About ten years ago Mr. Landor was the lessee and manager of the Lugubreum Theatre, and John Philp was his master carpenter. In those days the staple of the Lugubreum entertainment was melodrama, preceded by farce. Mr. Landor found Philp, who was about thirty-five years of age, exceedingly useful. He was quick, intelligent, and ingenious. He had been brought up to the stage-carpentering business from his earliest days, and had omitted to soak his faculties in gin, as is too often the practice with gentlemen of his profession. Philp’s powers of invention were indeed notorious, and many famous contrivances, without which certain celebrated sensational scenes must have miserably failed, could be traced to his suggestions. He was, withal, a modest, cheery-little fellow, much beloved by his associates, and greatly respected by his employer, who regarded him as one of his most valuable allies.

John Philp lived in a part of old Camberwell, that had not then been disturbed by the invasion of the speculative builder. He rented a substantially built little cottage of five rooms, with quite a large garden in the back. Philp’s gardening was, it must be admitted, of a somewhat theatrical kind. He had erected a flagstaff painted in stripes, on the top of which was a weather-cock of his own contrivance—an indicator which to the very last he believed told him what way the wind blew. At the end of the garden was a formidable grotto—the effect of which was somewhat marred by the introduction of pieces of coloured glass. On the side walk were placed two wooden pedestals, also painted in various bright colours; upon these stood statuettes of his favourite great men. Upon one was William Shakespear—copied from the famous work once erected in Garrick’s Villa, and now standing in the British Museum. And upon the other was Mr. Dion Boucicault, appealing to the dog Tatters—an animal which is often alluded to in the Shaughraun, but never appears in that interesting production.

John Philp’s widowed mother lived with him in Artesian Cottages, and kept house for him. She was a brisk, wholesome-looking old lady, and was very proud of her son—as indeed she had a right to be—and would grow garrulous about his merits, his personal beauty, and his infantile maladies, at the mere mention of his name. John was very much attached to the old lady—devoting his Sunday afternoons to her entertainment. What happy days those were when she sat in an arbour in the Greyhound at Dulwich, drinking tea, while John sipped his ale and smoked his pipe. What royal times, too, when the funds permitted a trip to Gravesend; and when shrimps and most marvellous water-cresses formed an addition to the feast. And what words can describe that period of delirious excitement when a buoyant exchequer and the closing of the Lugubreum for repairs, permitted that memorable week at Margate. Alas! such happiness was to be short-lived. And the beginning of the sorrow of Mrs. Philp was to be mysteriously bound up with the success in this country of opera bouffe.

Mr. Landor was an astute man, and had no exalted notion of his functions as a manager. He laughed at those who prated about “High Art,” and the rest of it, and spoke of himself as a business man, whose object in life was to make money, by supplying a certain commodity for which there existed a public demand. Now the public demand for melodrama and farce became very slack. Heavy villains and sensational “sets” became a drug in the market; and Mr. Landor having duly weighed the pros and cons of the matter, determined to alter the character of his theatre and make opera bouffe his leading suit. Old supporters of the Lugubreum growled. But the public came. The dissemination of paper was stopped. The free list was entirely suspended. And the Lugubreum was doing a roaring trade. Philp still held his position as head carpenter, with labours necessarily lightened, but with salary undiminished.

For the successful illustration of burlesque, one of the most essential elements is a chorus of shapely young women, who have no objection to as liberal a display of their personal charms as a manager may deem advisable. And among the chorus ladies engaged to Mr. Landor was Miss Carry Adair. This fascinating damsel was the daughter of a lodging-house keeper in Islington, named O’Flaherty, and in assisting her mother—whose education had been somewhat neglected—to cook the accounts of the young city gentlemen who lodged with them, acquired those habits of caution and economy, which have characterised her throughout her career. At the age of eighteen she left her mother’s care, and was employed by a court dressmaker in Bond Street in the capacity of a live model, to display to their best advantage the goods of her employer. While acting in this useful, if humble capacity, she was seen by Sir Mornington Cresswell, who had come to inspect a court dress ordered by Lady Cresswell. Sir Mornington is a well-known philanthropist, and took an immediate interest in the young woman, urging her to take suitable apartments in the region abutting on Regent’s Park, and finally obtaining for her an engagement at the Lugubreum. Sir Mornington being one of those reserved and unassuming Christians, who do not let the left hand know what the right is doing, kept the latest instance of his kindly and discriminating philanthropy a secret from his wife.

