Peg Woffington

  CHAPTER VIII.

  JAMES TRIPLET, water in his eye, but fire in his heart, went home onwings. Arrived there, he anticipated curiosity by informing all hands heshould answer no questions. Only in the intervals of a work, which wasto take the family out of all its troubles, he should gradually unfolda tale, verging on the marvelous--a tale whose only fault was, thatfiction, by which alone the family could hope to be great, paled besideit. He then seized some sheets of paper fished out some old dramaticsketches, and a list of _dramatis personae,_ prepared years ago, andplunged into a comedy. As he wrote, true to his promise, he painted,Triplet-wise, that story which we have coldly related, and made itappear, to all but Mrs. Triplet, that he was under the tutela, orexpress protection of Mrs. Woffington, who would push his fortunes untilthe only difficulty would be to keep arrogance out of the family heart.

  Mrs. Triplet groaned aloud. "You have brought the picture home, I see,"said she.

  "Of course I have. She is going to give me a sitting."

  "At what hour, of what day?" said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of meaning.

  "She did not say," replied Triplet, avoiding his wife's eye.

  "I know she did not," was the answer. "I would rather you had brought methe ten shillings than this fine story," said she.

  "Wife!" said Triplet, "don't put me into a frame of mind in whichsuccessful comedies are not written." He scribbled away; but his wife'sdespondency told upon the man of disappointments. Then he stuck fast;then he became fidgety.

  "Do keep those children quiet!" said the father.

  "Hush, my dears," said the mother; "let your father write. Comedy seemsto give you more trouble than tragedy, James," added she, soothingly.

  "Yes," was his answer. "Sorrow comes somehow more natural to me; but forall that I have got a bright thought, Mrs. Triplet. Listen, all of you.You see, Jane, they are all at a sumptuous banquet, all the _dramatispersonae,_ except the poet."

  Triplet went on writing, and reading his work out: "Music, sparklingwine, massive plate, rose-water in the hand-glasses, soup, fish--shallI have three sorts of fish? I will; they are cheap in this market. Ah!Fortune, you wretch, here at least I am your master, and I'll make youknow it--venison," wrote Triplet, with a malicious grin, "game, picklesand provocatives in the center of the table; then up jumps one of theguests, and says he--"

  "Oh dear, I am so hungry."

  This was not from the comedy, but from one of the boys.

  "And so am I," cried a girl.

  "That is an absurd remark, Lysimachus," said Triplet with a suspiciouscalmness. "How can a boy be hungry three hours after breakfast?"

  "But, father, there was no breakfast for breakfast."

  "Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet," appealed the author, "how I am to writecomic scenes if you let Lysimachus and Roxalana here put the heavybusiness in every five minutes?"

  "Forgive them; the poor things are hungry."

  "Then let them be hungry in another room," said the irritated scribe."They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is goingto make all our fortunes; but you women," snapped Triplet the Just,"have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed;every man Jack of them!"

  Finding the conversation taking this turn, the brats raised a unanimoushowl.

  Triplet darted a fierce glance at them. "Hungry, hungry," cried he;"is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sittingdown here, all gayety" (scratching wildly with his pen) "and hilarity"(scratch) "to write a com--com--" he choked a moment; then in a verydifferent voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: "Where's theyoungest--where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry."

  Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gentlyto his side, and wrote silently. The others were still.

  "Father," said Lucy, aged five, the germ of a woman, "I am not veryhungry."

  "And I am not hungry at all," said bluff Lysimachus, taking his sister'scue; then going upon his own tact he added, "I had a great piece ofbread and butter yesterday!"

  "Wife, they will drive me mad!" and he dashed at the paper.

  The second boy explained to his mother, _sotto voce:_ "Mother, he _made_us hungry out of his book."

  "It is a beautiful book," said Lucy. "Is it a cookery book?"

  Triplet roared: "Do you hear that?" inquired he, all trace of ill-humorgone. "Wife," he resumed, after a gallant scribble, "I took that sermonI wrote."

  "And beautiful it was, James. I'm sure it quite cheered me up withthinking that we shall all be dead before so very long."

  "Well, the reverend gentleman would not have it. He said it was too hardupon sin. 'You run at the Devil like a mad bull,' said he. 'Sell it inLambeth, sir; here calmness and decency are before everything,' says he.'My congregation expect to go to heaven down hill. Perhaps the chaplainof Newgate might give you a crown for it,' said he," and Triplet dashedviciously at the paper. "Ah!" sighed he, "if my friend Mrs. Woffingtonwould but drop these stupid comedies and take to tragedy, this housewould soon be all smiles."

