Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

“You seem now to be in good spirits,” said I, “certainly better than before our visit to Mrs. Paltrow.”

“Yes, well, it does no good to put off such matters,” said he.

“As, no doubt, you have always said.”

“It is a rule I practice with some regularity,” said he, stiffening a little, “though perhaps not with the religious devotion that you might prefer.” Then did he add: “May I ask, Jeremy, since you were eager to learn from this interrogation, what bit of instruction did you come away with?”

It was of a sudden no longer a game. I thought hard upon how I might answer the question truthfully, for I knew that indeed I had learned from him that day. Yet how to isolate it? How to distill the lesson to its essence? I glanced at him. He seemed to be enjoying this more than I.

At last a phrase came to me. “I would say, sir, that what I learned from what transpired there in Kingsmead Square was that the questioner can learn a great deal if he will be sympathetic. “

“Could you elaborate upon that a bit?”

“I can try.” After a moment’s concentration, I began as follows: “In the beginning, you were more harsh with Mrs. Paltrow than I would have expected, reminding her that Arthur Paltrow was indeed a murderer and that he had been justly punished. Your tone remained harsh when you took up the matter of the claimant, yet it was all directed at him on her behalf. You feigned anger at him for his callous treatment of her. You found her sore spot, perhaps made her more keenly aware of the hurt she had tried to hide from herself.”

“Very good, Jeremy,” said Sir John. “I would also call attention to the fact that I did not try to accomplish all in a single visit. When she began to weep, I thought it best to leave her to ponder her doubts. Not that I enjoy making widows weep, but when the tears began to flow, I could not but take it as a happy sign.”

We walked on. The Bear Tavern was by then within sight, as large and imposing a structure as any at this end of Bath, save perhaps for that rather large church near the grand circus. We would, I know, be arriving a bit later than was our usual. No doubt Lady Fielding and Clarissa would now be returned from the baths. There seemed to me little to do but stroll about or take the waters. But Sir John was about to prove me wrong in that.

“Jeremy, you will not guess what this town of Bath offers that none other its size does! “

“No, perhaps not, but what is it, sir? Could it be a zoological garden?” Though I had seen nothing of the kind in my rambles, I thought it possible such a collection might exist in Bath.

Yet at that, Sir John smiled. “No, lad, I know of none such, except for the menagerie in Windsor Castle. And perhaps one day we shall be able to visit there. But until then, what would you say to a trip to the theater tonight?”

“Here in Bath, sir?”

“Indeed! I heard about it only this noontime when I sent you off to search for Lady Fielding. It was that boring fellow from Bristol told me. You remember him? He was still talking when you returned. At any rate, he told me of the theater, said where we might look for it, and informed me that a new actor named Courtney will play Hamlet tonight. What think you of that, Jeremy?”

What I thought of it was precisely what the rest did: that a trip to the theater would be a welcome break in the routine into which we had settled after only a few days’ time. In the event, it proved to be far more worthwhile than that. Though our seats were not the best, that mattered nothing to Sir John and little to the rest of us, for Mr. Courtney was the kind of actor who made the most of his vocal presentation. He had little else to work with. Not a tall man, he tended toward corpulence and in no wise possessed a commanding presence — except when he spoke. Then did he become a greater man altogether: His resonant voice filled the theater; he found the music in the words of the poet by making good use of the pauses, so that the great soliloquies were delivered in a stately rhythm as one might indeed expect from a prince. At the recess, Sir John sang Mr. Courtney’s praises and would hear no criticism of the actor’s physical limitations, his occasional awkwardness in movement, et cetera. All that, he swept aside and did insist, as he had upon other occasions, that in playing Shakespeare, all was in the music of the words. “And Mr. Courtney,” he added, “has learned all the songs.”

Whether in spite of or because of our disagreement on this matter, we judged our theater outing to be a great success; we talked of the play and Mr. Courtney’s portrayal of the Danish prince all the way back to the Bear, and even took the matter up next morning at breakfast.

Of that evening there remains only one more thing to be said, and that had naught to do with any of the players but, rather, with one of the audience. It so happened that as the curtain descended a final time, the applause died away, and the small auditorium began to empty, Clarissa caught sight of one known to both of us moving parallel to us in the far aisle. She tugged at my sleeve and, having caught my attention, nodded in the direction in which she wished me to look. It was the young man who had spoken to us two in Kingsmead Square, showing us the way from there to the Bear Tavern; it was him I thought to be the claimant. He smiled and nodded politely in recognition. I saw that he was quite alone and without companion. Neither the bearded older man whom Clarissa had branded “sinister,” nor Mrs. Paltrow accompanied him as he made his way to the door. Somehow I felt glad because of that.

“I saw him earlier,” said Clarissa, whispering in my ear, “during the recess.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

She looked at me queerly. “But why? Was there something you wanted to say to him? “

I thought about that for a moment and shook my head in the negative. It occurred to me that if indeed I were to speak to him, I should probably ask him why he had spent eight years in the North American colonies and failed all through that time to communicate with his mother. That was what puzzled me most.

Yet I had not the chance to ask him anything at all, for as it happened, those in the far aisle moved along much faster than we were able to do, and he had quite vanished by the time our party had reached the door. It was probably just as well. If there were introductions to be made, it would surely have been awkward.

Next morning, at Lady Fielding’s insistence, we sallied forth to Spring Gardens for breakfast. While taking the waters, she had heard from one of the ladies that the breakfast rolls served there — fresh, hot, and dripping with butter — were among the great treats that the town had to offer. As we discovered, her informant was quite correct. To me, they seemed especially satisfying, for one was given the choice of having them with tea or coffee. Naturally, being something of an addict, I asked for coffee. And when the server came round again, I accepted another cup and received with it a frown from Lady Fielding.

“Jeremy,” said she, “is it good to drink so much coffee? Surely it will keep you from sleeping sound.”

“I’ve not had trouble in the past,” said I. “Besides, I don’t really have the opportunity to drink it often.” Which was indeed a gross misstatement, for it was not opportunity I lacked, but, rather, money. Had I more of it, I should have had coffee two or three times a day — and what heaven that would be!

“Even so,” said she, “you drink a great deal of it.”

“Ah, Kate,” said Sir John, “leave the lad be. We ought to be happy that it’s coffee he craves and not gin.”

“Jack! At his age? What a thought!”

“Look in the faces of some of those who sleep in the gutters, and you’ll see that many are younger than Jeremy.”