After helping his young friend to a mutton-chop, Kenelm helped himself, and replied gravely, Tell your mistress that if she had only given us vegetables, I should have eaten you. Tell her that though man is partially graminivorous, he is principally carnivorous. Tell her that though a swine eats cabbages and such like, yet where a swine can get a baby, it eats the baby. Tell her, continued Kenelm (now at his third chop), that there is no animal that in digestive organs more resembles man than a swine. Ask her if there is any baby in the house; if so, it would be safe for the baby to send up some more chops.
As the acutest observer could rarely be quite sure when Kenelm Chillingly was in jest or in earnest, the parlour-maid paused a moment and attempted a pale smile. Kenelm lifted his dark eyes, unspeakably sad and profound, and said mournfully, I should be so sorry for the baby. Bring the chops! The parlour-maid vanished. The boy laid down his knife and fork, and looked fixedly and inquisitively on Kenelm. Kenelm, unheeding the look, placed the last chop on the boys plate.
No more, cried the boy, impulsively, and returned the chop to the dish. I have dined: I have had enough.
Little boy, you lie, said Kenelm; you have not had enough to keep body and soul together. Eat that chop or I shall thrash you: whatever I say I do.
Somehow or other the boy felt quelled; he ate the chop in silence, again looked at Kenelms face, and said to himself, I am afraid.
The parlour-maid here entered with a fresh supply of chops and a dish of bacon and eggs, soon followed by a rice-pudding baked in a tin dish, and of size sufficient to have nourished a charity school. When the repast was finished, Kenelm seemed to forget the dangerous properties of the carnivorous animal; and stretching himself indolently out, appeared to be as innocently ruminative as the most domestic of animals graminivorous.
Then said the boy, rather timidly, May I ask you another favour?
Is it to knock down another uncle, or to steal another gig and cob?
No, it is very simple: it is merely to find out the address of a friend here; and when found to give him a note from me.
Does the commission press? After dinner, rest a while, saith the proverb; and proverbs are so wise that no one can guess the author of them. They are supposed to be fragments of the philosophy of the antediluvians: came to us packed up in the ark.
Really, indeed, said the boy, seriously. How interesting! No, my commission does not press for an hour or so. Do you think, sir, they had any drama before the Deluge?
Drama! not a doubt of it. Men who lived one or two thousand years had time to invent and improve everything; and a play could have had its natural length then. It would not have been necessary to crowd the whole history of Macbeth, from his youth to his old age, into an absurd epitome of three hours. One cannot trace a touch of real human nature in any actors delineation of that very interesting Scotchman, because the actor always comes on the stage as if he were the same age when he murdered Duncan, and when, in his sear and yellow leaf, he was lopped off by Macduff.
Do you think Macbeth was young when he murdered Duncan?
Certainly. No man ever commits a first crime of violent nature, such as murder, after thirty; if he begins before, he may go on up to any age. But youth is the season for commencing those wrong calculations which belong to irrational hope and the sense of physical power. You thus read in the newspapers that the persons who murder their sweethearts are generally from two to six and twenty; and persons who murder from other motives than lovethat is, from revenge, avarice, or ambitionare generally about twenty-eight,Iagos age. Twenty-eight is the usual close of the active season for getting rid of ones fellow-creatures; a prize-fighter falls off after that age. I take it that Macbeth was about twenty-eight when he murdered Duncan, and from about fifty-four to sixty when he began to whine about missing the comforts of old age. But can any audience understand that difference of years in seeing a three-hours play? or does any actor ever pretend to impress it on the audience, and appear as twenty-eight in the first act and a sexagenarian in the fifth?
I never thought of that, said the boy, evidently interested. But I never saw Macbeth. I have seen Richard III.: is not that nice? Dont you dote on the play? I do. What a glorious life an actors must be!
Kenelm, who had been hitherto rather talking to himself than to his youthful companion, here roused his attention, looked on the boy intently, and said,
I see you are stage-stricken. You have run away from home in order to turn player, and I should not wonder if this note you want me to give is for the manager of the theatre or one of his company.
The young face that encountered Kenelms dark eye became very flushed, but set and defiant in its expression.