  "Oh James!" replied Mrs. Triplet, almost peevishly, "how can you expectanything but fine words from that woman? You won't believe what all theworld says. You will trust to your own good heart."

  "I haven't a good heart," said the poor, honest fellow. "I spoke like abrute to you just now."

  "Never mind, James," said the woman. "I wonder how you put up with meat all--a sick, useless creature. I often wish to die, for your sake. Iknow you would do better. I am such a weight round your neck."

  The man made no answer, but he put Lucy gently down, and went to thewoman, and took her forehead to his bosom, and held it there; and aftera while returned with silent energy to his comedy.

  "Play us a tune on the fiddle, father."

  "Ay, do, husband. That helps you often in your writing."

  Lysimachus brought him the fiddle, and Triplet essayed a merry tune; butit came out so doleful, that he shook his head, and laid theinstrument down. Music must be in the heart, or it will come out of thefingers--notes, not music.

  "No," said he; "let us be serious and finish this comedy slap off.Perhaps it hitches because I forgot to invoke the comic muse. She mustbe a black-hearted jade, if she doesn't come with merry notions to apoor devil, starving in the midst of his hungry little ones."

  "We are past help from heathen goddesses," said the woman. "We must prayto Heaven to look down upon us and our children."

  The man looked up with a very bad expression on his countenance.

  "You forget," said he sullenly, "our street is very narrow, and theopposite houses are very high."

  "James!"

  "How can Heaven be expected to see what honest folk endure in so dark ahole as this?" cried the man, fiercely.

  "James," said the woman, with fear and sorrow, "what words are these?"

  The man rose and flung his pen upon the floor.

  "Have we given honesty a fair trial--yes or no?"

  "No!" said the woman, without a moment's hesitation; "not till we die,as we have lived. Heaven is higher than the sky; children," said she,lest perchance her husband's words should have harmed their young souls,"the sky is above the earth, and heaven is higher than the sky; andHeaven is just."

  "I suppose it is so," said the man, a little cowed by her. "Everybodysays so. I think so, at bottom, myself; but I can't see it. I want tosee it, but I can't!" cried he, fiercely. "Have my children offendedHeaven? They will starve--they will die! If I was Heaven, I'd be just,and send an angel to take these children's part. They cried to me forbread--I had no bread; so I gave them hard words. The moment I had donethat I knew it was all over. God knows it took a long while to break myheart; but it is broken at last; quite, quite broken! broken! broken!"

  And the poor thing laid his head upon the table, and sobbed, beyond allpower of restraint. The children cried round him, scarce knowing why;and Mrs. Triplet could only say, "My poor husband!" and prayed and weptupon the couch where she lay.

  It was at
this juncture that a lady, who had knocked gently and unheard,opened the door, and with a light step entered the apartment; but nosooner had she caught sight of Triplet's anguish, than, saying hastily,"Stay, I forgot something," she made as hasty an exit.

  This gave Triplet a moment to recover himself; and Mrs. Woffington,whose lynx eye had comprehended all at a glance, and who had determinedat once what line to take, came flying in again, saying:

  "Wasn't somebody inquiring for an angel? Here I am. See, Mr. Triplet;"and she showed him a note, which said: "Madam, you are an angel. From aperfect stranger," explained she; "so it must be true."

  "Mrs. Woffington," said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington plantedherself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, settingher arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle.

  "Now you will see another angel--there are two sorts of them."

  Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.

  "Lucifer, avaunt!" cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to thewall; "and wait outside the door," added she, conversationally.

  "I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic--blackdraughts from Burgundy;" and she smiled. And, recovered from theirfirst surprise, young and old began to thaw beneath that witching,irresistible smile. "Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband asitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon with you? I am sohungry." Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent himfor a pie she professed to have fallen in love with at the corner of thestreet.

  "Mother," said Alcibiades, "will the lady give me a bit of her pie?"

  "Hush! you rude boy!" cried the mother.

  "She is not much of a lady if she does not," cried Mrs. Woffington."Now, children, first let us look at--ahem--a comedy. Nineteen _dramatispersonae!_ What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, ornine? that is the question. You can't bring your armies into ourdrawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger-and-bowl. Are you the Marlborough of comedy?Can you marshal battalions on a turkey carpet, and make gentlefolkswitty in platoons? What is this in the first act? A duel, and bothwounded! You butcher!"

  "They are not to die, ma'am!" cried Triplet, deprecatingly "upon myhonor," said he, solemnly, spreading his bands on his bosom.

