The Chequers | Page 6

went into Letty's room, and as he gazed on the girl's worn face he said, "A hactor! The Billiters is done for. Their goose is cooked!"
Devine fairly luxuriated in his desolation. I could tell from his mode of dwelling on his woes that he had keenly enjoyed playing the forlorn lover. As he told me of those sleepless nights spent long ago, and rolled out his sonorous record of suffering, his watering eye gleamed with pleasure, and I can well imagine how sorely he bored his friends when he was young and his grief was at its most enjoyable height. But he was no milksop, and he resolved that Mr. Billiter should not baulk him. Where is the actor who does not delight in stratagems and mysteries? Bless their honest hearts, they could not endure life without an occasional plot or mystification! Two months after Letty's incarceration, a decently-dressed man called at Mr. Billiter's with a parcel. The visitor was clad in tweed; his smart whiskers were dexterously trained and he looked like a natty draper's assistant. "These things were ordered by post, and I wish Miss Billiter to select her own patterns."
"Miss Billiter's with her aunt, and she don't see anyone at present."
"Then kindly hand in the parcel, and I will call in an hour."
That night Letty was restless. The sly little thing had managed to deceive her aunt; but the problem of how to elude father was troublesome.
William had an American engagement; he would have a fast horse ready next evening at eight; Mr. Billiter would be summoned by a telegram; then train to Southampton--licence--the mail to New York, and bliss for ever! Letty must rush out like a truant schoolgirl--never mind about hat or cloak; the escape must be made, and then let those catch who can.
This was Devine's plan, and he carried it out with perfect nerve. A fortnight afterwards the mail steamer was surging along in mid-Atlantic, and the plucky actor was passing happy, idle days with his wife.
* * * * *
Billy had the nerve of a man once, but he utters a kind of strangled shriek now if a dog barks close to him, and he cannot lift his glass in the mornings--he stoops to the counter and sucks his first mouthfuls like a horse drinking, or he passes his handkerchief round his neck, and draws his liquor gently up with the handkerchief to steady him. A long way has Billy travelled since he was a merry young player. I shall say more about him presently.

THE PINK TOM CAT.
My friend the publisher calls the Loafer's narratives "thrilling," but I, as editor of the Diaries, would prefer another adjective. The Loafer was a man who only cared for gloom and squalor after he had given up the world of gaiety and refinement. Men of his stamp, when they receive a crushing mental blow, always shrink away like wounded animals and forsake their companions. A very distinguished man, who is now living, disappeared for fifteen years, and chose on his return to be regarded as an utter stranger. His former self had died, and he was strengthened and embittered by suffering. The Loafer was of that breed.
Two locked volumes of the Loafer's Diary were delivered to me, and I found that the man had once been joyous to the last degree, ambitious, successful, and full of generous thoughts and fine aspirations. Some of his songs breathe the very spirit of delight, and he wrote his glad thoughts at night when he could not sleep for the keen pleasure of living. Then comes a sudden cloud, and from that time onward the Diary is bitter, brutal, and baldly descriptive of life's abominations. It would not become me to speak with certainty, but I fancy that a woman had something to do with the Loafer's wild and reckless change. He is reticent, but his poems all point in one direction. Here is a grave note of passion:--
The sombre heather framed you round, The starlight touched your pallid face, You moved across the silvered ground-- The night was happy with your grace.
The air was steeped in silver fire, The gorse was touched with silvern sheen; The nightingales--the holy choir-- Sang bridal songs for you, my queen.
But songs and starfire, pomp of night, Murmur of trees and Ocean's roll, Were poor beside the blind delight-- The Love that quivered in my soul.
Further on there is a single brief verse like a cry of rage and despair:--
And is it then the End of all? O, Father! What a doom is mine-- An unreturning prodigal, Who feeds on husks and herds with swine!
After many ravings the torn soul seems to grow calm, and we have this pensive and tender fragment of music:--
The dreams that fill the thoughtful night, All holy dreams