It would be pleasant for a conscientious historian to be able to say that the one-thirty broke down just outside Victoria, and that Babington arrived at the theatre at the precise moment when the curtain fell and the gratified audience began to stream out. But truth, though it crush me. The one-thirty was so punctual that one might have thought that it belonged to a line other than the line to which it did belong. From Victoria to Charing Cross is a journey that occupies no considerable time, and Babington found himself at his destination with five minutes to wait. At twenty past his cousin arrived, and they made their way to the theatre. A brief skirmish with a liveried menial in the lobby, and they were in their seats.
Some philosopher, of extraordinary powers of intuition, once informed the world that the best of things come at last to an end. The statement was tested, and is now universally accepted as correct. To apply the general to the particular, the play came to an end amidst uproarious applause, to which Babington contributed an unstinted quotum, about three hours after it had begun.
“What do you say to going and grubbing somewhere?” asked Babington’s cousin, as they made their way out.
“Hullo, there’s that man Richards,” he continued, before Babington could reply that of all possible actions he considered that of going and grubbing somewhere the most desirable. “Fellow I know at Guy’s, you know,” he added, in explanation. “I’ll get him to join us. You’ll like him, I expect.”
Richards professed himself delighted, and shook hands with Babington with a fervour which seemed to imply that until he had met him life had been a dreary blank, but that now he could begin to enjoy himself again. “I should like to join you, if you don’t mind including a friend of mine in the party,” said Richards. “He was to meet me here. By the way, he’s the author of that new piece—The Way of the World.”
“Why, we’ve just been there.”
“Oh, then you will probably like to meet him. Here he is.”
As he spoke a man came towards them, and, with a shock that sent all the blood in his body to the very summit of his head, and then to the very extremities of his boots, Babington recognized Mr. Seymour. The assurance of the programme that the play was by Walter Walsh was a fraud. Nay worse, a downright and culpable lie. He started with the vague idea of making a rush for safety, but before his paralysed limbs could be induced to work, Mr. Seymour had arrived, and he was being introduced (oh, the tragic irony of it) to the man for whose benefit he was at that very moment supposed to be working out examples three hundred to three-twenty in Hall and Knight.
Mr. Seymour shook hands, without appearing to recognize him. Babington’s blood began to resume its normal position again, though he felt that this seeming ignorance of his identity might be a mere veneer, a wile of guile, as the bard puts it. He remembered, with a pang, a story in some magazine where a prisoner was subjected to what the lighthearted inquisitors called the torture of hope. He was allowed to escape from prison, and pass guards and sentries apparently without their noticing him. Then, just as he stepped into the open air, the chief inquisitor tapped him gently on the shoulder, and, more in sorrow than in anger, reminded him that it was customary for condemned men to remain inside their cells. Surely this was a similar case. But then the thought came to him that Mr. Seymour had only seen him once, and so might possibly have failed to remember him, for there was nothing special about Babington’s features that arrested the eye, and stamped them on the brain for all time. He was rather ordinary than otherwise to look at. At tea, as bad luck would have it, the two sat opposite one another, and Babington trembled. Then the worst happened. Mr. Seymour, who had been looking attentively at him for some time, leaned forward and said in a tone evidently devoid of suspicion: “Haven’t we met before somewhere? I seem to remember your face.”
“Er—no, no,” replied Babington. “That is, I think not. We may have.”
“I feel sure we have. What school are you at?”
Babington’s soul began to writhe convulsively.
“What, what school? Oh, what school? Why, er—I’m at—er—Uppingham.”
Mr. Seymour’s face assumed a pleased expression.
“Uppingham? Really. Why, I know several Uppingham fellows. Do you know Mr. Morton? He’s a master at Uppingham, and a great friend of mine.”
The room began to dance briskly before Babington’s eyes, but he clutched at a straw, or what he thought was a straw.
“Uppingham? Did I say Uppingham? Of course, I mean Rugby, you know, Rugby. One’s always mixing the two up, you know. Isn’t one?”
Mr. Seymour looked at him in amazement. Then he looked at the others as if to ask which of the two was going mad, he or the youth opposite him. Babington’s cousin listened to the wild fictions which issued from his lips in equal amazement. He thought he must be ill. Even Richards had a fleeting impression that it was a little odd that a fellow should forget what school he was at, and mistake the name Rugby for that of Uppingham, or vice versa. Babington became an object of interest.
“I say, Jack,” said the cousin, “you’re feeling all right, aren’t you? I mean, you don’t seem to know what you’re talking about. If you’re going to be ill, say so, and I’ll prescribe for you.”
“Is he at Rugby?” asked Mr. Seymour.
“No, of course he’s not. How could he have got from Rugby to London in time for a morning performance? Why, he’s at St. Austin’s.”
Mr. Seymour sat for a moment in silence, taking this in. Then he chuckled. “It’s all right,” he said, “he’s not ill. We have met before, but under such painful circumstances