Carry Adair was a great success in her new vocation. She was tall, of liberal contour, had big expressionless eyes, and masses of magnificent brown hair. It was her mission in life to be “a doosid fine woman.” The callow connoisseurs of the stalls proclaimed her to be a “doosid fine woman.” And so her reputation was made, although as far as histrionic capability is concerned, she was absolutely devoid of it. She was withal, an excessively discreet young person, and was never known to indulge in the unseemly jests, which, in the dressing-rooms, formed the current coin of conversation; and, indeed, had been known on many occasions to rebuke her companions when a double entendre offended her keen susceptibilities. It was this trait in her character which won the sympathies of John Philp. He was sensible, no doubt, of her merely physical attributes. But he regarded her as an innocent and artless girl, thrown into the society of those who were by no means particular. He longed to shield her from the evil which is in the world, and as a preliminary to this missionary enterprise he fell hopelessly in love with her. He had given himself, body and soul, to the thrall of a woman who had no more capacity for an honest affection than the table upon which I am writing.

And she—what did she do? She led him on. She permitted him to hold her heavy sealskin as she enveloped herself in it. She permitted him to kiss the diamonds that covered her fingers. And then in the very dressing-room where she would not permit the use of an indelicate expression, she mimicked the comic agony of her lover, for the edification of the Lotties and the Totties who shrieked with laughter at her irresistible sallies. For Carry was not without a certain flow of vulgar humour, which she had acquired probably while waiting on her young city gentlemen in the Islingtonian lodging-house. On the evening when poor John Philp brought himself to ask the awful question, she was particularly amusing. She showed how he blushed and stammered as he described his little place in Camberwell; how he spoke of his mother’s devotion; and the happy effects of living on a gravel soil. Then she narrated with some spirit how she squeezed his hand, and begged for time to consider the proposal. Carry being the possessor of some means, was in the habit of treating her friends of the dressing room; so her jokes all took immensely, and the Lotties and Totties agreed that poor John Philp was an “old stoopid.”

About a fortnight after John Philp’s proposal, Landor was coming down the steps of Evans’s Hotel in Covent Garden at twelve o’clock one night. He was passed on the steps by Miss Adair, enveloped in a white satin opera cloak, and apparently in full evening dress. She was on the arm of a young gentleman with a little yellow moustache—an avant courrier of that Crutch and Toothpick Brigade which has since become famous. The manager saw her enter a brougham which was waiting in front. She was followed by the young gentleman, and was driven rapidly off. The vehicle was followed on foot by a man with pale face and livid lips, and without any hat on. In the face of that pursuing figure, Mr. Landor recognised John Philp, the master carpenter. And being a man of the world he shrugged his shoulders, lit another cigarette, and went on to the Garrick Club, of which institution he is one of the most agreeable ornaments.

John Philp never again entered the stage-door of the Lugubreum. He threw up his situation, alleging illness as an excuse. He wanted change of air. Landor regretted his determination, and looked out for somebody to take his place. Three months after he received a letter from his old employÉ, asking him “for God’s sake” to come and see him. Landor went; Artesian Cottage had evidently been somewhat neglected. The creepers were trailing about in slovenly branches, and the little garden path was covered with grass. Mrs. Philp looked worn and weary, and accompanied with sobs the answers which she gave the manager. She led the way into her son’s bedroom. He was a shadow of his former self, but a smile overspread his countenance as he recognised his old master. He stretched his poor transparent hand across the counterpane, and grasping the manager’s hand, said feebly,—

“It is kind of you, sir.”

Then he motioned his mother to leave the room.

“I’m breaking up fast, sir,” he said, “but afore I go I wished to give you something—as—as a keepsake. You’ve been a good friend to me, sir, but I’m afraid I seemed ungrateful.”

The manager answered him that he had always valued and respected him.

Then John put his hand under the pillow, and drew out a ring with a small diamond set in it. This he handed to Landor.

“I bought it for her,” he stuttered; “I wanted to show her that a working man could buy jewels as well as the swells. I pinched myself to get it, an’ the very night I ’ad it in my pocket to give her, I followed her ’ome to—to—I can’t say it, sir—it chokes me.”

Landor took the ring. The master carpenter fell back on his pillow. An expression of satisfied calm was upon his face. The great change was coming. Landor summoned his mother. Hearing her voice John Philp opened his eyes and stared round the room. Then he raised himself, and with a last dying effort shrieked,—

“It’s the di’monds as does it; damn ’em.”

He fell back, and Landor closed his eyes and drew the sheet over his face.