The singer rose, obedient to the summons. “Excuse
me, sir; but I am called upon to—”
“To sing again?”
“Yes.”
“And on the subject I suggest?”
“No, indeed.”
“What! love, again?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I wish you good evening then. You seem
a well-educated man,—more shame to you.
Perhaps we may meet once more in our rambles, when
the question can be properly argued out.”
Kenelm lifted his hat, and turned on his heel.
Before he reached the street, the sweet voice of the
singer again smote his ears; but the only word distinguishable
in the distance, ringing out at the close of the refrain,
was “love.”
“Fiddle-de-dee,” said Kenelm.
AS Kenelm regained the street dignified by the edifice
of the Temperance Hotel, a figure, dressed picturesquely
in a Spanish cloak, brushed hurriedly by him, but
not so fast as to be unrecognized as the tragedian.
“Hem!” muttered Kenelm, “I don’t
think there is much triumph in that face. I suspect
he has been scolded.”
The boy—if Kenelm’s travelling companion
is still to be so designated—was leaning
against the mantelpiece as Kenelm re-entered the dining-room.
There was an air of profound dejection about the boy’s
listless attitude and in the drooping tearless eyes.
“My dear child,” said Kenelm, in the softest
tones of his plaintive voice, “do not honour
me with any confidence that may be painful. But
let me hope that you have dismissed forever all thoughts
of going on the stage.”
“Yes,” was the scarce audible answer.
“And now only remains the question, ‘What
is to be done?’”
“I am sure I don’t know, and I don’t
care.”
“Then you leave it to me to know and to care;
and assuming for the moment as a fact that which is
one of the greatest lies in this mendacious world—namely,
that all men are brothers—you will consider
me as an elder brother, who will counsel and control
you as he would an imprudent young—sister.
I see very well how it is. Somehow or other you,
having first admired Mr. Compton as Romeo or Richard
III., made his acquaintance as Mr. Compton. He
allowed you to believe him a single man. In a
romantic moment you escaped from your home, with the
design of adopting the profession of the stage and
of becoming Mrs. Compton.”
“Oh,” broke out the girl, since her sex
must now be declared, “oh,” she exclaimed,
with a passionate sob, “what a fool I have been!
Only do not think worse of me than I deserve.
The man did deceive me; he did not think I should
take him at his word, and follow him here, or his
wife would not have appeared. I should not have
known he had one and—and—”
here her voice was choked under her passion.
“But now you have discovered the truth, let
us thank Heaven that you are saved from shame and
misery. I must despatch a telegram to your uncle:
give me his address.”
