His first proceeding was to drop the work-box, and pick it up again in a great hurry; his second, to go to the looking glass (no such piece of furniture ornamented his loft bedroom), and try to put on the new cravat. He had only half tied it, and was hesitating, utterly helpless, over the bow, when a light step sounded on the floor-cloth outside. Annie came in.
‘Julius Caesar at the looking-glass! Oh, good gracious, what can have come to him!’ exclaimed the little girl with a merry laugh.
How fresh, and blooming, and pretty she looked, as she ran up the next moment; and telling him to stoop, tied his cravat directly—standing on tiptoe. ‘There,’ she cried, ‘now that’s done, what have you got to say to me, sir, on my birthday!’
‘I’ve got a box; and I’m so glad it’s your birthday,’ says Julius Caesar, too confused by the suddenness of the cravat-tying to know exactly what he is talking about.
‘Oh, what a splendid work-box! how kind of you, to be sure! what care I shall take of it! Come, sir, I suppose I must tell you to give me a kiss after that,’ and, standing on tiptoe again, she held up her fresh rosy cheek to be kissed, with such a pretty mixture of bashfulness, gratitude, and arch enjoyment in her look, that ‘Julius Caesar’, I regret to say, felt inclined then and there to go down upon both his knees and worship her outright.
Before the decorous reader has time to consider all this very improper, I had better, perhaps, interpose a word, and explain that Annie Wray had promised Martin Blunt, (I give his real name again here, because this is serious business,) yes; had actually promised him that one day she would be his wife. She kept all her promises; but I can tell you she was especially determined to keep this.
Impossible! exclaims the lady reader. With her good looks she might aspire many degrees above a poor carpenter; besides, how could she possibly care about a great lumpish, awkward fellow, who is ugly, say what you will about his expression?
I might reply, madam, that our little Annie had looked rather deeper than the skin in choosing her husband; and had found out certain qualities of heart and disposition about this poor carpenter, which made her love—aye, and respect and admire him too. But I prefer asking you a question, by way of answer. Did you never meet with any individuals of your own sex, lovely, romantic, magnificent young women, who have fairly stupefied the whole circle of their relatives and friends by marrying particularly short, scrubby, matter-of-fact, middle-aged men, showing, too, every symptom of fondness for them into the bargain? I fancy you must have seen such cases as I have mentioned; and, when you can explain them to my satisfaction, I shall be happy to explain the anomalous engagement of little Annie to yours.
In the meantime it may be well to relate, that this odd love affair was only once hinted at to Mr Wray. The old man flew into a frantic passion directly; and threatened dire extremities if the thing was ever thought of more. Lonely, and bereaved of all other ties, as he was, he had, in regard to his granddaughter, that jealousy of other people loving her, which is of all weaknesses, in such cases as his, the most pardonable and the most pure. If a duke had asked for Annie in marriage, I doubt very much whether Mr Wray would have let him have her, except upon the understanding that they were all to live together.
Under these circumstances, the engagement was never hinted at again. Annie told her lover they must wait, and be patient, and remain as brother and sister to one another, till better chances and better times came. And ‘Julius Caesar’ listened, and strictly obeyed. He was a good deal like a large, faithful dog to his little betrothed: he loved her, watched over her, guarded her, with his whole heart and strength; only asking in return, the privilege of fulfilling her slightest wish.
Well; this kiss, about which I have been digressing so long, was fortunately just over, when another footstep sounded outside; the door opened; and—yes! we have got him at last, in his own proper person! Enter Mr Reuben Wray!
Age has given him a stoop, which he tries to conceal, but cannot. His cheeks are hollow; his face is seamed with wrinkles, the work not only of time, but of trial, too. Still, there is vitality of mind, courage of heart about the old man, even yet. His look has not lost all its animation, nor his smile its warmth. There is the true Kemble walk, and the true Kemble carriage of the head for you, if you like!—there is the second-hand tragic grandeur and propriety, which the unfortunate ‘Julius Caesar’ daily contemplates, yet cannot even faintly copy! Look at his dress, again. Threadbare as it is (patched, I am afraid, in some places), there is not a speck of dust on it, and what little hair is left on his bald head is as carefully brushed as if he rejoiced in the love-locks of Absalom himself. No! though misfortune, and disappointment, and grief, and heavy-handed penury have all been assailing him ruthlessly enough for more than half a century, they have not got the brave old fellow down yet! At seventy years of age he is still on his legs in the prize-ring of Life; badly punished all over (as the pugilists say), but determined to win the fight to the last!
