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 grocer’s 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?”
“I—nothing!” 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. Compton’s 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, “‘Qu’en
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. Compton’s
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; don’t 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! what’s 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.