  "Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? No! Give me a pen; thisis the way we run people through the body." Then she wrote ("business."Araminta looks out of the garret window. Combatants drop their swords,put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and P. S.) "Now,children, who helps me to lay the cloth?"

  "I!"

  "And I!" (The children run to the cupboard.)

  _Mrs. Triplet_ (half rising). "Madam, I--can't think of allowing you."

  Mrs. Woffington replied: "Sit down, madam, or I must use brute force.If you are ill, be ill--till I make you well. Twelve plates, quick!Twenty-four knives, quicker! Forty-eight forks quickest!" She met thechildren with the cloth and laid it; then she met them again and laidknives and forks, all at full gallop, which mightily excited the bairns.Pompey came in with the pie, Mrs. Woffington took it and set it beforeTriplet.

  _Mrs. Woffington._ "Your coat, Mr. Triplet, if you please."

  _Mr. Triplet._ "My coat, madam!"

  _Mrs. Woffington._ "Yes, off with it--there's a hole in it--and carve."Then she whipped to the other end of the table and stitched likewild-fire. "Be pleased to cast your eyes on that, Mrs. Triplet. Passit to the lady, young gentleman. Fire away, Mr. Triplet, never mind uswomen. Woffington's housewife, ma'am, fearful to the eye, only it holdseverything in the world, and there is a small space for everythingelse--to be returned by the bearer. Thank you, sir." (Stitches away likelightning at the coat.) "Eat away, children! now is your time; when onceI begin, the pie will soon end; I do everything so quick."

  _Roxalana._ "The lady sews quicker than you, mother."

  _Woffington._ "Bless the child, don't come so near my sword-arm; theneedle will go into your eye, and out at the back of your head."

  This nonsense made the children giggle.

  "The needle will be lost--the child no more--enter undertaker--houseturned topsy-turvy--father shows Woffington to the door--off shegoes with a face as long and dismal as some people's comedies--nonames--crying fine chan-ey oranges."

  The children, all but Lucy, screeched with laughter.

  Lucy said gravely:

  "Mother, the lady is very funny."

  "You will be as funny when you are as well paid for it."

  This just hit poor Trip's notion of humor, and he began to choke, withhis mouth full of pie.

  "James, take care," said Mrs. Triplet, sad and solemn.

  James looked up.

  "My wife is a good woman, madam," said he; "but deficient in animportant particular."

  "Oh, James!"

  "Yes, my dear. I regret to say you have no sense of humor; nummore thana cat, Jane."

  "What! because the poor thing can't laugh at your comedy?"

  "No, ma'am; but she laughs at nothing."

  "Try her with one of your tragedies, my lad."

  "I am sure, James," said the poor, good, lackadaisical woman, "if Idon't laugh, it is not for want of the will. I used to be a very heartylaugher," whined she; "but I haven't laughed this two years."

  "Oh, indeed!" said the Woffington. "Then the next two years you shall donothing else."

  "Ah, madam!" said Triplet. "That passes the art, even of the greatcomedian."

  "Does it?" said the actress, coolly.

  _Lucy._ "She is not a comedy lady. You don't ever cry, pretty lady?"

  _Woffington_ (ironically). "Oh, of course not."

  _Lucy_ (confidentially). "Comedy is crying. Father cried all the time hewas writing his one."

  Triplet turned red as fire.

  "Hold your tongue," said he. "I was bursting with merriment. Wife,our children talk too much; they put their noses into everything, andcriticise their own father."

  "Unnatural offspring!" laughed the visitor.

  "And when they take up a notion, Socrates couldn't convince them tothe contrary. For instance, madam, all this morning they thought fit toassume that they were starving."

  "So we were," said Lysimachus, "until the angel came; and the devil wentfor the pie."

  "There--there--there! Now, you mark my words; we shall never get thatidea out of their heads--"

  "Until," said Mrs. Woffington, lumping a huge cut of pie into Roxalana'splate, "we put a very different idea into their stomachs." This and thelook she cast on Mrs. Triplet fairly caught that good, though somberpersonage. She giggled; put her hand to her face, and said: "I'm sure Iask your pardon, ma'am."