‘Many happy reurns of the day, my love,’ says old Reuben, going up to Annie, and kissing her. ‘This is the twentieth birthday of yours I’ve lived to see. Thank God for that!’
‘Look at my present, grandfather,’ cries the little girl, proudly showing her work-box. ‘Can you guess who made it?’
‘You are a good fellow, Julius Caesar!’ exclaims Mr Wray, guessing directly. ‘Good morning; shake hands.’—(Then, in a lower voice to Annie)—‘Has he broken anything in particular, since he’s been up?’ ‘No!’ ‘I’m very glad to hear it. Julius Caesar, let me offer you a pinch of snuff,’ and here he pulled out his box quite in the Kemble style. He had his natural manner, and his Kemble manner. The first only appeared when anything greatly pleased or affected him—the second was for those ordinary occasions when he had time to remember that he was a teacher of elocution, and a pupil of the English Roscius.
‘Thank ye, kindly, sir,’ said the gratified carpenter, cautiously advancing his huge finger and thumb towards the offered box.
‘Stop!’ cried old Wray, suddenly withdrawing it. He always lectured to Julius Caesar on elocution when he had nobody else to teach, just to keep his hand in. ‘Stop! that won’t do. In the first place, “Thank ye, kindly, sir”, though good-humoured, is grossly inelegant. “Sir, I am obliged to you”, is the proper phrase—mind you sound the i in obliged—never say obleeged, as some people do; and remember, what I am now telling you, Mr Kemble once said to the Prince Regent! The next hint I have to give is this—never take your pinch of snuff with your right hand finger and thumb; it should be always the left. Perhaps you would like to know why?’
‘Yes, please, sir,’ says the admiring disciple, very humbly.
‘“Yes, if you please, sir,” would have been better; but let that pass as a small error.—And now, I will tell you why, in an anecdote. Matthews was one day mimicking Mr Kemble to his face, in Penruddock—the great scene where he stops to take a pinch of snuff. “Very good, Matthews; very like me,” says Mr Kemble complacently, when Matthews had done; “but you have made one great mistake.” “What’s that?” cries Matthews sharply. “My friend, you have not represented me taking snuff like a gentleman: now, I always do. You took your pinch, in imitating my Penruddock, with your right hand: I use my left—a gentleman invariably does, because then he has his right hand always clean from tobacco to give to his friend!”—There! remember that: and now you may take your pinch.’
Mr Wray next turned round to speak to Annie; but his voice was instantly drowned in a perfect explosion of sneezes, absolutely screamed out by the unhappy ‘Julius Caesar’, whose nasal nerves were convulsed by the snuff. Mentally determining never to offer his box to his faithful follower again, old Reuben gave up making his proposed remark, until they were all quietly seated round the breakfast table; then, he returned to the charge with renewed determination.
‘Annie, my dear,’ said he, ‘you and I have read a great deal together of our divine Shakespeare, as Mr Kemble always called him. You are my regular pupil, yo
u know, and ought to be able to quote by this time almost as much as I can. I am going to try you with something quite new—suppose I had offered you the pinch of snuff (Mr Julius Caesar shall never have another, I can promise him); what would you have said from Shakespeare applicable to that? Just think now!’
‘But, grandfather, snuff wasn’t invented in Shakespeare’s time—was it?’ said Annie.
‘That’s of no consequence,’ retorted the old man: ‘Shakespeare was for all time: you can quote him for everything in the world, as long as the world lasts. Can’t you quote him for snuff? I can. Now, listen. You say to me, “I offer you a pinch of snuff?” I answer from Cymbeline (Act iv, scene 2): “Pisanio! I’ll now taste of thy drug.” There! won’t that do? What’s snuff but a drug for the nose? It just fits—everything of the divine Shakespeare’s does, when you know him by heart, as I do—eh, little Annie? And now give me some more sugar; I wish it was lump for your sake, dear; but I’m afraid we can only afford moist. Anybody called about the advertisement? a new pupil this morning—eh?’
