THE PLAY.
THE first night of one new play is much the same as that of another,
I suppose, all the world over. The opening and shutting of doors, the
rustling of silks and satins, the murmur of expectancy, cannot hush
the beating of the young author’s breast, as he sits at the back of
the box and longs, like the sick man, for the morning. Everybody who
is anybody (a charming phrase indicating about one billionth of the
human race) is there. Men of fashion and women of wit: gossips and
critics; playwriters who have been damned and hope for company in their
Inferno; playwriters who have succeeded, with no love for a new rival;
the fast and the loose. Lights everywhere, but as much difficulty in
finding places as though it were dark; mute recognitions, whispered
information (’A dead failure, they tell me.’ ‘The best thing since
the “School for Scandal”’); fashionable titters; consumption with her
ill-bred cough. These are things peculiar to all first nights, but the
first night of ‘a newly discovered play by William Shakespeare’ was, as
one may imagine, something exceptional.
Malone, of course, had been at work. The public had been warned against
‘an impudent imposture’ in ‘a Letter to Lord Charlemont’ (surely the
longest ever written) of which Edmund Burke had been so good as to say
‘that he had got to the seventy-third page before he went to sleep.’ It
had been necessary to issue a counter-handbill and to distribute it at
the doors.
‘VORTIGERN.
‘A malevolent and impudent attack on the Shakespeare Manuscript
having appeared on the eve of representation of this play, evidently
intended to injure the proprietor of the Manuscript, Mr. Erin feels
it impossible, within the short space of time between the publishing
and the representation, to produce an answer to Mr. Malone’s most
ill-founded assertions in his “Inquiry.“ He is therefore induced to
request that “Vortigern and Rowena“ may be heard with that candour
which has ever distinguished a British audience.’
Opposition handbills were also in circulation, headed ‘A Forgery.’
The public interest in the play was unprecedented. The doors of Drury
Lane were besieged. Within, the excitement was even more tremendous.
The house was crammed to the very roof. Many paid box prices though
they knew no seats were to be obtained there, for the purpose of
getting down into the pit. ‘The air was charged with the murmurs of
the contending factions.’ Nothing was ever heard or seen like it
within the walls of a playhouse. In a centre box sat Samuel Erin and
Margaret. The antiquary had thought it right that they should occupy a
conspicuous position and show a bold front to the world, and she had
consented to this arrangement without a murmur, for was it not for
her Willie’s sake? She looked very pale, however, and when addressed
had hardly voice to answer. The vast assemblage in such commotion, the
shouts and cries from the gallery, the satirical cries of ‘Author!
Author!’—though the overture had not commenced—appalled her.
In a small box on the opposite side of the house, sat alone a tall
handsome man, as pale as she. He had drawn the little curtain forward,
so as to conceal himself from the occupants of the house, and kept his
face, which wore a look of great distress, turned towards the stage.
Through the folds of the curtain he had stolen one glance at her as
she took her seat; but afterwards he had looked no more at her. In the
next compartment was another and younger man, who also seemed to have
a personal interest in Margaret Slade. His box was full of spectators,
but he sat at the back of them, and unseen by her, fixed his eyes
upon her from time to time with a searching expression. When the play
began, however, he listened to it with the most rapt attention—not a
word escaped him—and with every word his face grew darker and more
malevolent.
Behind the curtain opinion was almost as much divided as before it.
Kemble was in his grimmest humour; disinclined, as many said, both then
and afterwards, to give his Vortigern fair play. Some of the inferior
actors, taking their tune from him, certainly abstained from exerting
themselves, and even made no secret beforehand of their design to
abstain. It was a play cumbrous in construction, and even in the very
names of the dramatis personæ, such as Wortimerus and Catagrinus; but
it had been accepted by the management, and the company, as it was
afterwards urged, and with justice, should have done their best for
it. Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Jordan vied with one another in encouraging
William Henry, who remained all the evening behind the scenes. The
former made a magnificent Edmunda; the latter, of whom the greatest
of our dramatic critics writes, ‘Delightful Mrs. Jordan, whose voice
did away with the cares of the whole house before they saw her come
in,’ surpassed herself. If beauty and vivacity could have saved the
piece she would have saved it, single-handed. There was a great deal
of opposition, but at first the play went fairly well. The swell and
roll of its sonorous lines hid their lack of ideas, and in a fashion
supported themselves unaided.
‘We are safe now, the “Vortigern“ will succeed, Henry,’ said Mrs.
Jordan cheerfully, as she left the stage at the close of the second act.
William Henry did not answer; his face, pale and haggard as it had been
throughout the evening, had suddenly assumed a look of horror.
