Ambrose Fecit, or, The peer and the printer :: :: University of Virginia Library

The performance of Richard, which
I have described in the last chapter,
was not only unique in itself, but serviceable
to the company, since it drew
attention to the theatre, and set the
good people of Selgrove a-gog in regard
to the new piece. I received no
gratitude, however, but a deal of ill-will,
in return for my share in this desirable
result. The manager declared
my conduct to be highly unprofessional,
as no doubt it was, and took me
roundly to task for having compromised
the dignity of the stage, and
the reputation of the theatre. Fuzzy
was sulky and morose, and laid his
bruised nose at my door. The offended
amateur, whose friends informed him
that he had been made a butt of, threatened

vengeance, and endeavored to
organize a cabal for the avowed purpose
of hissing me from the stage. A
nice piece of hot water I had dipped
in, to be sure; and though I was under
no alarm as to consequences, I
mentally resolved to allow my love of
mischief less rein in the future. Finch
spoke to me very sensibly on the subject,
and pointed me out that the consequences
of such freaks was to raise
me up enemies who might at some inopportune
moment do me an evil turn.
At the same time he admitted the
temptation to have been great for a
lover of the ludicrous.

Partly to avoid expense, and partly
to impress the public with the extent
of our preparations, the theatre was
closed for a week previous to the production
of our new play—the actors,
when rehearsal was over each day,
lounging in knots on the steps, or betaking
themselves to such porterhouses
in the neighborhood as were
liberal of their credit. As for me, I
divided my hours between the pursuit
of my favorite study of languages at
home, the yarns of Billy Nuts in the
paint-loft, and the conversation of
Finch and his daughter at their lodgings,
which I frequently visited. In
the last case Finch was the main attraction,
for though I was young, and
Cecilia agreeable, I was not in the
least in love with the young lady, nor
had I the most remote reason to suspect
that she regarded me in any other
light than that of a pleasant acquaintance.

The new piece was announced for
Monday night. The Saturday night
previous I climbed to the paint-loft to
watch Nuts give the finishing touch to
the great scene of the Market-place of
Selgrove. Billy was as loquacious as
usual, and Finch, who was there, more
melancholy than ever. After Billy
had got off one of his most marvellous
yarns, he turned to me and said:

“An' that minds me, Mr. Neville,
that there vos a gent as inkvired wery
pertickler arter you yisterday.”

“Ah! who was he?”

“That's vot I don't know. He's a
gent as seed me lookin' unkimmon dry,
an axed me to vet my vissle. I know'd
he vos a gent by his behavior as sich.”

“What did he ask?”

“Vy, he said you vos a clever young
hactor, an' ax'd if you 'adn't some
other name besides Neville, an' vere
you come from, an' vere you lodged,
an' if you were steady or fond of a
drop. `Vell,' sez I, `most young
hactors takes fancy names; but vere
Mr. Neville comes from I never ax'd,
an' vere he lodges you'll git from the
box-hoffis', sez I, `an' has for his steadiness,
there haint a steadier or a properer-behaved
young man in the perfession',
sez I, `though Mr. Fuzzy does
think he's a leetle too fond of a lark.”'

“What kind of a looking man was
the questioner, Billy?” I inquired.

“A short, stout gent; kvite the gent
in his dress an' manner he vos too;
kvite nobby.”

Finch said to me:

“When you have been in the profession
as long as I, you won't mind
these sort of inquiries. Some people
take an absurd interest in the history
of actors, and their sayings and doings
off the stage, especially if they
be popular favorites. It's only a troublesome
way of showing their regard.”

“A very impertinent way.”

“The penalty of popularity; nothing
more.”

I thought that probably the conjecture
of Finch was correct; but the
circumstance gave me some uneasiness,
nevertheless. This was momentary.
Finch left the paint-loft, and I
followed and joined him on his way
home, as I had promised to take tea
with him at his lodgings.

On our way Finch said:

“I have a trust for you, if you will
execute it.”

“Certainly; if I can.”

“I have been troubled with a difficulty
of breathing for several days
past, and so I consulted a doctor about
it.”

“And he told you that you had the
phthisic, I suppose,” I rejoined.

“Nothing of the sort, I am sorry to
say. He sings the same tune with the
rest. He says that—well, I can't remember
medical jargon, but it is something
about valves and auricles—and
the long and short of it is that I shall
not last long.”

“That has been the doctors' prophecy
for a long while, hasn't it?”

