Topsy sprang towards him with flashing eyes, as though to clutch his throat; but before she could accomplish her object, she fell back, and in falling moaned almost inarticulately,—
“You have killed my brother!”
* * * * *
Since that day Teddy has never held a brief, nor does he appear anxious to hold one. His interest in the minor ornaments of the drama has considerably abated. I know not what has become of the ill-fated Topsy. Perhaps she has returned for good to her mother in Camden Town.
XVI.
BLUEBEARD’S CUPBOARD.
Mr. Augustus Lincoln was the manager of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island. He was an actor of the old school, and illustrated with great success the charnel house department of dramatic literature. Regarded simply from an artistic point of view, the performances given at the Theatre Royal may be described as fine and even formidable representations, but commercially considered they could scarcely be regarded as triumphs. The Sheppey Islanders were, at the time of which we are writing, people of a low and degraded taste, and showed a grovelling preference for the entertainments given at the music-halls. The permission to indulge in beer and tobacco, which is accorded in Caves of Harmony, may have had something to do with this preference; but it must be admitted that the Islanders considered “Hamlet,” “The Stranger,” and “The Iron Chest,” a trifle gloomy, even when illuminated by the genius of Mr. Augustus Lincoln. Indeed, had it not been for an accident, this enterprising lessee and manager would have been obliged, long before the incidents about to be related, to shut up his theatre and appear in a highly popular rôle on the stage of the Bankruptcy Court.
Mr. Lincoln’s accident was the Amateur. That most industrious and most sanguine of mortals, having hawked his comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays to all the London managers with all the customary want of success, determined that Something must be Done. If caterers in the West End, blind to their own interests, and careless of the intellectual elevation of their patrons, refused to give him a show, as the bald phraseology of the stage has it, the amateur, with fine philanthropic feeling, determined to give himself a show. Now the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, was very often closed, and on such occasions, when he could raise a sufficient sum to pay for the advertisement, the circumstance was duly announced in the Era. It was through the medium of that highly diverting miscellany that Lincoln and the Amateur were brought together. And from the moment that introduction was effected, Lincoln never knew what it was to have the brokers in the house, an incident which, up to that time, was of not unfrequent occurrence.
The manager was an enthusiast in his way, and threw his whole heart and soul into playing the leading characters in the amateur comedies, melodramas, and romantic plays which he placed on his stage. And the ambitious authors who resorted to this means of publicity, were as a rule, so extremely pleased with the histrionic efforts of Mr. Lincoln, that in addition to the sum agreed upon for the representation, most of the mute inglorious ones would insist on making a little present to the conscientious manager-actor. But Mr. Lincoln was as proud as an Elliston, and carried himself with as much dignity. So that whenever the token of the Amateur’s gratitude was offered in the shape of money, the offended manager would draw himself grandly up and say, “Sir, I cannot accept a gift of money; though should you like to present me with a new hat, I shall not say you nay.” The Amateur usually took the hint, and in a few days a band-box containing a hat, was duly delivered at the stage door of the Theatre Royal. Yet strange to say, no Sheppey Islander had ever seen Mr. Lincoln in a new hat. Indeed, they had never seen him except in a very old one, which by a judicious use of oil and a silk handkerchief, showed bravely enough when cocked on the side of Mr. Lincoln’s head.
It is, of course, easy to guess the reason of this. The Amateur donors never thought of consulting their benefactor as to the size of his head, or as to the peculiar shape which he most affected. And so it happened, that not one of the head-dresses sent to him was of any practical benefit. For if it happened to be anything like a fit, it was sure to be of a shape to which Mr. Lincoln would not condescend. He had not, however, discarded them, but had placed them carefully in a cupboard in his bedroom, which cupboard he always kept carefully locked, carrying the key of it on his bunch. At rare intervals he would exhibit his collection to some old crony—just as a collector would show his pictures, or a connoisseur his cellar. Connected with each hat was a memory. The entire assortment was a sort of history of the Theatre Royal, Sheppey Island, and as he pointed out the trophies he would couple with each the name of the amateur drama, the triumphant success of which it was intended to commemorate. Thus he would point to a tall beaver, with preposterous brim, such as comic artists place on the head of John Bull, and say,—“That is my Queen of Circassia’s hat;” or he would exhibit a light gossamer of most undoubtedly dandaical proportions, saying,—“That is my Murdered Monk’s hat;”—so on through the collection. There was a “Prodigal Son’s” hat, and an “Act on the Square” hat. The hat of the “Pilgrim Fathers—a Nautical Drama,” and the hat of “The Little Pig that Paid the Rent; an Irish Tragedy.”
Mr. Lincoln was more proud of his hats than of any other circumstance connected with his theatrical career—save one, and that was, that Mr. Gladstone had seen him play Hamlet and had expressed himself entirely satisfied with the performance.