  It was no use; the comedian had determined they should all laugh, andthey were made to laugh. Then she rose, and showed them how to drinkhealths _a la Francaise;_ and keen were her little admirers to touch herglass with theirs. And the pure wine she had brought did Mrs. Tripletmuch good, too; though not so much as the music and sunshine of her faceand voice. Then, when their stomachs were full of good food, and thesoul of the grape tingled in their veins, and their souls glowed underher great magnetic power, she suddenly seized the fiddle, and showedthem another of her enchantments. She put it on her knee, and playeda tune that would have made gout, cholic and phthisic dance upon theirlast legs. She played to the eye as well as to the ear, with such asmart gesture of the bow, and such a radiance of face as she lookedat them, that whether the music came out of her wooden shell, or herhorse-hair wand, or her bright self, seemed doubtful. They pranced ontheir chairs; they could not keep still. She jumped up; so did they. Shegave a wild Irish horroo. She put the fiddle in Triplet's hand.

  "The wind that shakes the barley, ye divil!" cried she.

  Triplet went _hors de lui;_ he played like Paganini, or an intoxicateddemon. Woffington covered the buckle in gallant style; she danced, thechildren danced. Triplet fiddled and danced, and flung his limbs in wilddislocation: the wineglasses danced; and last, Mrs. Triplet was observedto be bobbing about on her sofa, in a monstrou
s absurd way, droning outthe tune, and playing her hands with mild enjoyment, all to herself.Woffington pointed out this pantomimic soliloquy to the two boys, witha glance full of fiery meaning. This was enough. With a fiendish yell,they fell upon her, and tore her, shrieking, off the sofa. And lo! whenshe was once launched, she danced up to her husband, and set to him witha meek deliberation that was as funny as any part of the scene. Sothen the mover of all this slipped on one side, and let the stone ofmerriment--roll--and roll it did; there was no swimming, sprawling, orirrelevant frisking; their feet struck the ground for every note of thefiddle, pat as its echo, their faces shone, their hearts leaped, andtheir poor frozen natures came out, and warmed themselves at the glowingmelody; a great sunbeam had come into their abode, and these human motesdanced in it. The elder ones recovered their gravity first, they satdown breathless, and put their hands to their hearts; they looked atone another, and then at the goddess who had revived them. Their firstfeeling was wonder; were they the same, who, ten minutes ago, wereweeping together? Yes! ten minutes ago they were rayless, joyless,hopeless. Now the sun was in their hearts, and sorrow and sighing werefled, as fogs disperse before the god of day. It was magical; coulda mortal play upon the soul of man, woman and child like this? HappyWoffington! and suppose this was more than half acting, but such actingas Triplet never dreamed of; and to tell the honest, simple truth, Imyself should not have suspected it; but children are sharper than onewould think, and Alcibiades Triplet told, in after years, that, whenthey were all dancing except the lady, he caught sight of her face--andit was quite, quite grave, and even sad; but, as often as she saw himlook at her, she smiled at him so gayly--he couldn't believe it was thesame face.

  If it was art, glory be to such art so worthily applied! and honor tosuch creatures as this, that come like sunshine into poor men's houses,and tune drooping hearts to daylight and hope!

  The wonder of these worthy people soon changed to gratitude. Mrs.Woffington stopped their mouths at once.

  "No, no!" cried she; "if you really love me, no scenes; I hate them.Tell these brats to kiss me, and let me go. I must sit for my pictureafter dinner; it is a long way to Bloomsbury Square."

  The children needed no bidding; they clustered round her, and poured outtheir innocent hearts as children only do.

  "I shall pray for you after father and mother," said one.

  "I shall pray for you after daily bread," said Lucy, "because we were_tho_ hungry till you came!"

  "My poor children!" cried Woffington, and hard to grown-up actors,as she called us, but sensitive to children, she fairly melted as sheembraced them.

  It was at this precise juncture that the door was unceremoniouslyopened, and the two gentlemen burst upon the scene!

  My reader now guesses whom Sir Charles Pomander surprised more than hedid Mrs. Woffington. He could not for the life of him comprehend whatshe was doing, and what was her ulterior object. The _nil admirari_ ofthe fine gentleman deserted him, and he gazed open-mouthed, like theveriest chaw-bacon.

  The actress, unable to extricate herself in a moment from the children,stood there like Charity, in New College Chapel, while the mother kissedher hand, and the father quietly dropped tears, like some leaden watergod in the middle of a fountain.

  Vane turned hot and cold by turns, with joy and shame. Pomander's geniuscame to the aid of their embarrassment.

  "Follow my lead," whispered he. "What! Mrs. Woffington here!" cried he;then he advanced business-like to Triplet. "We are aware, sir, of yourvarious talents, and are come to make a demand on them. I, sir, am theunfortunate possessor of frescoes; time has impaired their indelicacy,no man can restore it as you can."

  "Augh! sir! sir!" said the gratified goose.

  "My Cupid's bows are walking-sticks, and my Venus's noses are snubbed.You must set all that straight on your own terms, Mr. Triplet."

