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, you 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 elabourate 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
