IV

Hubert at last found himself obliged to write to Ford for an advance of

money. But Ford replied that he would advance money only on the delivery of

the completed manuscript. And the whole of one night, in a room hardly

eight feet long, sitting on his bed, he strove to complete the fourth and

fifth acts. But under the pressure of such necessity ideas died within him.

And all through the night, and even when the little window, curtained with

a bit of muslin hardly bigger than a pocket-handkerchief, had grown white

with dawn, he sat gazing at the sheet of paper, his brain on fire, unable

to think. Laying his pen down in despair, he thought of the thousands who

would come to his aid if they only knew--if they only knew! And soon after

he heard life beginning again in the little brick street. He felt that his

brain was giving way, that if he did not find change, whatever it was, he

must surely run raving mad. He had had enough of England, and would leave

it for America, Australia--anywhere. He wanted change. The present was

unendurable. How would he get to America? Perhaps a clerkship on board one

of the great steamships might be obtained.

The human animal in extreme misery becomes self-reliant, and Hubert hardly

thought of making application to his uncle. The last time he had applied

for help his letter had remained unanswered, and he now felt that he must

make his own living or die. And, quite indifferent as to what might befall

him, he walked next day to the Victoria Docks. He did not know where or how

to apply for work, and he tired himself in fruitless endeavour. At last he

felt he could strive with fate no longer, and wandered mile after mile,

amused and forgetful of his own misery in the spectacle of the river--the

rose sky, the long perspectives, the houses and warehouses showing in fine

outline, and then the wonderful blue night gathering in the forest of masts

and rigging. He was admirably patient. There was no fretfulness in his

soul, nor did he rail against the world's injustice, but took his

misfortunes with sweet gentleness.

He slept in a public-house, and next day resumed his idle search for

employment. The weather was mild and beautiful, his wants were simple, a

cup of coffee and a roll, a couple of sausages, and the day passed in a

sort of morose and passionless contemplation. He thought of everything and

nothing, least of all of how he should find money for the morrow. When the

day came, and the penny to buy a cup of coffee was wanting, he quite

naturally, without giving it a second thought, engaged himself as a

labourer, and worked all day carrying sacks of grain out of a vessel's

hold. For a large part of his nature was patient and simple, docile as an

animal's. There was in him so much that was rudimentary, that in accepting

this burden of physical toil he was acting not in contradiction to, but in

full and perfect harmony with, his true nature.

But at the end of a week his health began to give way, and, like a man

after a violent debauch, he thought of returning to a more normal

existence. He had left the manuscript of his unfortunate play in the North.

Had they destroyed it? The involuntary fear of the writer for his child

made him smile. What did it matter? Clearly the first thing to do would be

to write to the editor of _The Cosmopolitan_, and ask if he could find him

some employment, something certain; writing occasional articles for

newspapers, that he couldn't do.

Hubert had saved twelve shillings. He would therefore be able to pay his

landlady: he smiled--one of his landladies! The earlier debt was now

hopelessly out of his reach, and seemed to represent a social plane from

which he had for ever fallen. If he had succeeded in getting that play

right, what a difference it would have made! He would have been able to do

a number of things he had never done, things which he had always desired to

do. He had desired above all to travel--to see France and Italy; to linger,

to muse in the shadows of the world's past; and after this he had desired

marriage, an English wife, an English home, beautiful children, leisure,

the society of friends. A successful play would have given him all these

things, and now his dream must remain for ever unrealised by him. He had

sunk out of sight and hearing of such life.

Rose was another; she might sink as he had sunk; she might never find the

opportunity of realising her desire. How well she would have played that

part! He knew what was in her. And now! What did his failure to write that

play condemn him to? Heaven only knows, he did not wish to think. Strange,

was it not strange?... A man of genius--many believed him a genius--and yet

he was incapable of earning his daily bread otherwise than by doing the

work of a navvy. Even that he could not do well, society had softened his

muscles and effeminised his constitution. Indeed, he did not know what life

fate had willed him for. He seemed to be out of place everywhere. His best

chance was to try to obtain a clerkship. The editor of _The Cosmopolitan_

might be able to do that for him; if he could not, far better it would be

to leave a world in which he was _out of place_, and through no fault of

his own--that was the hard part of it. Hard part! Nonsense! What does Fate

know of our little rights and wrongs--or care? Her intentions are

inscrutable; she watches us come and go, and gives no sign. Prayers are

vain. The good man is punished, and the wicked is sent on his way

rejoicing.

