to speak to a gentleman; and just low enough to feel
a little tremor, a nervous consciousness of wrong-doing—of
stolen waters, that gave a considerable zest to our
most innocent interview. They were as much discomposed
and fluttered, indeed, as if I had been a wicked baron
proposing to elope with the whole trio; but they showed
no inclination to go away, and I had managed to get
them off hills and waterfalls and on to more promising
subjects, when a young man was descried coming along
the path from the direction of Keswick. Now
whether he was the young man of one of my friends,
or the brother of one of them, or indeed the brother
of all, I do not know; but they incontinently said
that they must be going, and went away up the path
with friendly salutations. I need not say that
I found the lake and the moonlight rather dull after
their departure, and speedily found my way back to
potted herrings and whisky-and-water in the commercial
room with my late fellow-traveller. In the smoking-room
there was a tall dark man with a moustache, in an
ulster coat, who had got the best place and was monopolising
most of the talk; and, as I came in, a whisper came
round to me from both sides, that this was the manager
of a London theatre. The presence of such a
man was a great event for Keswick, and I must own
that the manager showed himself equal to his position.
He had a large fat pocket-book, from which he produced
poem after poem, written on the backs of letters or
hotel-bills; and nothing could be more humorous than
his recitation of these elegant extracts, except perhaps
the anecdotes with which he varied the entertainment.
Seeing, I suppose, something less countrified in my
appearance than in most of the company, he singled
me out to corroborate some statements as to the depravity
and vice of the aristocracy, and when he went on to
describe some gilded saloon experiences, I am proud
to say that he honoured my sagacity with one little
covert wink before a second time appealing to me for
confirmation. The wink was not thrown away; I
went in up to the elbows with the manager, until I
think that some of the glory of that great man settled
by reflection upon me, and that I was as noticeably
the second person in the smoking-room as he was the
first. For a young man, this was a position of
some distinction, I think you will admit. .
. .
CHAPTER III—AN AUTUMN EFFECT—1875
’Nous ne decrivons jamais mieux la nature que
lorsque nous nous efforcons d’exprimer sobrement
et simplement l’impression que nous en avons
recue.’—M. AndreTheuriet,
‘L’Automne dans les Bois,’ Revue
des Deux Mondes, 1st Oct. 1874, p.562. {2}
