This matter he pondered on his way home; and, pondering it, he must acknowledge to himself that his position with the lady was scarcely improved on; for, whatever its extenuation, the fact of the case remained that he was a distitled beneficiary, whose tenure of his property must be held to rather justify the contempt that secured it to him.
So circumstanced, it was a relief to him, upon calling at the “Golden Cross,” in the dusk of the afternoon, to find that his fellow-travellers were gone visiting. But Sir David had left a message that they were to be at the Haymarket Theatre in the evening, to witness a performance of a new musical piece—in which the celebrated Mr. Fawcett was to appear in a popular part; together with the beautiful Miss De Camp, and Mrs. Mountain of Vauxhall Gardens fame—and that he hoped Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure to join their party.
Mr. Tuke would make it his pleasure—or his duty. He felt that possibly the somewhat dramatic character of the explanation he was bidden to, would find its appropriate background more in “wings” and “flats” than in the walls of a drabby inn-parlour; that hautboys and fiddles—if he could seized an opportunity to speak out under cover of their harmonious gossip—might play a fitter accompaniment to the tale of his raptures than would the clank of dishes and bawling of ubiquitous waiters.
As to that risk he must run of recognition by old associates—why, he momently invited such a contretemps; and he could really not bother his head with idle speculations as to what he should do in so likely an eventuality. Truly, the main condition under which he held his estate made no provision for such accidents, and his sole concern was, not to escape identification, but to save himself the worry of being questioned as to the why and wherefore. Moreover, it must be confessed, he would claim a little malicious pleasure in denying Miss Angela that knowledge of his real position which would serve as a better argument to her favour, he shrewdly suspected, than any personal merit of his could advance; and he was resolved, if possible, to be taken—if taken he should be—for himself alone.
Therefore, with the determination to that very evening put his fortunes to the proof, he addressed himself to his careful toilet, dined daintily and deliberately, at the “Bedford” Coffee-house in Covent Garden, off “a little lobster, an apricot-puff or so, and some burnt champagne,” and in due time summoned a coach and was driven to the theatre.
In the vestibule he was treated to a brief scene of temper that was like a lever de rideau to usher in the serious business of the evening. An arrogant-looking lady of a very vain and truculent expression of countenance, accompanied by a youth some eleven or twelve years of age, had entered the theatre at the same time as himself. This boy, a plump-faced, kimbo-eyed youngster, with well-oiled chestnut curls and a pugnacious mouth, limped slightly as he walked a little in advance of his companion.
“Tread over, Geordie!” said the latter peevishly, and in a pretty loud voice.
The boy took no notice; but he flushed up, for there was other company present. Thereupon the lady called louder, as if to advertise her authority over him:
“I’ll bid ye listen, ye vicious brat! Tread ye over, as Mr. Lavender directs.”
Now the boy turned round, with a scarlet face; and cried he—and we must not hold him excused: “D—n Mr. Lavender for a hav’rel quack!”