'You may trust them for that, but I want to keep out of their clutches.

In case of a second marriage all this business will have to be gone into; but marry I will, if it is only to spite the presumptive heir, a man whom I always hated as a sneaking boy, and I don't love the man now he fancies he is going to step into my shoes, or, if not, who feels that his family will. I am bound to marry, if only out of spite.'

'The best thing you can do, Sir Watkin, and I wish you well through it.

I am not a marrying man myself. I never was. I am getting too old for it, and I could not afford it if I wished. When we are young we have dreams of love in a cottage, and try to persuade ourselves that what is enough for one is enough for two; that there is nothing half so sweet as love's young dream. But, oh, the terrible awakening, when the dream is over, and the grim-reality of poverty stalks in at the door, and the husband has endless toil, and the wife endless sorrow, and even then the wolf is not kept from the door; and things are worse when the happy couple come to their senses and feel what fools they have been. There is little room for love then. I believe matrimony is the sin of the age.

No one can pretend now that to increase and multiply is the whole duty of man. The world is over-peopled, half of the people of England cannot get a decent living as it is. Why am I to drag a respectable woman down into the depths of poverty? Why, I ask, is she to drag me down? I have my comforts, my clubs, my amus.e.m.e.nts, my occupations, my position in society. Were I married I should lose them all, unless I married a Miss Kilmansegg with her golden leg. But your case is different, Sir Watkin.

You are bound to marry. It is a duty you to owe to your ancestors, who have given you t.i.tle and fortune, to continue the family.'

It may be that some may not approve of this style of talk. They may question the need of great hereditary families. They may go so far as to insinuate that the happiness of such few individuals is often inconsistent with the welfare of the many; that the system which keeps up such is an artificial one; that the true aim of legislation should be the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Respectability in wonder may well ask what next? But in the coming era respectability will have a good deal to wonder about.

CHAPTER XXI.

AN UNPLEASANT RENCONTRE.

Left alone with himself, Sir Watkin revolved many things. He was not sorry after all, he tried to persuade himself, that he was not in Parliament. He was no eager politician, and he had none of that fatal fluency when on his legs, so common in our day among the ambitious clerks and traders who join Parliamentary societies, and figure in them with the hope at some time or other of calling themselves M.P.'s. It was time, he thought, that he should again try his luck in the matrimonial market, and, indeed, he had almost made up his mind to secure a prize which had been temptingly displayed.

He had been staying at Brighton, at a grand hotel, and there he had made the acquaintance of a wealthy merchant, an old widower, with an only daughter, for whose hand and heart he had already commenced angling. The father was chatty and cheerful in the smoking-room, of one of the Brighton clubs, and the girl, if she had not the birth of a lady, had all the accomplishments of one. She was not romantic, few girls nowadays are. She was not a philosopher in petticoats, as so many of them try to be. She read novels, could quote Tennyson, had the usual accomplishments, never failed to put in an appearance at a fashionable church on a Sunday, and had once or twice figured at a stall at a charity bazaar. Her figure looked well on horseback, and did not disgrace a Belgravian ball-room. It was to her credit that she had not attempted authorship. She was not a bad hand at a charade, and was a proficient in lawn tennis, where one weak curate after another had succ.u.mbed to her charms. Poor fellows, they singed their wings in vain at that candle.

Neither father nor daughter was ecclesiastically inclined. In addition, she had had the measles and been vaccinated and confirmed, and was ambitious of worldly success.

'Just a woman to make a lady of,' said the Baronet to himself, as he watched her receding figure one morning as she was on her way to Brill's Baths for a swimming lesson. 'They tell me the old man has no end of tin, and this is his only child.'

He met the Baronet half way. When Sir William Holles, the son of that Sir William Holles, Lord Mayor of London, and Alderman of Candlewick Ward, and knighted by Henry VIII., was recommended by his friends to marry his daughter to the Earl of c.u.mberland, he replied:

'Sake of G.o.d' (his usual mode of expression), 'I do not like to stand with my cap in hand to my son-in-law. I will see her married to an honest gentleman with whom I may have friendship and conversation.'

Sir Watkin relieved the London merchant of any apprehension on that score, when, one day, he managed to dine in his company. It was wonderful how well they got on together. Sir Watkin talked of stocks and shares, of foreign loans and the rate of exchange, of hostile tariffs, of the fall of this house and the rise of another, of aldermen and lord mayors, as if he had been a City man himself. It is true this talk is rather dull, but Sir Watkin was not brilliant by any means.

Back in town the Baronet felt rather dull. Such men often are dull.

Time hangs heavily on the hands of such.

As Sir Watkin looked into the advertising columns of the evening paper he caught the name of Miss Howard. She was acting that very night. He would go and see her. Just as he resolved to carry out this idea, his old club friend reappeared upon the scene. Sir Watkin stated his intention. There could be no harm in his doing that. Perhaps she might soften; perhaps her anger was only a.s.sumed. Perhaps it was not the woman but the actress that seemed so indignant at their unexpected meeting.

'How foolish,' thought his friend, 'Sir Watkin is! He had better take me with him, or he'll be sure to get into a sc.r.a.pe. That's like him. Just as he wants to pull off that Brighton affair he's off after another woman.'

