THE PLAYER
About this time, Mr. Charles Stagg, of the Williamsburgh theatre in
Virginia, sent by the Horn of Plenty, bound for London, a long letter
to an ancient comrade and player of small parts at Drury Lane. A few
days later, young Mr. Lee, writing by the Golden Lucy to an agreeable
rake of his acquaintance, burst into a five-page panegyric upon the
Arpasia, the Belvidera, the Monimia, who had so marvelously dawned
upon the colonial horizon. The recipient of this communication, being
a frequenter of Button’s, and chancing one day to crack a bottle there
with Mr. Colley Cibber, drew from his pocket and read to that gentleman
the eulogy of Darden’s Audrey, with the remark that the writer was an
Oxford man and must know whereof he wrote.
Cibber borrowed the letter, and the next day, in the company of
Wilks and a bottle of Burgundy, compared it with that of Mr. Charles
Stagg,--the latter’s correspondent having also brought the matter to
the great man’s notice.
“She might offset that pretty jade Fenton at the Fields, eh, Bob?” said
Cibber. “They’re of an age. If the town took to her”--
“If her Belvidera made one pretty fellow weep, why not another?” added
Wilks. “Here--where is’t he says that, when she went out, for many
moments the pit was silent as the grave--and that then the applause was
deep--not shrill--and very long? ’Gad, if ’tis a Barry come again, and
we could lay hands on her, the house would be made!”
Gibber sighed. “You’re dreaming, Bob,” he said good-humoredly. “’Twas
but a pack of Virginia planters, noisy over some _belle sauvage_ with a
ranting tongue.”
“Men’s passions are the same, I take it, in Virginia as in London,”
answered the other. “If the _belle sauvage_ can move to that manner of
applause in one spot of earth, she may do so in another. And here again
he says, ‘A dark beauty, with a strange, alluring air ... a voice of
melting sweetness that yet can so express anguish and fear that the
blood turns cold and the heart is wrung to hear it’--Zoons, sir! What
would it cost to buy off this fellow Stagg, and to bring the phoenix
overseas?”
“Something more than a lottery ticket,” laughed the other, and
beckoned to the drawer. “We’ll wait, Bob, until we’re sure ’tis a
phoenix indeed! There’s a gentleman in Virginia with whom I’ve some
acquaintance, Colonel William Byrd, that was the colony’s agent here.
I’ll write to him for a true account. There’s time enough.”
So thought honest Cibber, and wrote at leisure to his Virginia
acquaintance. It made small difference whether he wrote or refrained
from writing, for he had naught to do with the destinies of Darden’s
Audrey. ’Twas almost summer before there came an answer to his letter.
He showed it to Wilks in the greenroom, between the acts of “The
Provoked Husband.” Mrs. Oldfield read it over their shoulders, and
vowed that ’twas a moving story; nay, more, in her next scene there was
a moisture in Lady Townly’s eyes quite out of keeping with the vivacity
of her lines.
Darden’s Audrey had to do with Virginia, not London; with the winter,
never more the summer. It is not known how acceptable her Monimia, her
Belvidera, her Isabella, would have been to London playgoers. Perhaps
they would have received them as did the Virginians, perhaps not.
Cibber himself might or might not have drawn for us her portrait; might
or might not have dwelt upon the speaking eye, the slow, exquisite
smile with which she made more sad her saddest utterances, the wild
charm of her mirth, her power to make each auditor fear as his own
the impending harm, the tragic splendor in which, when the bolt had
fallen, converged all the pathos, beauty, and tenderness of her earlier
scenes. A Virginian of that winter, writing of her, had written thus;
but then Williamsburgh was not London, nor its playhouse Drury Lane.
Perhaps upon that ruder stage, before an audience less polite, with
never a critic in the pit or footman in the gallery, with no Fops’
Corner and no great number of fine ladies in the boxes, the jewel shone
with a lustre that in a brighter light it had not worn. There was in
Mr. Charles Stagg’s company of players no mate for any gem; this one
was set amongst pebbles, and perhaps by contrast alone did it glow so
deeply.
However this may be, in Virginia, in the winter and the early spring of
that year of grace Darden’s Audrey was known, extravagantly praised,
toasted, applauded to the echo. Night after night saw the theatre
crowded, gallery, pit, and boxes. Even the stage had its row of chairs,
seats held not too dear at half a guinea. Mr. Stagg had visions of a
larger house, a fuller company, renown and prosperity undreamed of
before that fortunate day when, in the grape arbor, he and his wife had
stood and watched Darden’s Audrey asleep, with her head pillowed upon
her arm.
