Kenelm Chillingly — Complete

“And what if it were? would not you give it?”

“What! help a child of your age run away from his home, to go upon the stage against the consent of his relations? Certainly not.”

“I am not a child; but that has nothing to do with it. I don’t want to go on the stage, at all events without the consent of the person who has a right to dictate my actions. My note is not to the manager of the theatre, nor to one of his company; but it is to a gentleman who condescends to act here for a few nights; a thorough gentleman,—a great actor,—my friend, the only friend I have in the world. I say frankly I have run away from home so that he may have that note, and if you will not give it some one else will!”

The boy had risen while he spoke, and he stood erect beside the recumbent Kenelm, his lips quivering, his eyes suffused with suppressed tears, but his whole aspect resolute and determined. Evidently, if he did not get his own way in this world, it would not be for want of will.

“I will take your note,” said Kenelm.

“There it is; give it into the hands of the person it is addressed to,—Mr. Herbert Compton.”

CHAPTER IV

KENELM took his way to the theatre, and inquired of the door-keeper for Mr. Herbert Compton. That functionary replied, “Mr. Compton does not act to-night, and is not in the house.”

“Where does he lodge?”

The door-keeper pointed to a grocer’s shop on the other side of the way, and said tersely, “There, private door; knock and ring.”

Kenelm did as he was directed. A slatternly maid-servant opened the door, and, in answer to his interrogatory, said that Mr. Compton was at home, but at supper.

“I am sorry to disturb him,” said Kenelm, raising his voice, for he heard a clatter of knives and plates within a room hard by at his left, “but my business requires to see him forthwith;” and, pushing the maid aside, he entered at once the adjoining banquet-hall.

Before a savoury stew smelling strongly of onions sat a man very much at his ease, without coat or neckcloth,—a decidedly handsome man, his hair cut short and his face closely shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs and beards of all hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone; opposite to him sat a lady, who might be a few years younger, of a somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with good stage features and a profusion of blond ringlets.

“Mr. Compton, I presume,” said Kenelm, with a solemn bow.

“My name is Compton: any message from the theatre? or what do you want with me?”

“I—nothing!” replied Kenelm; and then deepening his naturally mournful voice into tones ominous and tragic, continued, “By whom you are wanted let this explain;” therewith he placed in Mr. Compton’s hand the letter with which he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers in the pose of Talma as Julius Caesar, added, “‘Qu’en dis-tu, Brute?’”

Whether it was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring delivery of the messenger, or the sight of the handwriting on the address of the missive, Mr. Compton’s countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested irresolute, as if not daring to open the letter.

“Never mind me, dear,” said the lady with blond ringlets, in a tone of stinging affability: “read your billet-doux; don’t keep the young man waiting, love!”

“Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense! billet-doux indeed! more likely a bill from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a moment, my dear. Follow me, sir,” and rising, still with shirtsleeves uncovered, he quitted the room, closing the door after him, motioned Kenelm into a small parlour on the opposite side of the passage, and by the light of a suspended gas-lamp ran his eye hastily over the letter, which, though it seemed very short, drew from him sundry exclamations. “Good heavens, how very absurd! what’s to be done?” Then, thrusting the letter into his trousers-pocket, he fixed upon Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon dropped before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer.

“Are you in the confidence of the writer of this letter?” asked Mr. Compton, rather confusedly.

“I am not the confidant of the writer,” answered Kenelm, “but for the time being I am the protector!”

“Protector!”

“Protector.”

Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time fully realizing the gladiatorial development of that dark stranger’s physical form, he grew many shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull.

After a short pause, he said, “I am requested to call on the writer. If I do so, may I understand that the interview will be strictly private?”

“So far as I am concerned, yes: on the condition that no attempt be made to withdraw the writer from the house.”

“Certainly not, certainly not; quite the contrary,” exclaimed Mr. Compton, with genuine animation. “Say I will call in half an hour.”

“I will give your message,” said Kenelm, with a polite inclination of his head; “and pray pardon me if I remind you that I styled myself the protector of your correspondent, and if the slightest advantage be taken of that correspondent’s youth and inexperience or the smallest encouragement be given to plans of abduction from home and friends, the stage will lose an ornament and Herbert Compton vanish from the scene.” With these words Kenelm left the player standing aghast. Gaining the street-door, a lad with a band-box ran against him and was nearly upset.

