It is needless to say that my first proceeding was to bowl out the music-seller on the spot. He called the next morning, no doubt with a liberal proposal for extending the engagement beyond Derby and Nottingham. My niece was described as not well enough to see him; and, when he asked for me, he was told I was not up. I happened to be, at that moment, engaged in putting the case pathetically to our gifted Magdalen. Her answer was in the highest degree satisfactory. She would permanently engage herself to nobody – least of all to a man who had taken sordid advantage of her position and mine. She would be her own mistress, and share the profits with me, while she wanted money, and while it suited her to go on. So far so good. But the reason she added next, for her flattering preference of myself, was less to my taste. ‘The music-seller is not the man whom I employ to make my inquiries,’ she said. ‘You are the man.’ I don’t like her steadily remembering those inquiries, in the first bewilderment of her success. It looks ill for the future; it looks infernally ill for the future.
Five
Chronicle for January, 1847
She has shown the cloven foot already. I begin to be a little afraid of her.
On the conclusion of the Nottingham engagement (the results of which more than equalled the results at Derby), I proposed taking the entertainment next – now we had got it into our own hands – to Newark. Miss Vanstone raised no objection, until we came to the question of time, when she amazed me by stipulating for a week’s delay, before we appeared in public again.
‘For what possible purpose?’ I asked.
‘For the purpose of making the inquiries which I mentioned to you at York,’ she answered.
I instantly enlarged on the danger of delay; putting all the considerations before her in every imaginable form. She remained perfectly immovable. I tried to shake her on the question of expenses. She answered by handing me over her share of the proceeds at Derby and Nottingham – and there were my expenses paid, at the rate of nearly two guineas a day. I wonder who first picked out a mule as the type of obstinacy? How little knowledge that man must have had of women!
There was no help for it. I took down my instructions in black and white, as usual. My first exertions were to be directed to the discovery of Mr Michael Vanstone’s address: I was also expected to find out how long he was likely to live there, and whether he had sold Combe-Raven or not. My next inquiries were to inform me of his ordinary habits of life; of what he did with his money; of who his intimate friends were; and of the sort of terms on which his son, Mr Noel Vanstone, was now living with him. Lastly, the investigations were to end in discovering whether there was any female relative, or any woman exercising domestic authority in the house, who was known to have an influence over either father or son.
If my long practice in cultivating the field of human sympathy had not accustomed me to private investigations into the affairs of other people, I might have found some of these queries rather difficult to deal with in the course of a week. As it was, I gave myself all the benefit of my own experience; and brought the answers back to Nottingham in a day less than the given time. Here they are, in regular order, for convenience of future reference:
(1.) Mr Michael Vanstone is now residing at German Place, Brighton, and likely to remain there; as he finds the air suits him. He reached London from Switzerland in September last; and sold the Combe-Raven property immediately on his arrival.
(2.) His ordinary habits of life are secret and retired; he seldom visits, or receives company. Part of his money is supposed to be in the funds, and part laid out in railway investments, which have survived the panic of eighteen hundred and forty-six, and are rapidly rising in value. He is said to be a bold speculator. Since his arrival in England he has invested with great judgment in house property. He has some houses in remote parts of London; and some houses in certain watering-places on the east coast, which are shown to be advancing in public repute. In all these cases he is reported to have made remarkably good bargains.
(3.) It is not easy to discover who his intimate friends are. Two names only have been ascertained. The first is Admiral Bartram; supposed to have been under friendly obligations, in past years, to Mr Michael Vanstone. The second is Mr George Bartram, nephew of the admiral, and now staying on a short visit in the house at German Place. Mr George Bartram is the son of the late Mr Andrew Vanstone’s sister, also deceased. He is therefore a cousin of Mr Noel Vanstone’s. This last -viz., Mr Noel Vanstone – is in delicate health, and is living on excellent terms with his father, in German Place.
(4.) There is no female relative in Mr Michael Vanstone’s family circle. But there is a housekeeper who has lived in his service ever since his wife’s death, and who has acquired a strong influence over both father and son. She is a native of Switzerland, elderly, and a widow. Her name is Mrs Lecount.
On placing these particulars in Miss Vanstone’s hands, she made no remark, except to thank me. I endeavoured to invite her confidence. No results; nothing but a renewal of civility, and a sudden shifting to the subject of the Entertainment. Very good. If she won’t give me the information I want, the conclusion is obvious – I must help myself.
Business considerations claim the remainder of this page. Let me return to business.
Financial Statement.
Third Week in January.
Place Visited.
Performances.
Newark.
Two.
Net Receipts,
Net Receipts,
In black and white.
Actually Realized.
£25
£32 IOS
Apparent Division of Profits.
Actual Division of Profits.
Miss V…… . £12 10
Miss V…… . £12 10
Self…… . £12 10
Self…… . £12 10
Private Surplus on the Week,
Or say,
Self-presented Testimonial.
£7. 10s.
Audited,
Passed Correct,
H. WRAGGE.
H. WRAGGE.
The next stronghold of British sympathy which we take by storm is Sheffield. We open the first week in February.
