Book the Second.

THE CRIME.

Book the Second.

THE CRIME.

CHAPTER I.

DOWN TO LIVERPOOL.

Bryan Duval had not forgotten his promise to Miss Montressor. Early in the morning of that eventful day, when she and Mr. Dolby had parted so strangely, and before she had even yet shaken off the extra slumber occasioned by the fatigue of the Richmond dinner, the fair actress had received a letter from her entrepreneur which ran thus:

'My dear Clara,—The business which I feared might possibly have detained me has been smoothed over, and we positively sail on Saturday, in the Cuba. We shall go down to Liverpool by the twelve o'clock train, on Friday, stop the night at the Adelphi, and have plenty of time to see our traps—and what with music scores, promptbooks, and costumes, I have a tolerable amount of luggage—comfortably on board one of the first tenders which will be despatched to the ship. I think we shall be a pleasant party. I have concluded engagements with Mrs. Regan, for old women and heavies, with Skrymshire for first low comedy, and with Cooington for walking gentleman and utility. He is a nice-looking young fellow, can make-up very fairly, and will, consequently, make an excellent foil for me; all the other people I can get over there, but these are absolutely necessary. Cooington will be especially valuable. You are young, and your ideas of the dreadful are, probably, vague, but when you have once seen an American jeune premier, with his peculiar style of hair

and costume, they will immediately become definite.

'By the way, my dear, talking about costumes, I think it would be advisable that you should have two first-rate evening gowns—don't fly into a rage now. Your toilette yesterday was particularly good, and I have no doubt you show quite as much good taste in your evening dress, but I want something exceptionally stylish; you will be seen a great deal more in public over there than you are here. You will probably have a reception, as they call it, from one of their artistic societies, and on off-nights will have to show-up at the opera, or one of the other theatres; and as our good friends on the other side attach immense importance to dress—and rightly too, according to my notions—I want you at once to send a pattern-body to Madame Lagrange, 118 Rue Vivienne. That's all! You need take no further trouble about the matter. I have written to old Lagrange by this post—I have known her ever since I was a boy—and told her exactly what you want; for my sake the old lady will put on all steam, and you will have your gowns

in time to pack them for America. I have also desired Madame Lagrange to send the bill to me, a liberty which, I trust, under the circumstances, you will excuse.

'I have an enormous number of things to get ready before I start; the rehearsal of Pickwick's Progress to superintend at the Gravity, and an action to bring against a rascal in the North who has been producing an exact copy of the Cruiskeen Lawn, fights, songs, Irish wake, and all under the title of the Jug of Punch. The copyright law in this country is disgraceful. By the way, did you see those absurd remarks in the Earwig about me and Mr. Dickens, in connection with Pickwick's Progress? I mention this in case I may not be able to call upon you before we start, so that you may be perfectly sure to be at Euston very soon after eleven. Till then good-bye.

'Yours always,

'BRYAN DUVAL.

'P.S.—What a good dinner it was yesterday, and how very jolly we all were! I have taken a great fancy to Foster, he seems to be an exceptionally good fellow. He talks of coming down to Liverpool to see us off. If he does, I shall make a point of giving him a dinner at the Adelphi the night before we sail—they have some green turtle there—but women don't understand these things.'

'Mr. Foster is an exceptionally good fellow,' said Miss Montressor, laying down the letter, 'and you are another, Bryan Duval. This experience confirms me in my opinion, that whenever you hear men bitter and disparaging in their remarks about a man who is before the world, and who is successful, he is sure to prove remarkably pleasant, agreeable, and kind-hearted. Now I am sure nothing could be more thoughtful or more delicate than Mr. Duval's suggestion about those gowns, and what a queer fellow he is too!' she said, taking up the letter again; 'fancy his writing about a "pattern-body"—he seems to know everything.'

By this time the fact of the great actor-author's departure for America, taking with him a select troupe for the purpose of playing certain of his own pieces, had been heralded in the newspapers, and had created as much excitement as even he could have wished. Most of the journals congratulated Mr. Duval on the engagement, and the Americans on the fact that they were about to renew their acquaintance with that distinguished combination of literature and art, who would add fresh laurels to the wreath which had already adorned his brows, and from this they proceeded in a tone of patronage towards the Western hemisphere generally, telling it how thankful it ought to be in having such a school of talent as England to draw upon for its artists.

