All these reports, duly set afloat in the various theatrical journals, and amongst the particular people who think and talk of nothing else but the drama and its professors,--a set permeating every class of society,--had whetted the public appetite to an unparalleled amount of keenness; and long before its representation, all the retainable stalls, boxes, and seats generally, for the first night of Tried in, the Furnace had been secured. The gallery-people were certain to come in, because Mugger, the low comedian, had an exceedingly humorous part, and the gallery worshipped Mugger; and the diminished area of the pit would probably be thronged, as it had been whispered in the columns of the Scourge that the new play was reported to contain several hits at the aristocracy, invariably a sure "draw" with the pittites. It was only of the upper boxes that the manager felt doubtful; and for this region he accordingly sent out several sheaves of orders, which were duly presented on the night by wild weird-looking women, with singular head-dresses of scraps of lace and shells, dresses neither high nor low, grimy gloves too long in the fingers, and bonnets to be left with the custodian.
It was a great night; there could be no doubt of that; Humphreys had said so, and when Humphreys so far committed himself, he was generally right. Humphreys was Mr. Likely's treasurer, confidential man, factotum. He stood at the front of the theatre to receive the important people,--notably the press,--to settle discord, to hint what was the real strength of the forthcoming piece, to beg a little indulgence for Miss Satterthwaite's hoarseness, or for the last scene of the second act, which poor Coverflats, worn off his legs, had scarcely had time to finish. He knew exactly to whom to bow, with whom to shake hands. He knew exactly where to plant the different representatives of the press, keeping up a proper graduation, yet never permitting any critic to think that he was not sufficiently honoured. He knew when to start the applause, when to hush the house into silence. Better than all, he knew where to take Mr. Likely's acceptances to get them discounted; kept an account of the dates, and paid the renewal fees out of the previous night's receipts. An invaluable man Humphreys; a really wonderful fellow!
When Laurence Alsager flung away the end of his cigarette under the Parthenium portico, and strolled leisurely into the house, he found Humphreys standing in exactly the same position in which he had last seen him two years since; and he almost quailed as, delivering up his ticket, he returned the treasurer's bow, and thanked him for his welcome. "Glad to see you back, Colonel. Something worth showing to you to-night!" and then Laurence laughed outright. He had been away for two years; he had seen the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and all the wonders of the East, to say nothing of the European continent; and here was a man congratulating himself that in a three-act tinpot play they had something worthy of his observation. So he nodded and laughed, and passed on into the theatre. Well, if there were no change in Humphreys, there was little enough in any one else. There they were, all the old set: half-a-dozen newspaper critics dotted over the front rows of the stalls; two or three attached to the more important journals in private boxes; celebrated author surrounded by his family in private box; other celebrated author scowling by himself in orchestra stall; two celebrated artists who always came to first-nights amusing themselves by talking about art before the curtain goes up; fat man with vulgar wife with wreath of roses in her head,--alderman, wholesale stationer, said to be Mr. Frank Likely's backer, in best stage-box; opposite stage-box being reserved by Jewish old party, landlord of the theatre, and now occupied by the same, asleep and choking. Lady Ospringe of course, with (equally of course) the latest lion of the day by her side--on this occasion a very little man, with long fair hair, who, as Laurence afterwards learned, had written a poem all about blood and slaughter. The Duke and Duchess of Tantallan, who are mad about private theatricals, who have turned the old northern feudal castle into an uncomfortable theatre, and whose most constant guests are little Hyams (the costumier) and Jubber ('heavy old man') of the Cracksideum Theatre, who 'gets up' the duke's plays. Sir Gerald Spoonbill and Lord Otho Faulconbridge, jolly old boys, flushed with hastily-eaten dinner at Foodle's, but delighting in the drama; the latter especially having inherited taste for it, his mother having been--well, you know all about that. That white waistcoat which glistens in the stalls could belong to no one but Mr. Marshall Moss, next to whom sit on either side Mr. Gompertz, the stockjobber, and Mr. Sergeant Orson, the last-named having entertained the other gentlemen at a very snug little dinner at the Haresfoot Club. Nor was pipe-clay wanting. The story of the plot, the intended character to be assumed by Mr. Pontifex, had been talked over at Woolwich, at Brompton,--where the sucking Indian heroes, men whose names long afterwards were household words during the Mutiny campaigns, were learning soldiering,--at the Senior and the Junior, and at the Rag, the members of which, awaiting the completion of their present palatial residence, then occupied a modest tenement in St. James's Square. There was a boxful of Plungers, big, solemn, heavy men, with huge curling moustaches, conspicuous among whom were Algy Forrester and Cis Hetherington of the Blues; Markham Bowers of the Life Guards, who shot the militia-surgeon behind the windmill at Wimbledon; and Dick Edie of the 4th Dragoon Guards--Dick Edie, the solicitor's son, who afterwards ran away with Lady Florence Ormolu, third daughter of the house of Porphyry; and on being reconciled and introduced to whom on a future occasion, the Dowager Countess of Porphyry was good enough to make the remark that she "had no idea the lower orders were so clean."
