“You are right, boy,—you are right. How hard it is to crush the old rebellious spirit in one's nature, even after we have lived to see the evil it has worked us!”
CHAPTER V. THE MANAGER'S ROOM AT THE “REGENT'S.”
At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons presented themselves at the private door of the “Regents.” Mr. Stocmar had returned that morning from Paris; he had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed and up, but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders to be denied to all except to a certain high personage in the royal household, and a noble Lord, whose name he had given to the porter.
“We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, “but I am a very old friend, whom he did not know was in England. I have been scores of times here with him; and to prove how I know my way through flats and side-scenes, I 'll just step up to his room without asking you to conduct me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dexterous insinuation of a sovereign into the man's hand; and Layton passed in, with his son after him.
True to his word, and not a little to Alfred's astonishment, the doctor threaded his way through many a dark passage and up many a frail stair, till he reached the well-known, well-remembered door. He knocked sharply, but, without waiting for reply, turned the handle and entered. Stocmar, who stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap of letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers with mingled surprise and displeasure.
“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” said he, haughtily. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, deliberately taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the same. “My business could be transacted with yourself alone, and it would be useless referring me to a secretary or a treasurer. I have come here with my son—”
“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “The young gentleman is stage-struck; fancies that his Hamlet is better than Kean's or Macready's; but I have no time for this sort of thing. The golden age of prodigies is gone by, and, at all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary of him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don't come here to bother me, you understand; my time is too full for these negotiations.”
“Have you done?” said the old man, fiercely.