Six
Chronicle for February
Practice has now given my fair relative the confidence which I predicted would come with time. Her knack of disguising her own identity in the impersonation of different characters, so completely staggers her audiences, that the same people come twice over, to find out how she does it. It is the amiable defect of the English public never to know when they have had enough of a good thing. They actually try to encore one of her characters – an old north-country lady; modelled on that honoured preceptress in the late Mr Vanstone’s family, to whom I presented myself at Combe-Raven. This particular performance fairly amazes the people. I don’t wonder at it. Such an extraordinary assumption of age by a girl of nineteen, has never been seen in public before, in the whole course of my theatrical experience.
I find myself writing in a lower tone than usual; I miss my own dash of humour. The fact is, I am depressed about the future. In the very height of our prosperity, my perverse pupil sticks to her trumpery family quarrel. I feel myself at the mercy of the first whim in the Vanstone direction which may come into her head – I, the architect of her fortunes. Too bad; upon my soul, too bad.
She has acted already on the inquiries which she forced me to make for her. She has written two letters to Mr Michael Vanstone.
To the first letter no answer came. To the second a reply was received. Her infernal cleverness put an obstacle I had not expected in the way of my intercepting it. Later in the day, after she had herself opened and read the answer, I laid another trap for her. It just succeeded, and no more. I had half a minute to look into the envelope in her absence. It contained nothing but her own letter returned. She is not the girl to put up quietly with such an insult as this. Mischief will come of it – mischief to Michael Vanstone – which is of no earthly co
nsequence: mischief to Me – which is a truly serious matter.
Seven
Chronicle for March
After performing at Sheffield and Manchester, we have moved to Liverpool, Preston and Lancaster. Another change in this weathercock of a girl. She has written no more letters to Michael Vanstone; and she has become as anxious to make money as I am myself. We are realizing large profits, and we are worked to death. I don’t like this change in her: she has a purpose to answer, or she would not show such extraordinary eagerness to fill her purse. Nothing I can do – no cooking of accounts; no self-presented testimonials – can keep that purse empty. The success of the Entertainment, and her own sharpness in looking after her interests, literally force me into a course of comparative honesty. She puts into her pocket more than a third of the profits, in defiance of my most arduous exertions to prevent her. And this at my age! this after my long and successful career as a moral agriculturist! Marks of admiration are very little things; but they express my feelings, and I put them in freely.
Eight
Chronicle for April and May
We have visited seven more large towns, and are now at Birmingham. Consulting my books, I find that Miss Vanstone has realized by the Entertainment, up to this time, the enormous sum of nearly four hundred pounds. It is quite possible that my own profits may reach one or two miserable hundreds more. But I am the architect of her fortunes – the publisher, so to speak, of her book – and, if anything, I am underpaid.
I made the above discovery on the twenty-ninth of the month – anniversary of the Restoration of my royal predecessor in the field of human sympathy, Charles the Second. I had barely finished locking up my despatch-box – when the ungrateful girl, whose reputation I have made, came into the room; and told me in so many words, that the business connection between us was for the present at an end.
I attempt no description of my own sensations: I merely record facts. She informed me, with an appearance of perfect composure, that she needed rest, and that she had ‘new objects in view’. She might possibly want me to assist those objects; and she might possibly return to the Entertainment. In either case it would be enough if we exchanged addresses, at which we could write to each other, in case of need. Having no desire to leave me too abruptly, she would remain the next day (which was Sunday); and would take her departure on Monday morning. Such was her explanation, in so many words.
Remonstrance, as I knew by experience, would be thrown away. Authority I had none to exert. My one sensible course to take in this emergency was to find out which way my own interests pointed – and to go that way without a moment’s unnecessary hesitation.
A very little reflection has since convinced me that she has a deep-laid scheme against Michael Vanstone in view. She is young, handsome, clever and unscrupulous; she has made money to live on, and has time at her disposal to find out the weak side of an old man; and she is going to attack Mr Michael Vanstone unawares with the legitimate weapons of her sex. Is she likely to want me for such a purpose as this? Doubtful. Is she merely anxious to get rid of me on easy terms? Probable. Am I the sort of man to be treated in this way by my own pupil? Decidedly not: I am the man to see my way through a neat succession of alternatives; and here they are:
First alternative: To announce my compliance with her proposal; to exchange addresses with her; and then to keep my eye privately on all her future movements. Second alternative: To express fond anxiety in a paternal capacity; and to threaten giving the alarm to her sister and the lawyer, if she persists in her design. Third alternative: To turn the information I already possess to the best account, by making it a marketable commodity between Mr Michael Vanstone and myself. At present, I incline towards the last of these three courses. But my decision is far too important to be hurried. To-day is only the twenty-ninth. I will suspend my Chronicle of Events until Monday.
May 31st. – My alternatives and her plans are both overthrown together.