Where are ye now, lustrous counts, envied dandies of that bygone time? Algy Forrester, thirty-four inches round the girth, has a son at Oxford, breeds fat sheep, and is only seen in London at cattle-show time. Cis Hetherington, duly heralded at every outlawry proclamation, lies perdu in some one of the barren islands forming the Hebrides cluster. Markham Bowers fell in the Balaklava charge, pierced through and through by Cossack spearmen; and Major-general Richard Edie, M.P., is the chief adviser and the trusted agent of his mother-in-law, the Dowager Countess of Porphyry. In the next box, hiding behind the muslin curtains, and endeavouring to hide her convulsions of laughter behind her fan, sat little Pauline Désirée, première danseuse at the Opera Comique, with Harry Lindon of the Coldstreams, and Prothero of the Foreign Office, and Tom Hodgson the comic writer; none of them one atom changed, all of them wonder-struck at the man in the big beard, all of them delighted at suddenly recognizing in him an old friend, not much thought of perhaps during his absence, as is the way of the world, but certainly to be welcomed now that he was once more among them.
Not one atom changed; all of them just the same. What were his two years of absence, his wanderings in burning solitudes, or amongst nomadic tribes? His sudden rushing away had been undertaken with a purpose; and whether that purpose had been fulfilled was known to himself alone. He rather thought it had, as, without an extra heart-beat, he looked into a box on the pit-tier, and his grave face flashed into a sardonic grin as his eyes lit on the bald forehead and plaited shirt-frill of an elderly gentleman, instead of the light-chestnut bands and brilliant bust which once reigned dominant there on every "first night." But all the others were just the same; even the people he did not know were exactly like those whom he had left, and precisely answered to those whom he should have expected to find there. No, not all. The door of a box on the grand tier next the dress-circle opened with a clang, and a lady whom he had never seen before, coming to the front, settled herself opposite the corner in the stage. The noise of the door attracted the attention of the house; and Ventus, then playing his celebrated cornet-solo in the overture, cursed the interruption; a whisper ran round the stalls; the arrival was telegraphed to the Guards' box: this must be some star that had risen on the horizon since Laurence's absence. Ah, there is Blab Bertram at the back of the box! This, then, must be Lady Mitford!
She was apparently about twenty, and, so far as could be judged from her sitting position, tall and slight. Her complexion was red and white, beautifully clear,--the white transparent, the red scarlet,--and her features regular; small forehead, straight Grecian nose, very short upper-lip, and mouth small, with lips rather thin than pouting. Her dark-brown hair (fortunately at that time it was not considered necessary for beauty to have a red head), taken off behind the ears in two tight bands, showed the exquisite shape of her head, which was very small, and admirably fitted on the neck, the only fault of which was its excess in length. She was dressed entirely in white, with a green necklace, and a tiny wreath of green ivy-leaves was intertwined among the braids into which her hair was fastened at the back of her head. She took her seat gracefully, but looked round, as Laurence noticed, with a certain air of strangeness, as though unaccustomed to such scenes; then immediately turned her eyes, not on the other occupants of the theatre, not on the stage, nor on George Bertram, who, after some apparent demur, took the front seat opposite to her, but towards a tall man, who relieved her of her cloak, and handed her a fan, and in whom Alsager recognized the Charles Mitford of his Oxford days. A good realization of Tennyson's Sir Walter Vivian,--
"No little lily-handed baronet he; A stout broad-shouldered genial Englishman,"--
was Sir Charles Mitford, with strongly-marked, well-cut features, bright blue eyes, curling reddish-brown hair, large light breezy whiskers, and a large mouth gleaming with sound white teeth. The sort of man who, you could tell at a glance, would have a very loud hearty laugh, would grip your hand until your fingers ached, would be rather awkward in a room, but who would never flinch across country, and never grow tired among the turnips or over the stubble. An unmistakable gentleman, but one to whom a shooting-coat and gaiters would be more becoming than the evening-dress be then wore, and who evidently felt the moral and physical restraint of his white choker, from the way in which he occasionally tugged at that evidence of civilization. Shortly after they had settled themselves, the curtain went up, and all eyes were turned to the stage; but Laurence noticed that Lady Mitford was seated so as to partly lean against her husband, while his left hand, resting on her chair-back, occasionally touched the braids of her hair. George Bertram seemed to be entirely overlooked by his companions, and was able to enjoy his negative pleasure of holding his tongue to the fullest extent.
