LITMIR.BIZ

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conceal his name, the greatest actor and the truest gentleman our English stage has ever seen — John Philip Kemble.”

      And he raised his hat with sincere reverence. We too had heard — at least John had — of this wonderful man.

      I saw the fascination of Mr. Charles’s society was strongly upon him. It was no wonder. More brilliant, more versatile talent I never saw. He turned “from grave to gay, from lively to severe”— appearing in all phases like the gentleman, the scholar, and the man of the world. And neither John nor I had ever met any one of these characters, all so irresistibly alluring at our age.

      I say OUR, because though I followed where he led, I always did it of my own will likewise.

      The afternoon began to wane, while we, with our two companions, yet sat talking by the brook-side. Mr. Charles had washed his face, and his travel-sore, blistered feet, and we had induced him, and the man he called Yates, to share our remnants of bread and cheese.

      “Now,” he said, starting up, “I am ready to do battle again, even with the Thane of Fife — who, to-night, is one Johnson, a fellow of six feet and twelve stone. What is the hour, Mr. Halifax?”

      “Mr. Halifax”—(I felt pleased to hear him for the first time so entitled)— had, unfortunately, no watch among his worldly possessions, and candidly owned the fact. But he made a near guess by calculating the position of his unfailing time-piece, the sun. — It was four o’clock.

      “Then I must go. Will you not retract, young gentlemen? Surely you would not lose such a rare treat as ‘Macbeth,’ with — I will not say my humble self — but with that divine Siddons. Such a woman! Shakspeare himself might lean out of Elysium to watch her. You will join us?”

      John made a silent, dolorous negative; as he had done once or twice before, when the actor urged us to accompany him to Coltham for a few hours only — we might be back by midnight, easily.

      “What do you think, Phineas?” said John, when we stood in the high-road, waiting for the coach; “I have money — and — we have so little pleasure — we would send word to your father. Do you think it would be wrong?”

      I could not say; and to this minute, viewing the question nakedly in a strict and moral sense, I cannot say either whether or no it was an absolute crime; therefore, being accustomed to read my wrong or right in “David’s” eyes, I remained perfectly passive.

      We waited by the hedge-side for several minutes — Mr. Charles ceased his urging, half in dudgeon, save that he was too pleasant a man really to take offence at anything. His conversation was chiefly directed to me. John took no part therein, but strolled about plucking at the hedge.

      When the stage appeared down the winding of the road I was utterly ignorant of what he meant us to do, or if he had any definite purpose at all.

      It came — the coachman was hailed. Mr. Charles shook hands with us and mounted — paying his own fare and that of Yates with their handful of charity-pennies, which caused a few minutes’ delay in counting, and a great deal of good-humoured joking, as good-humouredly borne.

      Meanwhile, John put his two hands on my shoulders, and looked hard into my face — his was slightly flushed and excited, I thought.

      “Phineas, are you tired?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Do you feel strong enough to go to Coltham? Would it do you no harm? Would you LIKE to go?”

      To all these hurried questions I answered with as hurried an affirmative. It was sufficient to me that he evidently liked to go.

      “It is only for once — your father would not grudge us the pleasure, and he is too busy to be out of the tan-yard before midnight. We will be home soon after then, if I carry you on my back all the ten miles. Come, mount, we’ll go.”

      “Bravo!” cried Mr. Charles, and leaned over to help me up the coach’s side. John followed, and the crisis was past.

      But I noticed that for several miles he hardly spoke one word.

      Chapter 6

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      Near as we lived to Coltham, I had only been there once in my life; but John Halifax knew the town pretty well, having latterly in addition to his clerkship been employed by my father in going about the neighbourhood buying bark. I was amused when the coach stopped at an inn, which bore the ominous sign of the “Fleece,” to see how well accustomed he seemed to be to the ways of the place. He deported himself with perfect self-possession; the waiter served him respectfully. He had evidently taken his position in the world — at least, our little world — he was no longer a boy, but a man. I was glad to see it; leaving everything in his hands, I lay down where he placed me in the inn parlour, and watched him giving his orders and walking about. Sometimes I thought his eyes were restless and unquiet, but his manner was as composed as usual.

      Mr. Charles had left us, appointing a meeting at Coffee-house Yard, where the theatre then was.

      “A poor barn-like place, I believe,” said John, stopping in his walk up and down the room to place my cushions more easy; “they should build a new one, now Coltham is growing up into such a fashionable town. I wish I could take you to see the “Well-walk,” with all the fine people promenading. But you must rest, Phineas.”

      I consented, being indeed rather weary.

      “You will like to see Mrs. Siddons, whom we have so often talked about? She is not young now, Mr. Charles says, but magnificent still. She first came out in this same theatre more than twenty years ago. Yates saw her. I wonder, Phineas, if your father ever did.”

      “Oh, no my father would not enter a play-house for the world.”

      “What!”

      “Nay, John, you need not look so troubled. You know he did not bring me up in the Society, and its restrictions are not binding upon me.”

      “True, true.” And he resumed his walk, but not his cheerfulness. “If it were myself alone, now, of course what I myself hold to be a lawful pleasure I have a right to enjoy; or, if not, being yet a lad and under a master — well, I will bear the consequences,” added he, rather proudly; “but to share them — Phineas,” turning suddenly to me, “would you like to go home? — I’ll take you.”

      I protested earnestly against any such thing; told him I was sure we were doing nothing wrong — which was, indeed, my belief; entreated him to be merry and enjoy himself, and succeeded so well, that in a few minutes we had started in a flutter of gaiety and excitement for Coffee-house Yard.

      It was a poor place — little better than a barn, as Mr. Charles had said — built in a lane leading out of the principal street. This lane was almost blocked up with play-goers of all ranks and in all sorts of equipages, from the coach-and-six to the sedan-chair, mingled with a motley crowd on foot, all jostling, fighting, and screaming, till the place became a complete bear-garden.

      “Oh, John! take care!” and I clung to his arm.

      “Never mind! I’m big enough and strong enough for any crowd. Hold on, Phineas.” If I had been a woman, and the woman that he loved, he could not have been more tender over my weakness. The physical weakness — which, however humiliating to myself, and doubtless contemptible in most men’s eyes — was yet dealt by the hand of Heaven, and, as such, regarded by John only with compassion.

      The crowd grew denser and more formidable. I looked beyond it, up towards the low hills that rose in various directions round the town; how green and quiet they were, in the still June evening! I only wished we were safe back again at Norton Bury.

      But now there came a slight swaying in the crowd, as a sedan-chair was borne through — or attempted

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