Sir Watkin meanwhile is making his way to the theatre. I don't say that he is to be condemned because he did that. As a rule a man of a gay turn or of idle disposition is better inside a theatre than out. At any rate, there he is out of harm's way, and not losing money, as he might be if he remained betting and gambling at his club. The life there produced is a good deal of it artificial and unnatural, but the spectacle is generally pleasant, and if the actors are often ridiculous, some of them are good, and a few of them clever.

It was late when Sir Watkin entered the theatre. For awhile he waited in vain; at length, on the stage, sure enough, was the woman he wanted to see. Did she recognise him in the stalls? He hoped she did. He was got up regardless of expense, and occupied a good place. He had dined well, and had somewhat the appearance of a son of Belial, flushed with insolence and wine. He felt that the actress was in his power. He knew the manager, and was certain that he could gain access, when he sought it, behind the scenes. Strange to say, the actress regarded him not.

When you are acting, it is not always easy-especially if you are in earnest-to single out particular individuals from the motley ma.s.s in front of the footlights. The good actor throws himself into his part, and has something else to do than to gaze on occupants of the benches.

His eyes and his heart are elsewhere. At the time, when Sir Watkin arrived, Miss Howard was a simple village girl, engaged in warding off the libertine advances of a wicked baron. It seemed that he was about to succeed in his foul designs. According to all human appearances he had her completely in his power. Happily her cry for help was heard, and, after a due amount of agony on her part, and of breathless suspense on the part of the audience, she was saved, and the curtain fell amidst thunders of applause. The piece was not much as regards novelty, but it was of a cla.s.s that has just that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. Miss Howard well acted the _role_ of the virtuous village maiden, and when the true lover, who had come back with a fortune which he had made in the Australian diggings, turned up, everyone felt that her faith and virtue were to meet an appropriate reward. Sir Watkin, cynic as he was, could not but admire. At first he ventured to hesitate, dislike, to d.a.m.n with faint praise, as in his somewhat superior style he attempted one or two remarks to those around; but the feeling was too strong, and he found himself applauding in spite of his stern resolve to do nothing of the kind. Yes, the girl had become a fine woman and a clever actress. She surely would not cut him if he made his way behind the scenes. In vain, however, he would have tried had not the manager seen him.

'How d'ye do, Sir Watkin? glad to see you. You have not been much with us of late.'

'No,' replied the Baronet; 'I've been busy elsewhere. You've got a good house to-night. A good deal of paper, I suppose?'

'Not a bit of it. The public pay.'

'I am glad to hear that. How do you account for it?'

'Sir Watkin, I am surprised you ask such a question when you see what a star we've got.'

'Oh, Miss Howard. Not bad. I should like to speak to her.'

'By all means; come along.'

And they made their way to the back, cold and draughty, and very disenchanting, as the workmen were shifting the scenes.

'Take care, Sir Watkin. Mind that trapdoor. Look out, Sir Watkin!' and suchlike exclamations were uttered by the manager as one danger after another threatened. The scene-shifters, very dirty, were numerous.

There a ballet-girl was talking to an admirer, as she was waiting her turn. There another was by herself practising the step which was, in a few minutes, to crown her with well-deserved applause. In the midst of them presently Miss Howard appeared. The manager hastened to introduce his old friend, who, with his hat off, was preparing one of the polite speeches for which men of the world are famous, and by means of which, occasionally, they ensnare a woman.

The lady walked on.

The manager was shocked.

It was now the Baronet's turn.

'Permit an old friend to offer Miss Howard his congratulations on her great success this evening.'

The lady thus addressed coldly bowed, but uttered never a word.

The situation was embarra.s.sing. Fain would the Baronet have detained the actress.

'Rose,' he said pa.s.sionately, 'one word!'

But before he could utter another he found himself face to face with Wentworth, who, as usual, had come to see the actress home.

'You here?' said he to the Baronet.

'Yes, and why not?' said the latter angrily.

'And you dare speak to that lady?'

'Yes, why not? Do you think I am to be balked by a fellow like you?'

'Say that again,' said Wentworth, 'and I'll break every bone in your body.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' exclaimed the manager, 'pray be quiet! Sir Watkin, come along with me.'

The manager was in a dilemma. He would not for the world offend the Baronet, who had often aided him with money, and at the same time he was afraid of the press, of which Wentworth was a representative. As he said afterwards, he felt as if he were between the devil and the deep sea.

His aim was to offend no one who could be of any use.

'Come along with you-yes, I will, but I must have it out with this fellow first,' said the Baronet, making a rush at Wentworth, who seemed quite prepared for the encounter.

Fortunately, just at that time there was a rush of ballet-girls between the angry combatants. They covered the Baronet in a cloud of muslin, who, though not seen, could be heard expressing indignation in no measured terms. The Baronet was powerless as, like a protecting wall, they encircled him, all smiles and sunshine-a contrast to his scowling face.

'Pardon me, ladies,' said he, 'you're rather in my way. I have been insulted on this stage, and I'll have my revenge.'

What more the Baronet would have said is lost to history. The stage is full of pit-fells. One gave way as he was speaking, and suddenly he sank out of sight. The ballet-girls shrieked, and then burst into a fit of laughter as they saw no harm was done. It is needless to say the Baronet was soon extricated from his unpleasant position, and made a rapid retreat. It does not do to be ridiculous, especially when you are in a towering rage, as we all know there is but a step between the sublime and the ridiculous.