Darden’s Audrey! The name clung to her, though the minister had no
further lot or part in her fate. The poetasters called her Charmante,
Anwet, Chloe,--what not! Young Mr. Lee in many a slight and pleasing
set of verses addressed her as Sylvia, but to the community at large
she was Darden’s Audrey, and an enigma greater than the Sphinx. Why
would she not marry Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View? Was the girl
looking for a prince to come overseas for her? Or did she prefer to a
dazzling marriage the excitement of the theatre, the adulation, furious
applause? That could hardly be, for these things seemed to frighten
her. At times one could see her shrink and grow pale at some great
clapping or loud “Again!” And only upon the stage did the town behold
her. She rarely went abroad, and at the small white house in Palace
Street she was denied to visitors. True, ’twas the way to keep upon
curiosity the keenest edge, to pique interest and send the town to
the playhouse as the one point of view from which the riddle might be
studied. But wisdom such as this could scarce be expected of the girl.
Given, then, that ’twas not her vanity which kept her Darden’s Audrey,
what was it? Was not Mr. Haward of Fair View rich, handsome, a very
fine gentleman? Generous, too, for had he not sworn, as earnestly as
though he expected to be believed, that the girl was pure innocence?
His hand was ready to his sword, nor were men anxious to incur his cold
enmity, so that the assertion passed without open challenge. He was
mad for her,--that was plain enough. And she,--well she’s woman and
Darden’s Audrey, and so doubly an enigma. In the mean time, to-night
she plays Monimia, and her madness makes you weep, so sad it is, so
hopeless, and so piercing sweet.
In this new world that was so strange to her Darden’s Audrey bore
herself as best she might. While it was day she kept within the house,
where the room that in September she had shared with Mistress Deborah
was now for her alone. Hour after hour she sat there, book in hand,
learning how those other women, those women of the past, had loved,
had suffered, had fallen to dusty death. Other hours she spent with
Mr. Charles Stagg in the long room downstairs, or, when Mistress Stagg
had customers, in the theatre itself. As in the branded schoolmaster
chance had given her a teacher skilled in imparting knowledge, so in
this small and pompous man, who beneath a garb of fustian hugged to
himself a genuine reverence and understanding of his art, she found an
instructor more able, perhaps, than had been a greater actor. In the
chill and empty playhouse, upon the narrow stage where, sitting in the
September sunshine, she had asked of Haward her last favor, she now
learned to speak for those sisters of her spirit, those dead women who
through rapture, agony, and madness had sunk to their long rest, had
given their hands to death and lain down in a common inn. To Audrey
they were real; she was free of their company. The shadows were the
people who lived and were happy; who night after night came to watch a
soul caught in the toils, to thunder applause when death with rude and
hasty hands broke the net, set free the prisoner.
The girl dreamed as she breathed. Wakened from a long, long fantasy,
desolate and cold to the heart in an alien air, she sought for poppy
and mandragora, and in some sort finding them dreamed again, though not
for herself, not as before. It can hardly be said that she was unhappy.
She walked in a pageant of strange miseries, and the pomp of woe was
hers to portray. Those changelings from some fateful land, those
passionate, pale women, the milestones of whose pilgrimage spelled
love, ruin, despair, and death, they were her kindred, her sisters. Day
and night they kept her company: and her own pain lessened, grew at
last to a still and dreamy sorrow, never absent, never poignant.
Of necessity, importunate grief was drugged to sleep. In the daylight
hours she must study, must rehearse with her fellow players; when night
came she put on a beautiful dress, and to lights and music and loud
applause there entered Monimia, or Belvidera, or Athenais. When the
play was done and the curtain fallen, the crowd of those who would have
stayed her ever gave way, daunted by her eyes, her closed lips, the
atmosphere that yet wrapped her of passion, woe, and exaltation, the
very tragedy of the soul that she had so richly painted. Like the ghost
of that woman who had so direfully loved and died, she was wont to slip
from the playhouse, through the dark garden, to the small white house
and her quiet room. There she laid off her gorgeous dress, and drew the
ornaments from her dark hair that was long as Molly’s had been that day
beneath the sugar-tree in the far-away valley.
She rarely thought of Molly now, or of the mountains. With her hair
shadowing her face and streaming over bared neck and bosom she sat
before her mirror. The candle burned low; the face in the glass seemed
not her own. Dim, pale, dark-eyed, patient-lipped at last, out of a
mist and from a great distance the other woman looked at her. Far
countries, the burning noonday and utter love, night and woe and life,
the broken toy, flung with haste away! The mist thickened; the face
withdrew, farther, farther off; the candle burned low. Audrey put out
the weak flame, and laid herself upon the bed. Sleep came soon, and it
was still and dreamless. Sometimes Mary Stagg, light in hand, stole
into the room and stood above the quiet form. The girl hardly seemed
to breathe: she had a fashion of lying with crossed hands and head
drawn slightly back, much as she might be laid at last in her final
bed. Mistress Stagg put out a timid hand and felt the flesh if it were
warm; then bent and lightly kissed hand or arm or the soft curve of the
throat. Audrey stirred not, and the other went noiselessly away; or
Audrey opened dark eyes, faintly smiled and raised herself to meet the
half-awed caress, then sank to rest again.