In such mournful thought, his clothes stained and torn, with all the traces

of a week's toil in the docks upon them, Hubert made his way round St.

Paul's and across Holborn. As he was about to cross into Oxford Street, he

heard some one accost him,--

'Oh, Mr. Price, is that you?' It was Rose. 'Where have you been all this

time?'

She seemed so strange, so small, and so much alone in the great

thoroughfare, that Hubert forgot all his own troubles in a sudden interest

in this little mite. 'Where have you been hiding yourself?... It is lucky I

met you. Don't you know that Ford has decided to revive _Divorce_?'

'You don't mean it!'

'Yes; Ford said that the last acts of _The Gipsy_ were not satisfactorily

worked out, and as there was something wrong with that Hamilton Brown's

piece, he has decided to revive _Divorce_. He says it never was properly

played ... he thinks he'll make a hit in the husband's part, and I daresay

he will. But I have been unfortunate again; I wanted the part of the

adventuress. I really could play it. I don't look it, I know ... I have no

weight, but I could play it for all that. The public mightn't see me in it

at first, but in five minutes they would.'

'And what part has he cast you for--the young girl?'

'Of course; there's no other part. He says I look it; but what's the good

of looking it when you don't feel it? If he had cast me for Mrs.

Barrington, I should have had just the five minutes in the second act that

I have been waiting for so long, and I should have just wiped Miss Osborne

out, acted her off the stage.... I know I should; you needn't believe it if

don't like, but I know I should.'

Hubert wondered how any one could feel so sure of herself, and then he

said, 'Yes, I think you could do just what you say.... How do you think

Miss Osborne will play the part?'

'She'll be correct enough; she'll miss nothing, and yet somehow she'll miss

the whole thing. But you must go at once to Ford. He was saying only this

morning that if you didn't turn up soon, he'd have to give up the idea.'

'I can't go and see him to-night. You see what a state I'm in.'

'You're rather dusty; where have you been? what have you been doing?'

'I've been down at the dock.... I thought of going to America.'

'Well, we'll talk about that another time. It doesn't matter if you are a

bit dusty and worn-out-looking. Now that he's going to revive your play,

he'll let you have some money. You might get a new hat, though. I don't

know how much they cost, but I've five shillings; can you get one for

that?'

Hubert thanked her.

'But you are not offended?'

'Offended, my dear Rose! I shall be able to manage. I'll get a brush up

somewhere.'

'That's all right. Now I'm going to jump into that 'bus,' and she signed

with her parasol to the conductor. 'Mind you see Ford to-night,' she cried;

and a moment after he saw a small space of blue back seated against one of

the windows.

V

There was much prophecy abroad. Stiggins' words, 'The piece never did, and

never will draw money,' were evidently present in everybody's mind. They

were visible in Ford's face, and more than once Hubert expected to hear

that--on account of severe indisposition--Mr. Montague Ford has been

obliged to indefinitely postpone his contemplated revival of Mr. Hubert

Price's play _Divorce_. But, besides the apprehension that Stiggins'

unfavourable opinion of his enterprise had engendered in him, Ford was

obviously provoked by Hubert's reluctance to execute the alterations he had

suggested. Night after night, sometimes until six in the morning, Hubert

sat up considering them. Thanks to Ford's timely advance he was back in his

old rooms in Fitzroy Street. All was as it had been. He was working at his

play every evening, waiting for Rose's footsteps on the stairs. And yet a

change had come into his life! He believed now that his feet were set on

the way to fortune--that he would soon be happy.

