“Where’s my money?” he howled, as he pulled the cloth from the table and dashed the shrimps and water-cresses to the ground. “Where’s my hundred pounds. Where’s the money I spent in bonnets an’ in theayters an’ in chocolate creams? Eh, you thing! You born on a doorstep! Bah!”
He then proceeded to demolish the furniture, and his wife displaying that discretion which is the better part of valour, watched her opportunity, and when his back was turned fled out into the street. She believed that he was mad. Perhaps he was—for he managed that night to fall into the river and die there. After the inquest the members of the Republican Circle, with whom he was deservedly popular, gave him a semi-public funeral with banners and music. Towards the cost of the obsequies Mr. Chatham contributed a guinea. And to this day Mrs. Stubbs, who is doing very well in the laundry line of business, has never been able to guess the cause of her deceased husband’s insanity.
XV.
TEDDY MARTIN’S BRIEF.
Teddy Martin occupied chambers in Lime Court, Temple. His rooms were situated on the first floor, and from his front window the visitor could command an uninterrupted view of the sun-dial over the way, upon which was inscribed one of those useful moral legends which in earlier times our rude forefathers were accustomed to carve upon such slabs as marked the flight of time. Those who trod the well-worn flags of Lime Court would sometimes hear the tinkling of a piano welling out over the geraniums in those front windows, and sometimes the piano would tinkle an accompaniment to snatches of opera-bouffe sung by a showy but somewhat unsympathetic female voice. Barristers’ clerks passing beneath and hearing this harmony would wink knowingly at each other, and interchange opinions regarding the Martin ménage.
All the world knows of Martin’s celebrated “Crystal Ale” at nine shillings the nine-gallon cask. Teddy Martin was the son of the maker of that famous brew. It will be, therefore, inferred that the young man was not quite so dependent on the support of solicitors as other members of his Inn. Indeed, his allowance was so large as to make him the envy of many brilliant but impecunious members of the Junior Bar, who hated him for his prosperity, and grudged him the briefs which at long intervals were confided to his care.
Like many other young gentlemen of taste and fortune, Teddy Martin was a persistent supporter of the British Drama. He was quite catholic in his tastes. Irving was not too dull for him; nor was the Gaiety too fast. If, indeed, the truth must be told, he preferred those theatres at which burlesque entertainment formed the staple fare; and even found amusement in the festive society of those vestals whose agreeable mission it is to keep burning the sacred lamp of burlesque. He formed acquaintance with the ladies of the chorus. A member of the Junior Bar, he cultivated the society of members of the Junior Stage.
It was the voice of one of these sirens which woke the echoes in Lime Court after the shadows had fallen and the lamp had been lit in the court below, and which scandalised Mr. Solon, Q.C., struggling with a brief of several hundred folios in the chambers beneath.
Martin has never inquired into my domestic secrets, and I have no wish to inquire into Martin’s. Topsy Varden, it is true, left the stage shortly after she had become acquainted with Mr. Martin; had appeared in his chambers, and had taken possession of his piano. I have met her there, but know no more than the porter whether she resided in Lime Court en permanence or whether she only visited Mr. Martin, for whom she seemed to have a great partiality. Perhaps she came early in the morning and returned late at night to her mother in Camden Town.
At that time I was writing dramatic notices for the Slough of Despond—a Society organ—and was, when I visited Teddy’s chambers, the subject of a vast amount of agreeable wheedling on the part of Miss Varden, who assured me that she never would be happy off the stage—that she wouldn’t; that she knew of my influence with Jones of the Royal Bandbox, and with Robinson of the Royal Potentates’ Theatres, and that if I didn’t get her a “shop” at one of the houses in question I was a wretch—that I was. In fact, she talked of nothing else; didn’t appear to know anything that was going on in the world, and never read any newspaper except the Mummers’ Mouthpiece.
One morning I called on Teddy Martin, and found him at breakfast. Topsy had arrived very early that morning, apparently, for she was at breakfast with her admirer, and had done him the compliment to come in a white morning gown, with wonderful arrangements in lace at the throat and wrists. I found the ingenuous Martin in high glee over a brief for the prosecution in a case in which he was to appear that day at the Old Bailey.