And what if it were? would not you give it?
What! help a child of your age run away from his home, to go upon the stage against the consent of his relations? Certainly not.
I am not a child; but that has nothing to do with it. I dont want to go on the stage, at all events without the consent of the person who has a right to dictate my actions. My note is not to the manager of the theatre, nor to one of his company; but it is to a gentleman who condescends to act here for a few nights; a thorough gentleman,a great actor,my friend, the only friend I have in the world. I say frankly I have run away from home so that he may have that note, and if you will not give it some one else will!
The boy had risen while he spoke, and he stood erect beside the recumbent Kenelm, his lips quivering, his eyes suffused with suppressed tears, but his whole aspect resolute and determined. Evidently, if he did not get his own way in this world, it would not be for want of will.
I will take your note, said Kenelm.
There it is; give it into the hands of the person it is addressed to,Mr. Herbert Compton.
CHAPTER IV
KENELM took his way to the theatre, and inquired of the door-keeper for Mr. Herbert Compton. That functionary replied, Mr. Compton does not act to-night, and is not in the house.
Where does he lodge?
The door-keeper pointed to a grocers shop on the other side of the way, and said tersely, There, private door; knock and ring.
Kenelm did as he was directed. A slatternly maid-servant opened the door, and, in answer to his interrogatory, said that Mr. Compton was at home, but at supper.
I am sorry to disturb him, said Kenelm, raising his voice, for he heard a clatter of knives and plates within a room hard by at his left, but my business requires to see him forthwith; and, pushing the maid aside, he entered at once the adjoining banquet-hall.
Before a savoury stew smelling strongly of onions sat a man very much at his ease, without coat or neckcloth,a decidedly handsome man, his hair cut short and his face closely shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs and beards of all hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone; opposite to him sat a lady, who might be a few years younger, of a somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with good stage features and a profusion of blond ringlets.
Mr. Compton, I presume, said Kenelm, with a solemn bow.
My name is Compton: any message from the theatre? or what do you want with me?
Inothing! replied Kenelm; and then deepening his naturally mournful voice into tones ominous and tragic, continued, By whom you are wanted let this explain; therewith he placed in Mr. Comptons hand the letter with which he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers in the pose of Talma as Julius Caesar, added, Quen dis-tu, Brute?
Whether it was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring delivery of the messenger, or the sight of the handwriting on the address of the missive, Mr. Comptons countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested irresolute, as if not daring to open the letter.
Never mind me, dear, said the lady with blond ringlets, in a tone of stinging affability: read your billet-doux; dont keep the young man waiting, love!
Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense! billet-doux indeed! more likely a bill from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a moment, my dear. Follow me, sir, and rising, still with shirtsleeves uncovered, he quitted the room, closing the door after him, motioned Kenelm into a small parlour on the opposite side of the passage, and by the light of a suspended gas-lamp ran his eye hastily over the letter, which, though it seemed very short, drew from him sundry exclamations. Good heavens, how very absurd! whats to be done? Then, thrusting the letter into his trousers-pocket, he fixed upon Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon dropped before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer.
Are you in the confidence of the writer of this letter? asked Mr. Compton, rather confusedly.
I am not the confidant of the writer, answered Kenelm, but for the time being I am the protector!
Protector!
Protector.
Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time fully realizing the gladiatorial development of that dark strangers physical form, he grew many shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull.
After a short pause, he said, I am requested to call on the writer. If I do so, may I understand that the interview will be strictly private?
So far as I am concerned, yes: on the condition that no attempt be made to withdraw the writer from the house.
Certainly not, certainly not; quite the contrary, exclaimed Mr. Compton, with genuine animation. Say I will call in half an hour.
I will give your message, said Kenelm, with a polite inclination of his head; and pray pardon me if I remind you that I styled myself the protector of your correspondent, and if the slightest advantage be taken of that correspondents youth and inexperience or the smallest encouragement be given to plans of abduction from home and friends, the stage will lose an ornament and Herbert Compton vanish from the scene. With these words Kenelm left the player standing aghast. Gaining the street-door, a lad with a band-box ran against him and was nearly upset.