“Yes; and a true one it will prove.
I am prepared for the worst. I have
endeavored to do my duty, and the old
stroller is ready to have his bones laid
in earth whenever it pleases Providence
to so order it. I have looked
death so long in the face that he has
no terrors for me. But Cecilia—”

“Have no fears for her, my friend.
She has talent, determination, and good
sense, and there is no one in the company
who would not guard her from
harm.”

“True; but she is young, and I have
the fears of a father. I do not wish
her to remain on the stage. If any
thing should happen to me, there is a
slight favor that you can do me.”

“Name it.”

“Here is a letter which I have prepared.
It is addressed to Adolphus
Teignham, Esquire. Here is his proper
address on this card. If I should
be carried off suddenly, enclose it in
one announcing my death, and post it
as soon as possible. It is addressed
to my younger brother. He is a widower,
but has no children; and I
think he will take charge of Cecilia,
from pride of blood, if not from affection.”

I took the letter and gave the promise
required, though at the same
time I tried to disperse the cloud of
fears which hung so heavily on the
old man. It was a vain attempt.

The night for the new play came,
and the theatre was crowded. As a
drama the piece was good for nothing,
having neither unity of plot, coherence
of incident, nor novelty of character;
but the local scenery which
illustrated it, and the telling hits which
had been ruthlessly plundered from all
authors, tickled the public fancy, and
won a complete success. For weeks
and weeks it filled the house nightly,
until the close of the season, when the
final performances was marked by a
tragic incident.

The drama closed with the discovery
of the jailer's true character, the frustration
of the villain, and with all
those who were good being made happy,
and all those who were bad being
made miserable—a most conventional
ending.

Finch played the old miser, while
Cecilia and myself were the lovers of
the piece.

The last words of Finch, which

brought down the curtain, were:

“I owed my self-mortification to the
past. I have endeavored to atone for
my former follies, by a course of good
to others. How I have succeeded is
for the future to determine; but for
to-night it is enough if our kind friends
are pleased with the Jailer of Selgrove.”

During the entire performance Finch
had hesitated several times, and seemed
to find difficulty in utterance. In
the last scene he had got so far as the
words “for the future,” when he stopped,
burst into tears, and staggered.
I caught him on the instant. His features
were convulsed—he repeated the
words “the future,” and then uttering
with great difficulty, “the letter,” fell
back. Cecilia sprang forward shrieking,
and clasped his hand. He smiled
on her, and the next moment was dead.

The stage was in confusion in an instant,
and the house, which divined the
event, was hushed to stillness, as the
curtain fell. Haresfoot went in front
and announced the unexpected tragedy,
when the audience quietly dispersed.

That night I posted the letter to Mr.
Teignham, and in forty-eight hours
Cecilia's uncle arrived. He took charge
of Finch's, or rather Frederic Teignham's
body, which was to be interred
in the family vault at Staffordshire; at
once acknowledged his niece, thanked
me for my attention in a polite but
cold way, and left on the following day.

The morning of Mr. Teignham's arrival,
I received by mail, bearing the
Puttenham post-mark, the following
letter:

“Honored sir—I have learned from
a conversation which I have over
heard, the place you are at, and the
name you bear, and that some harm is
meant you. My lady, to whom I told
it, has ordered me to write and let you
know. So no more at present from
yours to command.”

The epistle had neither date nor siguature,
but I felt well assured that it
came from Gifford. The inquiries,
then, had been made with an object,
and probably by an agent of the earl,
or Osborne. After reflection, I concluded
the best thing for me to do was
to seek my original destination. I
sought Haresfoot in order to tell him
my determination, and found him not
in the best of humors.

“Here is a nice piece of business,
to be sure,” said the manager. “They
have made Miss Finch break her engagement,
and here I shall have to
open at Pottenbury with no chambermaid
nor juvenile lady. Who's to fill
her place, I wonder? There's Parker,
whose place you took, wants an engagement;
but he's no lady.”

“I'm glad to hear you can get him,”
I answered, “as I will have to leave.”

“What! what!” exclaimed Haresfoot,
firing off a dozen winks in his
dismay. “You going too!”

“I shall be obliged to. I am glad
that my going won't inconvenience
you.”

“But I don't choose to have you
leave in that way. If I suffer every
one to violate engagements in that
kind of way, I shall be at the mercy of
the company.”

I explained my reasons as well as I
could without letting him know too
much of my history; and as Mr. Parker
was really the better actor of the
two, left him mollified. My affairs

were soon arranged, and in a few hours
I was in the city of London.