  "In a single morning all shall bloom again, sir! Whom would you wishthem to resemble in feature? I have lately been praised for my skill inportraiture." (Glancing at Mrs. Woffington.)

  "Oh!" said Pomander, carelessly, "you need not go far for Venuses andCupids, I suppose?"

  "I see, sir; my wife and children. Thank you, sir; thank you."

  Pomander stared; Mrs. Woffington laughed.

  Now it was Vane's turn.

  "Let me have a copy of verses from your pen. I shall have five pounds atyour disposal for them."

  "The world has found me out!" thought Triplet, blinded by his vanity.--

  "The subject, sir?"

  "No matter," said Vane--"no matter."

  "Oh, of course it does not matter to me," said Triplet, with some_hauteur,_ and assuming poetic omnipotence. "Only, when one knows thesubject, one can sometimes make the verses apply better."

  "Write then, since you are so confident, upon Mrs. Woffington."

  "Ah! that is a subject! They shall be ready in an hour!" cried Trip,in whose imagination Parnassus was a raised counter. He had in a teacupsome lines on Venus and Mars which he could not but feel would fitThalia and Croesus, or Genius and Envy, equally well. "In one hour,sir," said Triplet, "the article shall be executed, and delivered atyour house."

  Mrs. Woffington called Vane to her, with an engaging smile. A month agohe would have hoped she would not have penetrated him and Sir Charles;but he knew her better now. He came trembling.

  "Look me in the face, Mr. Vane," said she, gently, but firmly.

  "I cannot!" said he. "How can I ever look you in the face again?"

  "Ah! you disarm me! But I must strike you, or this will never end. DidI not promise that, when you had earned my _if_ esteem, I wouldtell you--what no mortal knows--Ernest, my whole story? I delay theconfession. It will cost me so many blushes, so many tears! And yet Ihope, if you knew all, you would pity and forgive me. Meantime, did Iever tell you a falsehood?"

  "Oh no!"

  "Why doubt me then, when I tell you that I hold all your sex cheapbut you? Why suspect me of Heaven knows what, at the dictation of aheartless, brainless fop--on the word of a known liar, like the world?"

  Black lightning flashed from her glorious eyes as she administered thisroyal rebuke. Vane felt what a poor creature he was, and his face showedsuch burning shame and contrition, that he obtained his pardon withoutspeaking.

  "There," said she, kindly, "do not let us torment one another. I forgiveyou. Let me make you happy, Ernest. Is that a great favor to ask? I canmake you happier than your brightest dream of happiness, if you will letyourself be happy."

  They rejoined the others; but Vane turned his back on Pomander, andwould not look at him.

  "Sir Charles," said Mrs. Woffington gayly; for she scorned to admit thefine gentleman to the rank of a permanent enemy, "you will be of ourparty, I trust, at dinner?"

  "Why, no, madam; I fear I cannot give myself that pleasure to-day." SirCharles did not choose to swell the triumph. "Mr. Vane, good day!"said he, rather dryly. "Mr. Triplet--madam--your most obedient!" and,self-possessed at top, but at bottom crestfallen, he bowed himself away.

  Sir Charles, however, on descending the stair and gaining the street,caught sight of a horseman, riding uncertainly about, and making hishorse curvet, to attract attention.

  He soon recognized one of his own horses, and upon it the servant he hadleft behind to dog that poor innocent country lady. The servant sprangoff his horse and touched his hat. He informed his master that he hadkept with the carriage until ten o'clock this morning, when he hadridden away from it at Barnet, having duly pumped the servants asopportunity offered.

  "Who is she?" cried Sir Charles.

  "Wife of a Cheshire squire, Sir Charles," was the reply.

  "His name? Whither goes she in town?"

  "Her name is Mrs. Vane, Sir Charles. She is going to her husband."

  "Curious!" cried Sir Charles. "I wish she had no husband. No! I wish shecame from Shropshire," and he chuckled at the notion.

  "If you please, Sir Charles," said the man, "is not Willoughby inCheshire?"

/>   "No," cried his master; "it is in Shropshire. What! eh! Five guineas foryou if that lady comes from Willoughby in Shropshire.

  "That is where she comes from then, Sir Charles, and she is going toBloomsbury Square."

  "How long have they been married?"

  "Not more than twelve months, Sir Charles."

  Pomander gave the man ten guineas instead of five on the spot.

  Reader, it was too true! Mr. Vane--the good, the decent, thechurchgoer--Mr. Vane, whom Mrs. Woffington had selected to improve hermorals--Mr. Vane was a married man!