No! no pupils at all: not a man, woman, or child in the town, to teach elocution to yet! Mr Wray was not at all despondent about this; he had made up his mind that a pupil must come in the course of the day; and that was enough for him. His little quibbling from Shakespeare about the snuff had put him in the best of good humours. He went on making quotations, talking elocution, and eating bread and butter, as brisk and happy, as if all Tidbury had combined to form one mighty class for him, and resolved to pay ready money for every lesson.
But after breakfast, when the things were taken away, the old man seemed suddenly to recollect something which changed his manner altogether. He grew first embarrassed; then silent; then pulled out his Shakespeare, and began to read with ostentatious assiduity, as if he were especially desirous that nobody should speak to him.
At the same time, a close observer might have detected Mr ‘Julius Caesar’ making various uncouth signs and grimaces to Annie, which the little girl apparently understood, but did not know how to answer. At last, with an effort, as if she were summoning extraordinary resolution, she said:—
‘Grandfather—you have not forgotten your promise?’
No answer from Mr Wray. Probably, he was too much absorbed over Shakespeare to hear.
‘Grandfather,’ repeated Annie, in a louder tone; ‘you promised to explain a certain mystery to us, on my birthday.’
Mr Wray was obliged to hear this time. He looked up with a very perplexed face.
‘Yes, dear,’ said he; ‘I did promise; but I almost wish I had not. It’s rather a dangerous mystery to explain, little Annie, I can tell you! Why should you be so very curious to know about it?’
‘I’m sure, grandfather,’ pleaded Annie, ‘you can’t say I am over-curious, or Julius Caesar either, in wanting to know it. Just recollect—we had been only three days at Stratford-upon-Avon, when you came in, looking so dreadfully frightened, and said we must go away directly. And you made us pack up; and we all went off in a hurry, more like prisoners escaping, than honest people.’
‘We did!’ groaned old Reuben, beginning to look like a culprit already.
‘Well,’ continued Annie; ‘and you wouldn’t tell us a word of what it was all for, beg as hard as we might. And then, when we asked why you never let that old cash box (which I used to keep my odds and ends in) out of your own hands, after we left Stratford—you wouldn’t tell us that, either, and ordered us never to mention the thing again. It was only in one of your particular good humours, that I just got you to promise you would tell us all about it on my next birthday—to celebrate the day, you said, I’m sure we are to be trusted with any secrets; and I don’t think it’s being very curious to want to know this.’
‘Very well,’ said Mr Wray, rising, with a sort of desperate calmness; ‘I’ve promised, and, come what may, I’ll keep my promise. Wait here; I’ll be back directly.’ And he left the room, in a great hurry.
He returned immediately, with the cash box. A very battered, shabby affair, to make such a mystery about! thought Annie, as he put the box on the table, and solemnly laid his hands across it.
‘Now, then,’ said old Wray, in his deepest tragedy tones, and with very serious looks; ‘Promise me, on your word of honour—both of you—that you’ll never say a word of what I’m going to tell, to anybody, on any account whatever—I don’t care what happens—on any account whatever!’
Annie and her lover gave their promises directly, and very seriously. They were getting a little agitated by all these elaborate preparations for the coming disclosure.
‘Shut the door!’ said Mr Wray, in a stage whisper. ‘Now sit close and listen; I’m ready to explain the mystery.’
IV
‘I suppose,’ said old Reuben, ‘you have neither of you forgotten that, on the second day of our visit to Stratford, I went out in the afternoon to dine with an intimate friend of mine, whom I’d known from a boy, and who lived at some little distance from the town—’
‘Forget that!’ cried Annie! ‘I don’t think we ever shall—I was frightened about you, all the time you were gone.’
‘Frightened about what?’ asked Mr Wray sharply. ‘Do you mean to tell me, Annie, you suspected—’
‘I don’t know what I suspected, grandfather; but I thought your going away by yourself, to sleep at your friend’s house (as you told us), and not to come back till the next morning, something very extraordinary. It was the first time we had ever slept under different roofs—only think of that!’