‘What is the matter with you, lad?’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell. ‘You would
make a good actor, but a very bad author; you could not look more
desponding if the play was your own. It is going all right; you must
not mind a hiss or two.’
‘I fear him,’ whispered William Henry, hoarsely. ‘That is his hateful
voice; it is all over.’
The two ladies looked at one another significantly; they had seen young
fathers of promising plays on first nights before, but here was a mere
godfather worse than any of them. They thought that the young fellow
had taken leave of his wits.
‘I tell you it is all over,’ continued the wretched youth; ‘he has come
here to damn me.’
‘If you mean the Devil, that is nothing new,’ said Mrs. Powell; ‘he is
always, so we are told, in the play-house.’
She spoke very sharply; she thought it the right remedy to apply under
the circumstances, just as she might have recommended bending back the
fingers in an extreme case of hysterics.
‘Come here,’ said Mrs. Jordan, leading the young man to a spot where,
through a chink in the curtain, they could get a view of the box where
his father and cousin sat. ‘Look at your Margaret yonder; she is not a
coward like you.’ Indeed, the more the people hissed, the calmer and
the more indifferent Margaret seemed to be, though under that unmoved
exterior she suffered agonies. She was thinking of her Willie, though
she could not see him, and love enhanced her beauty.
It was a frightful scene of turmoil, though up till now a good-natured
one. The actor who had last left the stage (or rather who was left upon
it, for he had been killed in combat) had had, by some mismanagement,
the curtain dropped upon his legs, and had jumped up and rubbed them
before the audience in a manner very unbecoming a corpse. At this they
screamed with laughter, to which his Highness the Duke of Clarence,
in the royal box, contributed his full share. Their good humour was,
therefore, for the present, assured, though such mirth was hardly
conducive to the success of a tragedy. But at the commencement of the
next act there were signs of ill-nature. There were cries set agoing
from a box on the upper tier, of ‘Forgery! forgery!’ and even of ‘Thief
Erin! Thief Erin! look at Thief Erin!’
Kemble’s magnificent voice alone could make itself heard above these
sounds of displeasure. He was apostrophising the King of Terrors:—
Oh sovereign Death,
Who hast for thy domain this world immense.
Churchyards and charnelhouses are thy haunts,
And hospitals thy sumptuous palaces;
And when thou wouldst be merry thou dost choose
The gaudy chamber of a dying king.
And then thou dost ope wide thy monstrous jaws,
And with rude laughter and fantastic tricks
Thou clapp’st thy rattling fingers to thy side;
And when this solemn mockery is o’er——
Here he was suffered to proceed no further; that unfortunate line,
uttered in the most sepulchral tone, was the signal for the most
discordant howl that was ever heard within the walls of a theatre.
He repeated the line with his own peculiar emphasis, and even, as a
spectator tells us, ‘with a solemn grimace.’ It was the death-blow
of the piece. A scene of confusion ensued which beggars description.
Suddenly, and as the newspapers of the day said, ‘without any
premonition,’ a rush was made for the box occupied by the Erins.
Fortunately, however, one man at least had premonition of it. He was
the one who has been mentioned as occupying a box by himself. He had
been silent all the evening, taking no part either with the partisans
or the opponents of the play, but with eyes ever attentive to what
was going on. The voice of the young fellow in the next compartment
had attracted him above all others; it had malevolence in it which
was wanting in the other cases, and, though he did not recognise it,
sounded not unfamiliar to him. It had been the first to raise the cry
of ‘Forger!’ and the only one which had mentioned the name of Erin. As
he repeated the words for the third or fourth time, some drunken fellow
hiccuped ‘Where are they?’ To which the malevolent voice replied, ‘I’ll
show you. The young scoundrel is hiding behind the curtain, but we’ll
have him out.’
[Illustration: THE NEXT MOMENT THE CORRIDOR WAS FULL OF AN EXCITED
RABBLE.]
The next moment the corridor was full of an excited rabble, led by
Reginald Talbot. They ran in their stupid fury at full speed, but not
so fast as Frank Dennis would have run could he have got free of them.
He had dashed from his box the instant he had heard Talbot’s vengeful
cry, but it had already raised the wilder spirits of the house, and
they had rushed out from this door and that, and interposed themselves
between him and their leader. He beheld already Margaret surrounded by
this wild and wanton crew, the old man maltreated, and William Henry,
evidently the object of this fellow’s hatred, torn to pieces. He ran
with the impetuous crowd, parting them like water left and right with
his broad shoulders, till he gained a place among the foremost. Talbot,
leading by a few paces, had reached a spot where two staircases met;
the one a narrow one, leading straight down to a few boxes, in one of
which Margaret was seated, the other a broader flight, which led to one
of the exits of the house. Talbot, wild with haste and rage, cast a
glance behind him to point out to his followers the right direction to
take, when he met Dennis’ eye, and strove to turn and speak. But ere he
could do so, Frank’s strong fingers were on his neck, and impelled him
forward, like the wind, to the top of the broader stair. The others,
who knew not what had happened, thought that they were still following
their leader to their destination, and ran on full pelt behind them.