Some of the other journals, however, the conductors or writers of which had a personal pique against Mr. Duval, did not think so strongly on the matter. They averred, roundly enough, that the autumn was the usual time for English actors to go out to America, and not the spring; and that probably the reason which induced Mr. Duval to take his departure from his native country at the present time was that he was entirely played out and used up there, and he hoped to recoup himself by repeating his previous success in America, an expectation which would be undoubtedly disappointed.

Mr. Duval read these various reports with equal delight. He liked being praised; but he did not in the least mind being found fault with.

'I like to see 'em pitch in,' he would say, slowly rubbing his hands together, with a broad grin, such as those who had only seen him in his melo-dramatic parts on the stage, could never believe him capable of giving. 'I like to see them pitch in; it shows their interest in me. I would sooner that they would write about me with bradawls dipped in vitriol, rather than that they should say nothing. This,' touching one of the journals before him, 'is Cosby's doing. Cosby is a stupid ass. I have told him so in print and by word of mouth many a time and oft. I have dropped down hot and heavy upon Cosby frequently, and he don't forgive that. When my Varco the Vampire was produced at the Parthenon, Cosby's original comedy of Gold and Gloom (taken from a play of Maquet and Dumas, produced at the Porte St. Martin in '52—I have it there in the bookcase, and can show it to you) was brought out at the Gravity. Varco ran for one hundred and fifty nights, when I stopped it myself, as I wanted a little chamois shooting in Styria, and Gold and Gloom fizzled out in a fortnight. Cosby didn't like

that—he don't like the notion that my Pickwick's Progress is about to be produced at the Gravity, which he looks upon somewhat as his own theatre; he don't like, what he knows to be the fact, that I have a splendid engagement with Van Buren in New York, and so he writes these lies about me, thinking to rile me and to draw me out. No good, dear Cosby; no good, dear boy. There is nothing makes a venomous ruffian like that so wild as to completely ignore his attack, and if you chance to meet him in the street, greet him with the utmost politeness; you need not take his hand, but you also need not put your fist into his face. Cosby will watch the papers daily, looking for an indignant letter from me in reply to his screed; but he will find none; and if I see him at the first night of Pickwick's Progress, I shall wag my head at him, and express a hope that he is pleased with the entertainment.'

But though he declined to resent this newspaper controversy, Mr. Duval found more than enough to occupy his mind and to fill up his time. Half a dozen needy persons belonging to the theatrical profession—not adventurers, and in no way dishonest—simply men and women who, from stress of circumstances, had undertaken to do something for which they were not in the least qualified, and who consequently had gone to the wall, were simultaneously struck with the brilliant idea that it would be a remarkably good thing for Mr. Duval if he took a temporary farewell of the British public in a performance the proceeds of which should be devoted to their benefit. Others there were who addressed him on the strength of having read that he was about to take a company with him to perform his pieces in the United States, and at once expressing themselves as perfectly certain that such company would not be complete unless they, the writers, joined it in prominent positions with high salaries. In fact, the notice of his departure brought upon

him all the horde of impertinent correspondents who prey upon a public man's time, and rob him of such leisure as he might otherwise have; autograph hunters, photographers, who could make it convenient to receive him at any time, sanctimonious begging-letter writers, who declared that his path across the ocean would neither be happy nor successful unless he were blessed with the inward consciousness of having left behind him half a crown to succour modest misery in distress.

Applications such as these Mr. Duval treated with sovereign contempt—he had quite enough real business on hand. His rooms in Vernon-chambers were very much changed from their normal condition; all the nick-nacks were put away, all the pictures and handsome furniture covered over, and in the midst stood enormous boxes, some crammed to repletion, others yet gaping as it were for food, all bearing the great actor's name in large red letters, all marked with the word 'Hold.'