‘I’m ashamed to say, my dear’—rejoined Mr Wray, suddenly beginning to look and speak very uneasily—‘that I turned hypocrite, and something worse, too, on that occasion. I deceived you. I had no friend to go and dine with; and I didn’t pass that night in any house at all.’
‘Grandfather!’—cried Annie, jumping up in a fright—‘What can you mean!’
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ added ‘Julius Caesar’, turning very red, and slowly clenching both his enormous fists as he spoke—‘Beg pardon; but if you was put upon, or made fun of by any chaps that night, I wish you’d just please tell me where I could find ’em.’
‘Nobody ill-used me,’ said the old man, in steady, and even solemn tones. ‘I passed that night by the grave of William Shakespeare, in Stratford-upon-Avon Church!’
Annie sank back into her seat, and lost all her pretty complexion in a moment. The worthy carpenter gave such a start, that he broke the back rail of his chair. It was a variation on his usual performances of this sort, which were generally confined to cups, saucers, and wine-glasses.
Mr Wray took no notice of the accident. This was of itself enough to show that he was strongly agitated by something. After a momentary silence, he spoke again, completely forgetting the Kemble manner and the Kemble elocution, as he went on.
‘I say again, I passed all that night in Stratford Church; and you shall know for what. You went with me, Annie, in the morning—it was Tuesday: yes, Tuesday morning—to see Shakespeare’s bust in the church. You looked at it, like other people, just as a curiosity—I looked at it, as the greatest treasure in the world; the only true likeness of Shakespeare! It’s been done from a mask, taken from his own face, after death—I know it: I don’t care what people say, I know it. Well, when we went home, I felt as if I’d seen Shakespeare himself, risen from the dead! Strangers would laugh if I told them so; but it’s true—I did feel it. And this thought came across me, quick, like the shooting of a sudden pain:—I must make that face of Shakespeare mine; my possession, my companion, my great treasure that no money can pay for! And I’ve got it!—Here!—the only cast in the world from the Stratford bust is locked up in this old cash box!’
He paused a moment. Astonishment kept both his auditors silent.
‘You both know,’ he continued, ‘that I was bred apprentice to a statuary. Among other things, he taught me to take casts: it was part of our business—the easiest part. I knew I could take a mould off the Stratford b
ust, if I had the courage; and the courage came to me: on the Tuesday, it came. I went and bought some plaster, some soft soap, and a quart basin—those were my materials—and tied them up together in an old canvas bag. Water was all I wanted besides; and that I saw in the church vestry, in the morning—a jug of it, left I suppose since Sunday, where it had been put for the clergyman’s use. I could carry my bag under my cloak quite comfortably, you understand. The only thing that troubled me now was how to get into the church again, without being suspected. While I was thinking, I passed the inn door. Some people were on the steps, talking to some other people in the street: they were making an appointment to go all together, and see Shakespeare’s bust and grave that very afternoon. This was enough for me: I determined to go into the church with them.’
‘What! and stop there all night, grandfather?’
‘And stop there all night, Annie. Taking a mould, you know, is not a very long business; but I wanted to take mine unobserved; and the early morning, before anybody was up, was the only time to do that safely in the church. Besides, I wanted plenty of leisure, because I wasn’t sure I should succeed at first, after being out of practice so long in making casts. But you shall hear how I did it, when the time comes. Well, I made up the story about dining and sleeping at my friend’s, because I didn’t know what might happen, and because—because, in short, I didn’t like to tell you what I was going to do. So I went out secretly, near the church; and waited for the party coming. They were late—late in the afternoon, before they came. We all went in together; I with my bag, you know, hid under my cloak. The man who showed us over the church in the morning, luckily for me, wasn’t there: an old woman took his duty for him in the afternoon. I waited till the visitors were all congregated round Shakespeare’s grave, bothering the poor woman with foolish questions about him. I knew that was my time, and slipped off into the vestry, and opened the cupboard, and hid myself among the surplices, as quiet as a mouse. After a while, I heard one of the strangers in the church (they were very rude, boisterous people) asking the other, what had become of the ‘old fogey with the cloak?’ and the other answered that he must have gone out, like a wise man, and that they had all better go after him, for it was precious cold and dull in the church. They went away: I heard the doors shut, and knew I was locked in for the night.’
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