MR. FISHER'S SUBSTITUTE.
"Mr. Fisher!"
Thus invoked by his name, the hairdresser who had the honor of attending
the leading artists of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, stopped suddenly
upon the dim staircase which led to the dressing-rooms.
"Who is it?" he inquired, striving to distinguish the person who had
accosted him. "What do you want? I am in a hurry. Miss Woodville waits.
What! _You_, my lord?" he added as his interlocutor advanced into the
doubtful radiance shed by the argand-lamp upon the upper landing.
A trifle arrogant at first, with a mingling of poorly dissimulated
nervousness (for courage was not Mr. Fisher's besetting virtue), the
tone of the worthy hairdresser had become obsequious in the extreme.
Lord Mowbray was one of his best clients.
"Mr. Fisher," said the young nobleman, "you are going straight home and
to bed."
"I, my lord! Your lordship must surely be jesting. They are waiting for
me up-stairs, and I must--"
Lord Mowbray barred his further progress.
"I am not jesting, Mr. Fisher. I can be serious when serious matters are
at stake, and there is nothing more serious than the health of an honest
man like yourself. I tell you that you have a high fever and that you
are going straight to bed, where you will keep warm and let Mrs. Fisher
bring you a ptisan."
"But I have no fever, and even if I had I should not fail to perform my
duty. And this, a first-night! Why, the king and queen are to honor the
performance with their presence!"
"Well, let us cut the matter short, Mr. Fisher. Here is somewhat to
sweeten your ptisan."
With the words a handful of guineas changed hands, the jingle of which
possessed a persuasive virtue all their own; whereupon the hairdresser
began to comprehend that it is sometimes to one's advantage to be
feverish.
"But, my lord," he faltered, "would you have Miss Woodville go on the
stage with dishevelled hair? Who will take my place?"
"I will, Fisher."
"Can your lordship dress a head of hair?"
"I studied the art in Paris under the celebrated Leonard."
"Is it so!"
"Indeed it is. The man who does not know how to dress a woman's hair
misses one of the greatest delights in life. That is why, my dear
friend, your art was the most agreeable to Venus; and Mons. Lebeau, my
tutor, a man-of-the-world, failed not to give me ample instruction."
"Well, I am flambergasted now!"
"Make haste to pull yourself together and be off, or you will take more
cold on this staircase. Quick; hand me the comb, the powder, and the
patch-box. Good night, Fisher; take good care of yourself. Devil, man!
You'll find you cannot trifle with a fever."
A minute later the false hairdresser, having duly knocked at the door
and received permission to enter, walked into a narrow room in which
Miss Woodville was dressing, assisted by a maid, under the watchful
direction of her aunt, Mrs. Marsham.
"Come, Mr. Fisher," said Esther without looking at the intruder, "we
must make haste or I shall be late. Make me just as pretty as you
possibly can, for the king will be in the audience."
"I shall do my best, Miss Woodville."
"But this man is not Fisher!" cried the old lady.
Esther cast one swift glance at Mowbray, caught the kerchief about her
shoulders, and mechanically plunged her blushing face into the ivory
horn which served to protect her eyes and lashes while her hair was
being powdered.
The young nobleman respectfully saluted the Quakeress.
"Mr. Fisher is ill," he exclaimed.
"Oh, poor Fisher! What ails him?"
"He has a fever, madam,--a high fever. It would break your heart to hear
the poor man's teeth chatter. So I have come in his place."
"It is impossible for you to dress my hair!" gasped Esther.
"Impossible! And why, if you please?"
"Because--because--why, you cannot, you don't know how!"
"I have studied under the best masters. It is not for me to disparage
Mr. Fisher; but I venture to say that my touch is more classic than his.
I have worked for the French court."
"No, no!" breathed Esther with veiled eyes.
"But, my child," said her aunt in a lowered tone, "you are unreasonable.
This boy appears to know his business; besides, he has worked for the
French court. Moreover, time presses."
"If Miss Woodville will deign to intrust her head to my care, all will
be well," added the would-be hairdresser.
Esther saw there was no help for it but to yield. Suffused with blushes
and pouting, though deeply moved, she took her chair before the mirror.
"What style will it please you this evening,--_capricieuse_ or _tout
amiable_? But I am wrong: a face like yours demands a suitable
accompaniment. Esther Woodville--pardon my liberty of speech--should
have her hair dressed _a la_ Esther Woodville!"
"Anybody can see at a glance that you came from Paris," interposed Mrs.
Marsham; "you know how to pay compliments. I fear that your talents may
stop there, and that your comb is by no means the equal of your tongue."
"Madam shall be the judge. By his work is the artist known."
With a firm, experienced hand he seized the loosened tresses which
overspread the girl's shoulders. Bending above her, inhaling her very
personality, he spoke not, he hardly breathed, overcome by the violence
of his emotions; while she, bending slightly forward, maintained a
strange immobility. A cloud passed before his eyes; his brain reeled.
Could he maintain the mastery of himself sufficiently to play the comedy
to the end?
All at once a confused turmoil arose from the street below. Mrs. Marsham
pricked up her ears.
"Can it be the king already?" she exclaimed.
In order to understand the true import of those two monosyllables, "the
king," for the good lady, we must go back a quarter of a century to the
time when George III., aged sixteen years, still dwelt in Leicester
Fields with his mother, the Dowager Princess of Wales. Never did he pass
through Long Acre on his way to the theatre, of which he was a constant
patron, without casting a timid glance at pretty Sarah Lightfoot, where
she sat at the desk in her father's shop, with her snow-white gown, her
folded kerchief, and her glossy tresses innocent of powder. The young
Quakeress would bend her head with a light blush beneath the mute and
tender contemplation of those big, guileless eyes, undoubtedly more
eloquent than their owner had any idea they were. The royal child would
pause for a moment, and, heaving a sigh, would continue his way with his
unequal, halting gait.