Ere the third step was reached, half a dozen had fallen headlong, and
half a score came toppling over these. Oaths and groans mingled with
the cries of those who still pushed on behind, but Reginald Talbot
neither spoke nor fell. The fingers that had closed about his neck
clutched his throat also, while at the same time they kept him up,
though his legs used a speed which they had never before attained to;
they took their four and even five steps at a time. Fortunately for
him, and perhaps for his custodian also, the great door at the foot of
the staircase was open to the street, and when they reached it Frank
simply let his companion go, who, bereft of sense, though by no means
of motion, fell face foremost, with the most frightful violence, into
a mud heap. A friendly pillar brought Dennis himself to anchorage, who
then quietly turned and entered the theatre by another way.
Thanks to his presence of mind and strength of body, the house was now
freed of its more dangerous elements, and an attempt was being made
to finish the play, though almost in dumb show. Mrs. Jordan, though
greatly agitated, had even the courage to speak the epilogue, and for
the first time found her graces and witcheries of no avail. Margaret
would have stayed to say a few words of love and confidence to William
Henry, but Mr. Erin hurried her away.
‘It was a planned thing,’ he kept murmuring on the way home in the
hackney-coach. ‘There was a plot to damn the play; that devil Malone
was at the bottom of it.’
But Margaret was not thinking of Malone, nor even of the play,
concerning which, though she heard them not, there were reports,
besides its failure, of misadventure and even death. She was thinking
of Willie, and why he did not come home to be comforted. The two sat
down alone to supper, of which neither could touch a mouthful; the
antiquary full of woeful thoughts, the girl with only one question in
her mind, ‘Why does he not come?’
The maid thought she had seen him at the door when her mistress got
out of the carriage; there was certainly some young man with his hat
pulled over his eyes, who had watched her into the house, and having,
as it seemed, assured himself of her safety, had walked away. It was
possible of course that this might have been Willie, but whither had he
gone?
‘It is no use your waiting for William Henry,’ said the antiquary
roughly; ‘why don’t you eat?’
She noticed that her uncle no longer spoke of ‘Samuel,’ and the change
jarred upon her feelings, already strained and tried. It was no fault
of Willie’s that the play had not succeeded, and it was cruel to visit
such a misfortune upon his innocent head.
‘It is only natural that I should be anxious about him,’ she returned
with some touch of resentment.
‘Pooh, pooh! why should you be anxious? He is no doubt supping with one
of the players.’
His indifferent words struck her like a blow at random. Was it
conceivable, after what had happened that evening, that Willie should
prefer the society of another to her own? Above all, was it possible
that that one should be Mrs. Jordan? She could not but notice how
Flavia had fought for the play, and had hardly known whether to admire
or detest her for it. If she had been in her place, and could have
done it, she would have fought for it too, but then she would have an
adequate motive. Why should that woman have dared so much for it when
the others had performed their parts in so sluggish and perfunctory
a manner? It must have been because she had her heart in it. And who
could have their heart in a mere stage-play, a thing at the best full
of fictitious woes and imaginary heroes? There must have been human
love—or what such creatures took for love—to have enlisted her in its
cause. Oh, why did not Willie come?
As the night wore on apprehensions for her lover’s personal safety
took the place of these jealous fears. What might not despair and
disappointment have induced him to do? In her wretchedness and need of
sympathy and consolation, she ventured to hint at this to Mr. Erin.
‘It is surely very odd, uncle. Willie ought to be home by this time at
all events. Should we not send somewhere?’
‘What nonsense! Whither should we send, and why? The lad is old enough
to take care of himself.’
‘But perhaps in his dejection and—and—misery, uncle, he might not
have any care of himself.’
‘Tush! he is not of that sort. He has much too high an opinion of his
own value to throw himself away—into the river, for instance. That
such an idea should have entered your mind, however, shows what an
unstable fellow you think him; and in some ways—though not in that
way—he _is_ unstable. He is but a boy, after all, and a spoilt boy. I
take blame to myself that I suffered him to entertain the delusion that
he was fit to take to himself a wife. It was conditional indeed upon
certain contingencies which have not taken place, so that the whole
affair is null and void.’
‘Uncle!’ Margaret rose from her chair, and with white face and
flashing eyes confronted the old man.