Thither, threading their way among the packages which littered the landings as well as the apartments, came those anxious to have a last few words with Mr. Duval. Mr. Moss Marks, the manager of the Gravity, was there, nervously anxious about the forthcoming Pickwick's Progress, and constantly endeavouring to cut down costly items of furniture and decoration which Duval had insisted upon being provided. Mr. Hodgkinson, too, came to impress upon his friend his parting injunctions, that if he saw anything in the States likely to make a sensation, any 'fakement' likely to hit up the British public, he should wire him at once and send it over by the next boat. There, too, was the great impresario, Wuff, who began to find that camels and coryphées spelt bankruptcy as well as Shakespeare, and he was eager to beg a few last words of advice from the omniscient Bryan Duval before he started. Mr. Foster looked in, too, once or twice, to see how his friend was getting on, and to ask whether he could be any use in helping him in his preparations for the voyage.

Nor was Miss Montressor without her visitors. Two days after the announcement of her intended visit to America appeared in the Sunday papers, a mysterious old lady, neatly dressed in black silk, with an old-fashioned bonnet, appeared at the Brompton villa, and giving her name as Mrs. Porter, begged permission to speak for a few minutes to the lady of the house. The page, who, though a sharp boy, was not yet sufficiently versed in his business to gauge the social position of visitors, was about to usher the old lady into the drawing-room, but Justine, happening to pass downstairs at the moment, promptly bade her take a seat in the hall, and took upon herself the task of announcing her arrival.

Miss Montressor started very much at tearing the name, but recovering herself, desired that the visitor should be shown to her bedroom. The old lady bowed when she received the summons; and Justine noticed that she trembled very much as she ascended the stairs. What passed during the interview Justine did not exactly know, though she loitered about the passage to gather as much as she could. First, she heard her mistress's voice in high sharp tones of rebuke, and the old lady apparently pleading. Miss Montressor's voice then softened very much, and the conversation was carried on in a low earnest undertone, mingled, so Justine thought, with sobs from one, if not from both, and just before the door opened she could have sworn she heard a sound as of many kisses, broken with words of blessing and farewell. And Miss Montressor's eyes were very red, and her brilliant complexion rather tear-blurred, after her visitor's departure; and though she speedily rectified this irregularity, she remained singularly quiet and subdued all that evening.

Also, just before the day of her departure, arrived Miss Thomasina Campbell and Miss Georgina Goss, formerly Miss Montressor's colleagues at the T.R.D.L., where they had many a bitter quarrel together; but now that she was going to rid them of her presence, and to interfere no more, her devoted friends. The visit of these young ladies was ostensibly to bid their dear Clara good-bye, but in reality to endeavour to ascertain from her what terms she had got, and what parts she was likely to play, and to look at the dresses she was going to take with her. As regards the first items, they failed lamentably—Miss Montressor spoke vaguely of enormous sums, and of 'leading business,' but declined to enter into any particulars—but as regards the latter, they were gratified to the highest extent. Miss Montressor showed them all her pretty things, and even went to the extent of unpacking an enormous trunk for the sake of displaying the two splendid gowns which had duly arrived from Madame Lagrange, and which were pronounced by staid Miss Campbell to be 'truly superb,' and

by giggling Miss Goss to be 'perfect ducks.' When they had seen all the pretty things, and partaken of sherry and seltzer-water, with which gay little Miss Goss moistened a cigarette, they took their leave, not without warning their hostess to beware of the fascinations of Bryan Duval, who, they insinuated, was a heartless wretch who made love to everybody.

Finally, Mr. Foster paid his first and last visit to the young lady in whom he seemed to have taken so kindly an interest.

'You are surprised to see me here, Miss Montressor,' he said, 'more especially when you recollect that you never asked me to call upon you.'

'I am very much delighted to see you, Mr. Foster,' said Miss Montressor frankly, extending her hand to him, 'and I should be more pleased if I did not think that your presence here meant that there was no chance of your sailing with us in the Cuba, on Saturday.'

'It does mean that, indeed,' said Mr. Foster. 'I shall not be able to complete my business so early, but I hope to follow you in a very short time. You are kind enough to say you wish I were coming with you, Miss Montressor, but you cannot regret the impossibility half so much as I do. I am home sick, and that talk which we had the other day about my wife and my belongings has made me more than ever anxious to get back to them.'