“Stupid,” cried the lad, “can’t you see where you are going? Give this to Mrs. Compton.”

“I should deserve the title you give if I did for nothing the business for which you are paid,” replied Kenelm, sententiously, and striding on.

CHAPTER V

“I HAVE fulfilled my mission,” said Kenelm, on rejoining his travelling companion. “Mr. Compton said he would be here in half an hour.”

“You saw him?”

“Of course: I promised to give your letter into his own hands.”

“Was he alone?”

“No; at supper with his wife.”

“His wife! what do you mean, sir?—wife! he has no wife.”

“Appearances are deceitful. At least he was with a lady who called him ‘dear’ and ‘love’ in as spiteful a tone of voice as if she had been his wife; and as I was coming out of his street-door a lad who ran against me asked me to give a band-box to Mrs. Compton.”

The boy turned as white as death, staggered back a few steps, and dropped into a chair.

A suspicion which during his absence had suggested itself to Kenelm’s inquiring mind now took strong confirmation. He approached softly, drew a chair close to the companion whom fate had forced upon him, and said in a gentle whisper,—

“This is no boy’s agitation. If you have been deceived or misled, and I can in any way advise or aid you, count on me as women under the circumstances count on men and gentlemen.”

The boy started to his feet, and paced the room with disordered steps, and a countenance working with passions which he attempted vainly to suppress. Suddenly arresting his steps, he seized Kenelm’s hand, pressed it convulsively, and said, in a voice struggling against a sob,—

“I thank you,—I bless you. Leave me now: I would be alone. Alone, too, I must face this man. There may be some mistake yet; go.”

“You will promise not to leave the house till I return?”

“Yes, I promise that.”

“And if it be as I fear, you will then let me counsel with and advise you?”

“Heaven help me, if so! Whom else should I trust to? Go, go!”

Kenelm once more found himself in the streets, beneath the mingled light of gas-lamps and the midsummer moon. He walked on mechanically till he reached the extremity of the town. There he halted, and seating himself on a milestone, indulged in these meditations:—

“Kenelm, my friend, you are in a still worse scrape than I thought you were an hour ago. You have evidently now got a woman on your hands. What on earth are you to do with her? A runaway woman, who, meaning to run off with somebody else—such are the crosses and contradictions in human destiny—has run off with you instead. What mortal can hope to be safe? The last thing I thought could befall me when I got up this morning was that I should have any trouble about the other sex before the day was over. If I were of an amatory temperament, the Fates might have some justification for leading me into this snare, but, as it is, those meddling old maids have none. Kenelm, my friend, do you think you ever can be in love? and, if you were in love, do you think you could be a greater fool than you are now?”

Kenelm had not decided this knotty question in the conference held with himself, when a light and soft strain of music came upon his ear. It was but from a stringed instrument, and might have sounded thin and tinkling but for the stillness of the night, and that peculiar addition of fulness which music acquires when it is borne along a tranquil air. Presently a voice in song was heard from the distance accompanying the instrument. It was a man’s voice, a mellow and a rich voice, but Kenelm’s ear could not catch the words. Mechanically he moved on towards the quarter from which the sounds came, for Kenelm Chillingly had music in his soul, though he was not quite aware of it himself. He saw before him a patch of greensward, on which grew a solitary elm with a seat for wayfarers beneath it. From this sward the ground receded in a wide semicircle bordered partly by shops, partly by the tea-gardens of a pretty cottage-like tavern. Round the tables scattered throughout the gardens were grouped quiet customers, evidently belonging to the class of small tradespeople or superior artisans. They had an appearance of decorous respectability, and were listening intently to the music. So were many persons at the shop-doors and at the windows of upper rooms. On the sward, a little in advance of the tree, but beneath its shadow, stood the musician, and in that musician Kenelm recognized the wanderer from whose talk he had conceived the idea of the pedestrian excursion which had already brought him into a very awkward position. The instrument on which the singer accompanied himself was a guitar, and his song was evidently a love-song, though, as it was now drawing near to its close, Kenelm could but imperfectly guess at its general meaning. He heard enough to perceive that its words were at least free from the vulgarity which generally characterizes street ballads, and were yet simple enough to please a very homely audience.