He stared at the bright flame of the lamp, he listened to the silence. The

clock chimed sharply, and the windows were growing grey. Hubert had begun

to drowse in his chair; but he had promised to rewrite the young girl's

part, Ford having definitely refused to intrust Rose with the part of the

adventuress. He was sorry for this. He believed that Rose had not only

talent, but genius. Besides, they were friends, neighbours; he would like

to give her a chance of distinguishing herself--the chance which she was

seeking. All the time he could not but realise that, however he might

accentuate and characterise the part of the sentimental girl, Rose would

not be able to do much with it. To bring out her special powers something

strange, wild, or tragic was required. But of what use thinking of what was

not to be? Having made some alterations and additions he folded his papers

up, and addressed them to Miss Massey. He wrote on a piece of paper that

they were to be given to her at once, and that he was to be called at ten.

There was a rehearsal at twelve.

On the night of the first performance, Hubert asked Rose to dine in his

rooms. Mr. Wilson proposed that they should have a roast chicken, and Annie

was sent to fetch a bottle of champagne from the grocer's. Annie had been

given a ticket for the pit. Mrs. Wilson was going to the upper boxes. Annie

said,--

'Why, you look as if you was going to a funeral, and not to a play. Why

don't ye laugh?'

In truth, Hubert and Rose were a little silent. Rose was thinking how she

could say certain lines. She had said them right once at rehearsal, but had

not since been able to reproduce to her satisfaction a certain effect of

voice. Hubert was too nervous to talk. There was nothing in his mind but

'Will the piece succeed? What shall I do if it fails?' He could give heed

to nothing but himself, all the world seemed blotted out, and he suffered

the pain of excessive self-concentration. Rose, on the other hand, had lost

sight of herself, and existed almost unconsciously in the soul of another

being. She was sometimes like a hypnotised spectator watching with foolish,

involuntary curiosity the actions of one whom she had been bidden to watch.

Then a little cloud would gather over her eyes, and then this other being

would rise as if out of her very entrails and recreate her, fashioning her

to its own image and likeness.

She did not answer when she was spoken to, and when the question was

repeated, she awoke with a little start. Dinner was eaten in morbid

silence, with painful and fitful efforts to appear interested in each

other. Walking to the theatre, they once took the wrong turning and had to

ask the way. At the stage door they smiled painfully, nodded, glad to part.

Hubert went up to Montague Ford's room. He found the comedian on a low

stool, seated before a low table covered with brushes and cosmetics, in

front of a triple glass.

'My dear friend, do not trouble me now. I am thinking of my part.'

Hubert turned to go.

'Stay a moment,' cried the actor. 'You know when the husband meets the wife

he has divorced?'

Hubert remembered the moment referred to, and, with anxious, doubting eyes,

the comedian sought from the author justification for some intonations and

gestures which seemed to him to form part and parcel of the nature of the

man whose drunkenness he had so admirably depicted on his face.

'"_This is most unfortunate, very unlucky--very, my dear Louisa; but----_"

'"_I am no longer obliged to bear with your insults; I can now defend

myself against you._"

[Illustration: "In the third row Harding stood talking to a young man."]

'Now, is that your idea of the scene?'

A pained look came upon Hubert's face. 'Don't question me now, my dear

fellow. I cannot fix my attention. I can see, however, that your make-up is

capital--you are the man himself.'

The actor was satisfied, and in his satisfaction he said, 'I think it will

be all right, old chap.'

Hubert hoped to reach his box without meeting critics or authors. The

serving-maids bowed and smiled,--he was the author of the play. 'They'll

think still more of me if the notices are right,' he thought, as he hurried

upstairs, and from behind the curtain of his box he peeped down and counted

the critics who edged their way down the stalls. Harding stood in the third

row talking to a young man. He said, 'You mean the woman with the black

hair piled into a point, and fastened with a steel circlet. A face of

sheep-like sensuality. Red lips and a round receding chin. A large bosom,

and two thin arms showing beneath the opera cloak, which she has not yet

thrown from her shoulders. I do not know her--_une laideur attirante_. Many

a man might be interested in her. But do you see the woman in the

stage-box? You would not believe it, but she is sixty, and has only just

begun to speak of herself as an old woman. She kept her figure, and had an

admirer when she was fifty-eight.'