Long, long ago had his Majesty forgotten Sarah Lightfoot; but Sarah
Lightfoot, the present Mrs. Marsham, had never forgotten his Majesty.
Athwart her dull, peaceful, uneventful existence the charming memory
cast a ray which but increased in brilliancy as the days wore on. She
had never mentioned the subject in the presence of her son, fearing the
disdainful shrug of Reuben's shoulders, and suspecting that he nourished
some vague republican chimera; but she would speak complacently with her
niece of the king's fancy, save that she asked God's pardon for
indulging in such frivolous thoughts.
This was the reason why, on this particular evening, she had scarcely
noticed Mr. Fisher's substitute, and why she was so attentive to the
sounds in the street. She intended to see the king's arrival, for it
seemed to her that the ovation intended for his Majesty by his loyal
subjects in some remote way touched her. Mowbray knew nothing of these
circumstances, but he confusedly divined that by means of the good
woman's curiosity he might rid himself of her presence.
"The king?" said he. "Of course it is he; if you wish to see him you
have no time to lose."
For one moment Esther thought to detain her aunt, but how could she
explain her perturbation without admitting the whole deceit, without
causing a scandal? Then, who would dress her hair? And besides, Peg was
with her. And, moreover, in the depths of her heart had not the young
actress a secret desire to be left with her terrible lover, a wild
longing mingled with fear, like that of the youthful soldier who
anticipates with joy, yet dreads to enter, his first battle.
Casting aside her wraps the Quakeress quitted the dressing-room with a
lively step, which suggested pretty Sarah Lightfoot rather than sedate
Mrs. Marsham. The hair-dressing advanced rapidly, and although a trifle
unsteady by reason of internal emotion, the young nobleman acquitted
himself with marvellous distinction.
Although a simpler taste had begun to obtain, the _coiffure_ of a woman
of 1780 was still a remarkably complicated affair; so complicated, in
fact, that certain women, by way of avoiding fatigue or expense, had
their heads dressed only two or three times a week, sometimes only once,
and slept in this heavy, uncomfortable, voluminous rigging, of which
their own hair was assuredly the least important element. False hair
being very costly, the interior of the fragile edifices was often
stuffed with horsehair, and even with hay. In some cases a brace of iron
wire was affixed to the head, upon which flowers, feathers, ribbons, and
jewelry could be firmly attached; and thus the scaffolding frequently
rose to such a height that, if we may credit the caricaturists of the
day, it was necessary to pierce the roofs of the sedan-chairs, and even
of the coaches, in order to accommodate _les elegantes_ in gala costume.
However, there could be no question of such exaggeration in the case of
a Shakespearean heroine. Of all the poet's creations is not Beatrice the
most fantastic? And was not Esther, of all who had essayed the _role_,
the most original in her style of beauty, the most unique in her method
of playing it? That is why Mowbray, clearing all traditions at a single
bound, had given free rein to his fancy. He had lowered the conventional
scaffolding, cut short the tower-shaped _coiffure_. The top of the head
was relieved, while two undulant, billowy masses depended therefrom,
flowing behind the ears, no powder being used, which brought out at once
the delicate contour and exquisite coloring of the face in strong
relief. There was nothing classical nor rococo about it; it was all odd,
novel, and overwhelmingly graceful. Esther had but to cast one glance at
the mirror to be convinced that she had never been more beautiful.
Mowbray leaned towards the maid and whispered a word in her ear.
"What is it?" inquired Esther.
"Nothing," replied Mowbray; "Miss Peg is going in search of some pins
which I require."
"Peg, I forbid you to leave the room!"
But the command came too late. Whether Peg had not heard or had seen fit
not to hear, she had quitted the room. Scarcely had the door closed ere
Mowbray stooped and murmured her name.
She had risen and recoiled across the room.
"Oh, my lord, this is wrong!" she cried.
"Mowbray's wish makes wrong right," he replied. "What do you fear,--the
man who loves you to distraction?"
Resolutely she fixed her eyes on his, striving to read therein, beyond
the disarray of his senses, the true thought which animated him.
[Illustration]
"You love me? You have already said the same thing to twenty others,--to
Bella Vereker, for instance!"
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"I have never owned a second love! Neither she, nor any one else. You
are my first love, and you shall be the only one!"
"I do not believe you. You are not telling me truth."
"Certainly I am," he exclaimed. "You shall be Lady Mowbray in the sight
of God and man, with the reversion of the office which my mother holds
at court."
This was no illusion! Esther began to weaken, vanity being in reality
her vulnerable point.
At this moment a heavy knocking sounded upon the door, so resonant, so
brutal that they both trembled.
"They are about to begin!" cried a voice in the passage. Perhaps it may
seem singular to those who have not experienced similar situations, that
such an incident can save a young girl; that the sentiment of secondary
but immediate duty can brusquely awaken her at the moment that the
notion of primal duty is losing its hold upon her. Esther recovered her
presence of mind upon the instant.
"I am on in the first scene!" she cried. "Quick, my costume!"
She threw open the door. The callboy had disappeared, but one of the
company who was to play the part of Hero, already dressed, was just
descending to the greenroom.
"Are they beginning?" Esther demanded.
"Not yet."
"But I have just been called."
"Who could have done it? Some joke of course. You have a quarter of an
hour yet."
"But I am alone!"
"Then I will help you."
During this dialogue Mowbray made good his escape. The blow had been
struck! Who had struck it at the decisive moment? Who had dared to
snatch his prey from him? Could it be Lebeau? He again! At the thought
Mowbray's face grew dark with hatred.