The newspaper came in, as usual, after breakfast. I looked it over, and discovered this memorable entry, among the obituary announcements of the day:
‘On the 29th inst., at Brighton, Michael Vanstone, Esq., formerly of Zürich, aged 77’.
Miss Vanstone was present in the room, when I read those two startling lines. Her bonnet was on; her boxes were packed; she was waiting impatiently until it was time to go to the train. I handed the paper to her, without a word on my side. Without a word on hers, she looked where I pointed, and read the news of Michael Vanstone’s death.
The paper dropped out of her hand; and she suddenly pulled down her veil. I caught one glance at her face before she hid it from me. The effect on my mind was startling in the extreme. To put it with my customary dash of humour – her face informed me that the most sensible action which Michael Vanstone, Esq., formerly of Zürich, had ever achieved in his life, was the action he performed at Brighton, on the 29th instant.
Finding the dead silence in the room singularly unpleasant under existing circumstances, I thought I would make a remark. My regard for my own interests supplied me with a subject. I mentioned the Entertainment.
‘After what has happened,’ I said, ‘I presume we go on with our performances as usual?’
‘No,’ she answered, behind the veil. ‘We go on with my inquiries.’
‘Inquiries after a dead man?’
‘Inquiries after the dead man’s son.’
‘Mr Noel Vanstone?’
‘Yes; Mr Noel Vanstone.’
Not having a veil to let down over my own face, I stooped and picked up the newspaper. Her devilish determination quite upset me for the moment. I actually had to steady myself, before I could speak to her again.
‘Are the new inquiries as harmless as the old ones?’ I asked.
‘Quite as harmless.’
‘What am I expected to find out?’
‘I wish to know whether Mr Noel Vanstone remains at Brighton after the funeral.’
‘And if not?’
‘If not, I shall want to know his new address, wherever it may be.’
‘Yes. And what next?’
‘I wish you to find out next, if all the father’s money goes to the son.’
I began to see her drift. The word money relieved me; I felt quite on my own ground again.
‘Anything more?’ I asked.
‘Only one thing more,’ she answered. ‘Make sure, if you please, whether Mrs Lecount, the housekeeper, remains or not in Mr Noel Vanstone’s service.’
Her voice altered a little, as she mentioned Mrs Lecount’s name: she is evidently sharp enough to distrust the housekeeper already.
‘My expenses are to be paid as usual?’ I said.
‘As usual.’
‘When am I expected to leave for Brighton?’
‘As soon as you can.’
She rose, and left the room. After a momentary doubt, I decided on executing the new commission. The more private inquiries I conduct for my fair relative, the harder she will find it to get rid of hers truly, Horatio Wragge.
There is nothing to prevent my starting for Brighton to-morrow. So to-morrow, I go. If Mr Noel Vanstone succeeds to his father’s property, he is the only human being possessed of pecuniary blessings, who fails to inspire me with a feeling of unmitigated envy.
Nine
Chronicle for June
9th. – I returned yesterday with my information. Here it is, privately noted down for convenience of future reference:
Mr Noel Vanstone has left Brighton; and has removed, for the purpose of transacting business in London, to one of his late father’s empty houses in Vauxhall Walk, Lambeth. This singularly mean selection of a place of residence, on the part of a gentleman of fortune, looks as if Mr N.V. and his money were not easily parted.
Mr Noel Vanstone has stepped into his father’s shoes under the following circumstances. Mr Michael Vanstone appears to have died, curiously enough, as Mr Andrew Vanstone died – intestate. With this difference, however, in
the two cases, that the younger brother left an informal will, and the elder brother left no will at all. The hardest men have their weaknesses; and Mr Michael Vanstone’s weakness seems to have been an insurmountable horror of contemplating the event of his own death. His son, his housekeeper and his lawyer, had all three tried over and over again, to get him to make a will; and had never shaken his obstinate resolution to put off performing the only business-duty he was ever known to neglect. Two doctors attended him in his last illness; warned him that he was too old a man to hope to get over it; and warned him in vain. He announced his own positive determination not to die. His last words in this world (as I succeeded in discovering from the nurse, who assisted Mrs Lecount) were, ‘I’m getting better every minute; send for the fly directly and take me out for a drive.’ The same night, Death proved to be the more obstinate of the two; and left his son (and only child) to take the property in due course of law. Nobody doubts that the result would have been the same if a will had been made. The father and son had every confidence in each other; and were known to have always lived together on the most friendly terms.
Mrs Lecount remains with Mr Noel Vanstone, in the same housekeeping capacity which she filled with his father; and has accompanied him to the new residence in Vauxhall Walk. She is acknowledged on all hands to have been a sufferer by the turn events have taken. If Mr Michael Vanstone had made his will, there is no doubt she would have received a handsome legacy. She is now left dependent on Mr Noel Vanstone’s sense of gratitude; and she is not at all likely, I should imagine, to let that sense fall asleep for want of a little timely jogging. Whether my fair relative’s future intentions in this quarter, point towards Mischief or Money, is more than I can yet say. In either case, I venture to predict that she will find an awkward obstacle in Mrs Lecount.