'What has become of him?'

'They quarrelled; two years ago he told her he hoped never to see her ugly

old face again. And that delicate little creature in the box next to

her--that pale diaphanous face?'

'With a young man hanging over her whispering in her ear?'

'Yes. She hates the theatre; it gives her neuralgia; but she attends all

the first nights because her one passion is to be made love to in public.

If her admirer did not hang over her in front of the box just as that man

is doing, she would not tolerate him for a week.'

At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a new-comer, who asked

if he had seen the play when it was first produced.

'Yes,' said Harding; 'I did.' And he continued his search for acquaintances

amid white rows of female backs, necks, and half-seen profiles--amid the

black cloth shoulders cut sharply upon the illumined curtain.

'And what do you think of it? Do you think it will succeed this time?'

'Ford will create an impression in the part; but I don't think the piece

will run.'

'And why? Because the public is too stupid?'

'Partly, and partly because Price is only an intentionist. He cannot carry

an idea quite through.'

'Are you going to write about it?'

'I may.'

'And what will you say?'

'Oh, most interesting things to be said. Let's take the case of Hubert

Price ... Ah, there, the curtain is going up.'

The curtain rolled slowly up, and in a small country drawing-room, in very

simple but very pointedly written dialogue, the story of Mrs. Holmes'

domestic misfortunes was gradually unfolded. It appeared that she had

flirted with Captain Grey; he had written her some compromising letters,

and she had once been to his rooms alone. So the Court had pronounced a

decree _nisi_. But Mrs. Holmes had not been unfaithful to her husband. She

had flirted with Captain Grey because her husband's attentions to a certain

Mrs. Barrington had maddened her, and in her jealous rage had written

foolish letters, and been to see Captain Grey.

Hubert noticed that folk were still asking for their seats, and pushing

down the very rows in which the most influential critics were sitting. They

exchanged a salutation with their friends in the dress-circle, and, when

they were seated, looked around, making observations regarding the

appearance of the house; and all the while the actors were speaking. Hubert

trembled with fear and rage. Would these people never give their attention

to the stage? If they had been sitting by him, he could have struck them.

Then a line turned into nonsense by the actress who played Mrs. Holmes was

a lancinating pain; and the actor who played Captain Grey, played so slowly

that Hubert could hardly refrain from calling from his box. He looked round

the theatre, noticing the indifferent faces of the critics, and the women's

shoulders seemed to him especially vacuous and imbecile.

The principal scene of the second act was between Mrs. Holmes and the man

who had divorced her. He has-been driven to drink by the vile behaviour of

his second wife; he is ruined in health and in pocket, and has come to the

woman he wronged to beg forgiveness; he knows she has learnt to love

Captain Grey, but will not marry him, because she believes that once

married always married. There is only one thing he can do to repair the

wrong he has done--he will commit suicide, and so enable her to marry the

man she loves. He tells her that he has bought the pistol to do it with,

and the words, 'Not here! not here!' escape from her; and he answers, 'No,

not here, but in a cab. I've got one at the door.' He goes out; Captain

Grey enters, and Mrs. Holmes begs him to save her husband. While they are

discussing how this is to be done, he re-enters, saying that his conscience

smote him as he was going to pull the trigger. Will she forgive him? If she

won't, he must make an end of himself. She says she will.

In the third act Hubert had attempted to paint Mr. Holmes' vain efforts to

reform his life. But the constant presence of Captain Grey in the

household, his attempts to win Mrs. Holmes from her husband, and the

drunken husband's amours with the servant-maid disgusted rather than

horrified. In the fourth act the wretched husband admits that his

reformation is impossible, and that, although he has no courage to commit

suicide and set his wife free, he will return to his evil courses; they

will sooner or later make an end of him. The slowness and deadly gravity

with which Ford took this scene rendered it intolerable; and,

notwithstanding the beauty of the conclusion, when the deserted wife, in

the silence of her drawing-room, reads again Captain Grey's letter, telling

her that he has left England for ever, and with another, the success of the

play was left in doubt, and the audience filed out, talking, chattering,

arguing, wondering what the public verdict would be.

