became a country rector. It is true, ever since his elevation to the episcopal bench he had avoided the playhouse, not that he did not love it in his heart of hearts as much as ever, 'But, you see,' as he was wont to observe in his blandest manner, 'the case is altered now. I have to consider my eminent position, and the decorum due to the cloth. I must think of the injurious influence I might exercise on the younger clergy, and on the laity as well.' He coincided with Bishop Lonsdale when he said: 'So long as the world thinks it safer for young ladies than for bishops to take their chance of being corrupted by the theatre, he would by no means offend the world.'

So completely had he managed to forget his former propensities, that when it was hinted to him that there was a time when he was often to be seen within a playhouse, he scarcely admitted it, adding, however, that he had occasionally gone there, not for the purpose of gratifying a worldly curiosity, but that he might qualify himself by a study of our great actors to become an effective preacher and orator. He would have recognised the actress, however, if his better-half had allowed him to do so. But, naturally, not a fascinating woman herself, she would save her lord and master from the snare of beauty, which is but skin-deep, after all, and pa.s.sing as the smile of an April sun. Thus she was given to judge harshly of pretty women, especially such as had become connected with the theatrical profession. Yet what an actor she had for her husband! What were his ap.r.o.n and knee-breeches and shovel-hat but theatrical properties to impress and over-awe the vulgar? As an actor, indeed, few surpa.s.sed the Bishop. What a picture of devotion he was in church, as with bowed head and uplifted hands he p.r.o.nounced the benediction! In gilded drawing-rooms, what an air he a.s.sumed of Christian grace! In talk, no one was saintlier in his way, and yet, as politician and Churchman, he had ever been on the side of the world, and the Minister of the day ever trusted him, as it was known that his vote was safe. His art was, Look much, and say little. 'Habits of graceful movement,' says a writer on Mental Philosophy, 'should be early impressed on children, to prevent that _gaucherie_ which the want of an early training leaves almost always behind. The mind and the will may henceforth banish all thought concerning them. Once laid up among the _residua_, ready for action, the motor mechanism will reproduce them whenever the a.s.sociation prompts, and thus good manners, as far as the outward expression be concerned, become a part of our unconscious spontaneity.' In Shaftesbury's 'Characteristics,' I recollect there is a pa.s.sage somewhat similar. Well, all this was exemplified by the Bishop.

How often do we see parsons of all sects, and bishops, thus display this unconscious spontaneity! A man is often a.s.sumed to be a saint simply because he looks like one; alas! not all who bow to the name of Jesus are Christians, nor a who look like saints-saintly.

'Their lofty eyes salute the skies, Their bended knees the ground; But G.o.d abhors the sacrifice Where not the heart is found.'

The heart of our actress, at any rate, was right, and grateful were her slumbers after the fatigue of an exciting day.

CHAPTER IV A YOUNG PREACHER.

In one of the hottest days of the summer of 184-, a young man of lofty bearing and aristocratic descent was riding on horseback carelessly along the highroad that leads from Great Yarmouth to Ipswich, and not many miles from the rising town of Lowestoft. He had a companion with him not very much older than himself, but with a face bronzed with foreign travel.

'How hot it is!' said the younger of the two, as he reined up his steed on the brow of a small hill, at the foot of which was a stretch of marshland draining slowly into the sea a mile off on his left, while on the other side of the marsh, given up to cattle and horses and sheep, the road led to a rising tableland, dotted with old red-brick farmhouses and stately oaks and dark firs. A painter such as Constable or Gainsborough would have soon transferred something of the peaceful rustic beauty all round to his canvas. Far off was the calm blue sea, dark with slow-sailing colliers on their way to or from the distant port of London; nearer the sh.o.r.e were the brown sails of the fis.h.i.+ng boats; while among them were a few pleasure yachts, the proprietors of which were endeavouring to earn an honest penny by carrying holiday makers to the sands which mark the commencement of the Yarmouth Roads. Nowhere was the dark line of smoke which marks the modern steamer visible. England then trusted in her wooden walls and her sailors with their hearts of oak, and dreamt not of the time when all that craft should be replaced by big iron or steel built steamers, ready to sink to the bottom, with all their crew and cargo or pa.s.sengers, in case of a collision, in the twinkling of an eye.

'Hot, is it? You should have been with me in India.'

'And got wounded as you have?'

'Yes, if you like. A good pension heals many a nasty wound.'

'But-' And here the younger man gave a joyful exclamation, 'Why, there is Uncle d.i.c.k!'

'True enough,' said that individual, who was urging on his steed at a furious pace, and had just joined them. He was hawk-eyed, square-built, very red-faced, with an eye anything but expressive of saintly life.

'What the devil are you gay fellows up to? I thought you were far away yachting.'

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