They were right who had said that Spofforth had put forth all his power in the new piece, and had been even more than usually personal. The characters represented were, an old peer, wigged, rouged, and snuff-box bearing, one of those wonderful creations which have never been seen on the English stage since Farren left it; his young wife, a dashing countess, more frequently in a riding-habit than anything else, with a light jewel-handled whip, with which she cut her male friends over the shoulders or poked them in the ribs,--as is, we know, the way of countesses in real life; a dashing young cavalry-officer very much smitten with the countess, excellently played by Dacre Pontifex, who admirably contrived to do two things at the same time--to satisfy the swells by his representation of one of their class,--"Doosid good thing; not like usual dam cawickachaw," they said,--and simultaneously to use certain words, phrases, and tones, to fall into certain attitudes and use certain gestures, all of which were considered by the pittites as a mockery of the aristocracy, and were delighted in accordingly. It being an established fact that no play at the Parthenium could go down without Mugger the low comedian, and there being in the "scandal in high life," which Spofforth had taken for his plot, no possible character which Mugger could have portrayed, people were wondering what would be done for him. The distribution of the other characters had been apparent to all ever since it was known that Spofforth had the story in hand: of course Farren would be the marquis, and Miss Amabel the marchioness (Spofforth had lowered his characters one step in rank, and removed the captain from the Guards to the cavalry--a great stroke of genius), and Pontifex the military lover. But what could be done for Mugger? The only other character in the real story, the man by whom the intrigue was found out, and all the mischief accidentally caused, was a simple old clergyman, vicar of the parish close by my lord's country estate, and of course they could not have introduced a clergyman on to the stage, even if Mugger could have played the part. This was a poser. At first Mugger proposed that the clergyman should be turned into a Quaker, when he could appear in broad-brim and drab, call everybody "thee," and snuffle through his nose; but this was overruled. At last Spofforth hit upon a happy idea: the simple old clergyman should be turned into a garrulous mischief-making physician; and when Mugger appeared at the back of the stage, wonderfully "made up" in a fluffy white hat, and a large shirt-frill protruding from his waistcoat, exactly like a celebrated London doctor of the day, whose appearance was familiar to all, the shouts of delight rose from every part of the house. This, with one exception, was the hit of the evening; the exception was when the captain, in a letter to his beloved, writes, "Fly, fly with me! These arms once locked round you, no blacksmith shall break them asunder." Now this was an expression which had actually been used by the lover in the "scandal in high life," and had been made immense fun of by the counsel in the trial which ensued, and by the Sunday newspapers in commenting on that trial. When, therefore, the phrase was spoken by Pontifex in his most telling manner, it created first a thrill of astonishment at the author's daring, then a titter, then a tremendous roar of laughter and applause. Mr. Frank Likely, who was standing at the wing when he heard this, nodded comfortably at Spofforth, who was in the opposite stage-box anxiously watching the effect of every line; and the latter shut up his glass, like the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and felt that the battle was won. "It was touch-and-go, my boy," Likely said to the author afterwards; "one single hitch in that speech, and the whole thing would have been goosed off the stage."
There were, however, a few people in the theatre who were not so intensely delighted with Mr. Spofforth's ingenuity and boldness. Laurence Alsager, whose absence from England had prevented his hearing the original story, thought the whole play dreary enough, though he appreciated the art of Pontifex and the buffoonery of Mugger; but the great roar of delight caught him in the middle of a yawn, and he looked round with astonishment to see how a very silly phrase could occasion such an amount of laughter. Glancing round the house, his eyes fell upon Lady Mitford, and he saw that her cheeks were flushed, her looks downcast, and her lips compressed. She had been in the greatest wonderment, poor child, during the whole of the piece: the manners of the people represented were to her as strange as those of the Ashantees; she heard her own language and did not understand it; she saw men and women, apparently intended to be of her own nation and station, conducting themselves towards each other in a manner she had never heard of, much less seen; she fancied there had been a laxity of speech and morals pervading the play, but she only knew it when the roar of welcome to Mr. Pontifex's hint about the blacksmith fell upon her ear. She had never heard the origin of the phrase, but her natural instinct told her it was coarse and gross; she knew it from the manner in which her husband, unable to restrain a loud guffaw, ended with "Too bad, too bad, by Jove!" She knew it by the manner in which Mr. Bertram studiously turned his face away from her to the stage; from the manner in which the ladies all round endeavoured to hide their laughter behind their fans, oblivious of the betrayal afforded by their shaking shoulders; she knew it from the look of intense disgust in the face of that curious-looking bearded man in the stalls, whose glances her eyes met as she looked down.