'I verily believe it was the chance of another chat about them that procured me the pleasure of this visit,' said Miss Montressor. 'But, however, you shall not be gratified this time. You shall talk to me of nothing but what I shall do in New York, where I shall go, what I shall see, and to whom I must make myself most gracious and agreeable in order to insure my success. By the way,' she added, turning suddenly round to him, 'one thing struck me in thinking over our talk the other day. This business of which you think so much, and in connection with which you came over here, it must be still going on in New York, is it not?'

'Certainly.'

'But not by itself; you must have left it in somebody's charge?'

'Of course, in the charge of my most intimate friend.'

'O, indeed,' said Miss Montressor. 'And Mrs. Foster, she is doubtless with her family—father or mother, or something of that sort?'

'No, indeed, poor Helen is an orphan; she remains at home, in our own house, but I have desired my friend to look after her.'

'The same friend?' inquired Miss Montressor.

'The same friend!'

'O, indeed,' said Miss Montressor, in the same tone. 'It must be a great comfort to you to think that there is some one to whom you can confide your business and your wife with a perfect feeling of security.'

And then they talked of subjects connected with theatricals and New York until Mr. Foster took his departure.

At length the eventful Friday morning arrived, and though, from the ordinary condition of the Euston Station, it would seem impossible that there should ever be any extra bustle there, some little additional excitement might have been noticed. Mr. Bryan Duval, never oblivious of the chances of advertisement, had written to the traffic manager, enclosing a slip cut from the newspaper, announcing his departure, and requesting some extra facilities in the way of transport. The traffic manager, with great politeness, had ordered a saloon carriage to be placed at the disposal of the theatrical party; and thus their intended arrival became known. People who were waiting about on the platform, ordinary passengers and their friends, saw the handsome saloon carriage, and concluding immediately that it must be for some member of the Royal Family, or some other equally distinguished personage, lingered round it in the pleasant expectation of being gratified with the sight of a hat or a beard, the skirt of a robe or the end of a bonnet-string.

They were not, however, much disappointed when, upon inquiry, they learned who were really to be the occupants of the carriage. A live actor or actress in their ordinary citizen garb has an immense attraction for the many-headed, and Bryan Duval was both well known and popular; his very luggage, arriving, as it did, in a huge break, interested them much, and they studied the enormous red letters announcing 'Bryan Duval, passenger per Cuba, New York, U.S.A.,' and the mysterious word 'Hold,' with a feeling akin to awe. The well-informed told the ignorant of the plays he had written and what characters he had played, what a magnificent fortune he had, and what a number of duchesses and marchionesses were dying of love for him.

The great actor was the first to arrive. Ordinary people travel in rough clothes, and drive to the station in a cab. Not so Mr. Bryan Duval. His belief in the necessity of advertising himself remained with him to the last, and the hoofs of the spanking chestnuts, as their master tooled them under the archway, roused the echoes of the Euston courtyard. No sign of vulgar luggage appeared in Mr. Duval's trap—the only hint that he was about to travel might have been found in the natty morocco-leather courier's pouch, slung over his shoulder by a trap; otherwise he might have been going down to a picnic at St. Albans, for he was dressed in a suit of gray dittos, wore a crimson tie, shiny-tip jean boots, and his usual curly-brimmed hat.

The little crowd gathered round him as he drew up to the station, but he pretended to take no notice of them, and to be absorbed in giving directions to his groom. When these were concluded, he was apparently about moving off, when the groom touched his hat, and said, with something like a quiver in his voice, 'Take the liberty of wishing you good-bye, sir—happy voyage and a safe return.'

'Thank you, James, very much,' said Mr. Duval, in his clearest tones. 'Take care of the horses—see that Black Bess and Tantivy are always properly exercised, and remember me very kindly to your wife.' And Mr. Duval moved off midst a murmur of sympathetic admiration from the crowd.

'Sharp fellow that James,' he muttered to himself, as he entered the ticket office; 'spoke that line I taught him deuced well. I shall probably be able to make something of him on the stage when I come back.'