The Chequers | Page 6

that the flashy young man was an
actor, he gave one choking yell, and sat down in limp fashion. All the
rest of the day he muttered at intervals, "A hactor!" and pressed his
hand to his forehead with many groans. At night he 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