‘Of course it’s null and void,’ he went on, flattening the tobacco
in his pipe with its stopper, and affecting an indifferent air. ‘A
bargain’s a bargain, though indeed, as I have said, it is one that
I should never have entered into in any case, but the mere vulgar
question of ways and means now puts an end to the matter. Of course he
looked for material results from the “Vortigern.“ It will now not keep
the stage another night, while the publication of the play is rendered
worthless. It is not his fault, of course; I don’t blame him. It is
not in mortals to command success. There is nothing for him now but to
return to the conveyancing business; and in ten years or so there is no
knowing but that he may step into old Bingley’s shoes.’
‘And I?’ cried Margaret bitterly. ‘What am I to do? To wait for him?’
‘Certainly not; that would be hopeless indeed. The best thing you can
possibly do just at present is to—I shall make arrangements for his
lodging elsewhere out of harm’s way—is to begin to forget all about
him.’
‘Forget him—forget Willie? How can I?’
‘By thinking of somebody else,’ returned the antiquary coolly: ‘that I
have heard is the best way. At all events it will have to be done.’
‘Do you think then a woman’s heart is like a seal, uncle, on which an
image is impressed, and which, held to some fierce flame—as mine seems
to be, Heaven help me, this moment—it straightway becomes a blank
ready for the reception of another image? Oh, no, no, I will wait ten
years for Willie, if it be necessary, but I will never forget him.’
‘He’ll forget _you_ in half the time,’ was the dry rejoinder.
‘You speak falsely as well as cruelly, uncle,’ said Margaret
passionately.
There had been a time when even passion could not have nerved her to
speak so boldly to the antiquary; and there had been a time when if she
had dared to do so the old man would have put down his foot upon such
passion and crunched the sparks out. But just now Margaret was too full
of her misery and the sense of wrong to care what she said, while her
uncle on his part, though he was fully resolved to put an end to his
niece’s engagement with William Henry, could not at once resume the
relative position to her he had occupied before it was mooted.
‘As to my speaking falsely concerning William Henry’s fidelity,’
he answered quietly, ‘time alone can prove that: and there will be
certainly plenty of time; while as to cruelty I really cannot accuse
myself of having been cruel.’
‘What! when you have allowed the mutual love between your son and me
for months to ripen without censure? When you have heard him call me
his own ten times a day, and never reproved him for it. When you have
thrown us together and left us together? And now because something has
not succeeded, of the success of which you made sure, do you wish to
tear us asunder and bid us forget one another. And then, oh shame, do
you dare to say you are not cruel?’
The old man made her no reply, perhaps his conscience pricked him in
the matter, or perhaps he perceived that it was useless to argue with
her in her present excited state.
‘Have you any fault to find with Willie?’ she continued reproachfully.
‘Has he not done all he could do in this unfortunate affair? What
has happened to the “Vortigern“ that he could help or hinder? Do you
suppose he has deceived you because it has not succeeded?
‘Of course not,’ put in the antiquary testily; ‘the boy is honest
enough, no doubt; but one must look at things from a reasonable point
of view. Come, come, we can talk of these things to-morrow. It is
getting late. Let us to bed.’
She answered not a word, but sat with her face bowed down on the table
and hidden in her hands, while he took up his candle and left her. She
remained in the same position for many minutes, when suddenly there
came a gentle knock, a mere tap, at the front door. She was on her
feet in a moment, with her long hair loose behind her ears, listening.
It was not Willie’s knock, she knew, but it might be news of Willie.
The clock on the mantelpiece had just struck two. Then came the tap
again; this time a little more distinct. It was evident that her uncle
had not heard it, and the servant had long gone to bed. There were many
bad characters abroad in the street in those times, restrained by a
very inefficient constabulary, but Margaret did not hesitate to obey
this second summons. She went to the door and undid the fastenings
without making the least noise.
A woman stood on the step, to judge by her figure a young one, but her
face was hidden in her hood.
‘You are Margaret?’ she said, in clear sweet tones mingled with an
ineffable pity.
‘I am,’ she answered, with a dreadful fear at her heart. She felt that
some messenger of evil tidings stood before her.
‘I thought so; I felt sure that you would be sitting up for him,’
murmured the other softly.
‘Where is he? Is he ill? Why does he not come home?’ gasped Margaret.
‘He is not ill, but he cannot come home. Let me in, and I will tell you
all.’
With a gentle pressure, for Margaret’s instinct was to oppose her, the
visitor made her way into the house. ‘Let me see you quite alone,’ she
said; ‘somewhere where we cannot be interrupted. I have news for your
private ear—I am sorry to say, bad news.’
‘And who are you?’ Margaret’s voice was antagonistic, almost defiant.
She resented this woman’s coming beyond all measure, but the fear
within her compelled her to listen to what she might have to say.
‘I am Mrs. Jordan,’ was the quiet reply.