Mr. Folair having obligingly confided these particulars to Nicholas, left him to mingle with his fellows; the work of personal introduction was completed by Mr. Vincent Crummles, who publicly heralded the new actor as a prodigy of genius and learning.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Snevellicci, sidling towards Nicholas, “but did you ever play at Canterbury?”
“I never did,” replied Nicholas.
“I recollect meeting a gentleman at Canterbury,” said Miss Snevellicci, “only for a few moments, for I was leaving the company as he joined it, so like you that I felt almost certain it was the same.”
“I see you now for the first time,” rejoined Nicholas with all due gallantry. “I am sure I never saw you before; I couldn’t have forgotten it.”
“Oh, I’m sure—it’s very flattering of you to say so,” retorted Miss Snevellicci with a graceful bend. “Now I look at you again, I see that the gentleman at Canterbury hadn’t the same eyes as you—you’ll think me very foolish for taking notice of such things, won’t you?”
“Not at all,” said Nicholas. “How can I feel otherwise than flattered by your notice in any way?”
“Oh! you men are such vain creatures!” cried Miss Snevellicci. Whereupon, she became charmingly confused, and, pulling out her pocket-handkerchief from a faded pink silk reticule with a gilt clasp, called to Miss Ledrook—
“Led, my dear,” said Miss Snevellicci.
“Well, what is the matter?” said Miss Ledrook.
“It’s not the same.”
“Not the same what?”
“Canterbury—you know what I mean. Come here! I want to speak to you.”
But Miss Ledrook wouldn’t come to Miss Snevellicci, so Miss Snevellicci was obliged to go to Miss Ledrook, which she did, in a skipping manner that was quite fascinating; and Miss Ledrook evidently joked Miss Snevellicci about being struck with Nicholas; for, after some playful whispering, Miss Snevellicci hit Miss Ledrook very hard on the backs of her hands, and retired up, in a state of pleasing confusion.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Vincent Crummles, who had been writing on a piece of paper, “we’ll call the Mortal Struggle tomorrow at ten; everybody for the procession. Intrigue, and Ways and Means, you’re all up in, so we shall only want one rehearsal. Everybody at ten, if you please.”
“Everybody at ten,” repeated Mrs. Grudden, looking about her.
“On Monday morning we shall read a new piece,” said Mr. Crummles; “the name’s not known yet, but everybody will have a good part. Mr. Johnson will take care of that.”
“Hallo!” said Nicholas, starting. “I—”
“On Monday morning,” repeated Mr. Crummles, raising his voice, to drown the unfortunate Mr. Johnson’s remonstrance; “that’ll do, ladies and gentlemen.”
The ladies and gentlemen required no second notice to quit; and, in a few minutes, the theatre was deserted, save by the Crummles family, Nicholas, and Smike.
“Upon my word,” said Nicholas, taking the manager aside, “I don’t think I can be ready by Monday.”
“Pooh, pooh,” replied Mr. Crummles.
“But really I can’t,” returned Nicholas; “my invention is not accustomed to these demands, or possibly I might produce—”
“Invention! what the devil’s that got to do with it!” cried the manager hastily.
“Everything, my dear sir.”
“Nothing, my dear sir,” retorted the manager, with evident impatience. “Do you understand French?”
“Perfectly well.”
“Very good,” said the manager, opening the table drawer, and giving a roll of paper from it to Nicholas. “There! Just turn that into English, and put your name on the title-page. Damn me,” said Mr. Crummles, angrily, “if I haven’t often said that I wouldn’t have a man or woman in my company that wasn’t master of the language, so that they might learn it from the original, and play it in English, and save all this trouble and expense.”
Nicholas smiled and pocketed the play.
“What are you going to do about your lodgings?” said Mr. Crummles.
Nicholas could not help thinking that, for the first week, it would be an uncommon convenience to have a turn-up bedstead in the pit, but he merely remarked that he had not turned his thoughts that way.
“Come home with me then,” said Mr. Crummles, “and my boys shall go with you after dinner, and show you the most likely place.”
The offer was not to be refused; Nicholas and Mr. Crummles gave Mrs. Crummles an arm each, and walked up the street in stately array. Smike, the boys, and the phenomenon, went home by a shorter cut, and Mrs. Grudden remained behind to take some cold Irish stew and a pint of porter in the box-office.
Mrs. Crummles trod the pavement as if she were going to immediate execution with an animating consciousness of innocence, and that heroic fortitude which virtue alone inspires. Mr. Crummles, on the other hand, assumed the look and gait of a hardened despot; but they both attracted some notice from many of the passersby, and when they heard a whisper of “Mr. and Mrs. Crummles!” or saw a little