To avoid commiseration of heartless friends and the triumphant glances of

literary enemies, Hubert passed through the door leading on to the stage.

Scene-shifters were brutally pushing away what remained of his play; and

the presence of Hamilton Brown, the dramatic author, talking to Ford, was

at that moment particularly disagreeable. On catching sight of Hubert,

Brown ran to him, shook him by the hand, and murmured some discreet

congratulations. He preferred the piece, however, as it had been originally

written, and suggested to Ford the advisability of returning to the first

text. Then Ford went upstairs to take his paint off, and Hubert walked

about the stage with Brown. Brown's insincerity was sufficiently

transparent; but men in Hubert's position catch at straws, and he soon

began to believe that the attitude of the public towards his play was not

so unfavourable as he had imagined.

Hubert tried to summon up a smile for the stage-door keeper, who, he

feared, had heard that the piece had failed, and then the moment they got

outside he begged Rose to tell him the exact truth. She assured him that

Ford had said that he had always counted on a certain amount of opposition;

but that he believed that the general public, being more free of prejudice

and less sophisticated, would be impressed by the simple humanity of the

play. The conversation paused, and at the end of an irritating silence he

said, 'You were excellent, as good as any one could be in a part that did

not suit them. Ah, if he had cast you for the adventuress, how you would

have played it!...'

'I'm so glad you are pleased. I hope my notices will be good. Do you think

they will?'

'Yes, your notices will be all right,' he answered, with a sigh.

'And your notices will be all right too. No one can say what is going to

succeed. There was a call after each of the last three acts.... I don't see

how a piece could go better. It is the suspense....'

'Ah, yes, the suspense!'

They lingered on the landing, and Hubert said, 'Won't you come in for a

moment?' She followed him into the room. His calm face, usually a perfect

picture of repose and self-possession, betrayed his emotion by a certain

blankness in the eyes, certain contractions in the skin of the forehead.

'I'm afraid,' he said, 'there's no hope.'

'Oh, you mustn't say that!' she replied. 'I think it went very well

indeed.... I know I did nothing with the young girl. I oughtn't to have

undertaken the part.'

'You were excellent. If we only get some good notices. If we don't, I shall

never get another play of mine acted.' He looked at her imploringly,

thirsting for a woman's sympathy. But the little girl was thinking of

certain effects which she would have made, and which the actress who had

played the adventuress had failed to make.

'I watched her all the time,' she said, 'following every line, saying all

the time, "Oh yes, that's all very nice and very proper, my young woman;

but it's not it; no, not at all--not within a hundred miles of it." I don't

think she ever really touched the part--do you?' Hubert did not answer, and

a quiver of distraction ran through the muscles of her face.

'Why don't you answer me?'

'I can't answer you,' he said abruptly. Then remembering, he added,

'Forgive me; I can think of nothing now.' He hid his face in his hands, and

sobbed twice--two heavy, choking sobs, pregnant with the weight of anguish

lying on his heart.

Seeing how much he suffered, she laid her hand on his shoulder. 'I am very

sorry; I wish I could help you. I know how it tears the heart when one

cannot get out what one has in one's brain.'

Her artistic appreciation of his suffering only jarred him the more. What

he longed for was some kind, simple-hearted woman who would say, 'Never

mind, dear; the play was perfectly right, only they did not understand it;

I love you better than ever.' But Rose could not give him the sympathy he

wanted; and to be alone was almost a relief. He dared not go to bed; he sat

looking into space. The roar of London hushed till it was no more than a

faint murmur, the hissing of the gas grew louder, and still Hubert sat

thinking, the same thoughts battling in his brain. He looked into the

future, but could see nothing but suicide. His uncle? He had applied to him

before for help; there was no hope there. Then he tramped up and down,

maddened by the infernal hissing of the gas; and then threw himself into

his arm-chair. And so a terrible night wore away; and it was not until long

after the early carts had begun to rattle in the streets that exhaustion

brought an end to his sufferings, and he rolled into bed.