Into Mistress Stagg’s life had struck a shaft of colored light, had
come a note of strange music, had flown a bird of paradise. It was
and it was not her dead child come again. She knew that her Lucy had
never been thus, and the love that she gave Audrey was hardly mother
love. It was more nearly an homage, which, had she tried, she could
not have explained. When they were alone together, Audrey called the
older woman “mother,” often knelt and laid her head upon the other’s
lap or shoulder. In all her ways she was sweet and duteous, grateful
and eager to serve. But her spirit dwelt in a rarer air, and there
were heights and depths where the waif and her protectress might not
meet. To this the latter gave dumb recognition, and though she could
not understand, yet loved her protégée. At night, in the playhouse,
this love was heightened into exultant worship. At all times there was
delight in the girl’s beauty, pride in the comment and wonder of the
town, self-congratulation and the pleasing knowledge that wisdom is
vindicated of its children. Was not all this of her bringing about? Did
it not first occur to her that the child might take Jane Day’s place?
Even Charles, who strutted and plumed himself and offered his snuffbox
to every passer-by, must acknowledge that! Mistress Stagg stopped her
sewing to laugh triumphantly, then fell to work more diligently than
ever; for it was her pleasure to dress Darden’s Audrey richly, in
soft colors, heavy silken stuffs upon which was lavished a wealth of
delicate needlework. It was chiefly while she sat and sewed upon these
pretty things, with Audrey, book on knee, close beside her, that her
own child seemed to breathe again.
Audrey thanked her and kissed her, and wore what she was given to
wear, nor thought how her beauty was enhanced. If others saw it, if
the wonder grew by what it fed on, if she was talked of, written of,
pledged, and lauded by a frank and susceptible people, she knew of all
this little enough, and for what she knew cared not at all. Her days
went dreamily by, nor very sad nor happy; full of work, yet vague and
unmarked as desert sands. What was real was a past that was not hers,
and those dead women to whom night by night she gave life and splendor.
There were visitors to whom she was not denied. Darden came at times,
sat in Mistress Stagg’s sunny parlor, and talked to his sometime ward
much as he had talked in the glebe-house living room,--discursively, of
men and parochial affairs and his own unmerited woes. Audrey sat and
heard him, with her eyes upon the garden without the window. When he
lifted from the chair his great shambling figure, and took his stained
old hat and heavy cane, Audrey rose also, curtsied, and sent her duty
to Mistress Deborah, but she asked no questions as to that past home
of hers. It seemed not to interest her that the creek was frozen so
hard that one could walk upon it to Fair View, or that the minister had
bought a field from his wealthy neighbor, and meant to plant it with
Oronoko. Only when he told her that the little wood--the wood that she
had called her own--was being cleared, and that all day could be heard
the falling of the trees, did she lift startled eyes and draw a breath
like a moan. The minister looked at her from under shaggy brows, shook
his head, and went his way to his favorite ordinary, rum, and a hand at
cards.
Mistress Deborah she beheld no more; but once the Widow Constance
brought Barbara to town, and the two, being very simple women, went
to the play to see the old Audrey, and saw instead a queen, tinseled,
mock-jeweled, clad in silk, who loved and triumphed, despaired and
died. The rude theatre shook to the applause. When it was all over, the
widow and Barbara went dazed to their lodging, and lay awake through
the night talking of these marvels. In the morning they found the
small white house, and Audrey came to them in the garden. When she had
kissed them, the three sat down in the arbor; for it was a fine, sunny
morning, and not cold. But the talk was not easy; Barbara’s eyes were
so round, and the widow kept mincing her words. Only when they were
joined by Mistress Stagg, to whom the widow became voluble, the two
girls spoke aside.
“I have a guinea, Barbara,” said Audrey. “Mr. Stagg gave it to me, and
I need it not,--I need naught in the world. Barbara, here!--’tis for a
warm dress and a Sunday hood.”
“Oh, Audrey,” breathed Barbara, “they say you might live at Fair
View,--that you might marry Mr. Haward and be a fine lady”--
Audrey laid her hand upon the other’s lips. “Hush! See, Barbara, you
must have the dress made thus, like mine.”
“But if ’tis so, Audrey!” persisted poor Barbara. “Mother and I talked
of it last night. She said you would want a waiting-woman, and I
thought--Oh, Audrey!”
Audrey bit her quivering lip and dashed away the tears. “I’ll want no
waiting-woman, Barbara. I’m naught but Audrey that you used to be kind
to. Let’s talk of other things. Have you missed me from the woods all
these days?”
“It has been long since you were there,” said Barbara dully. “Now I
go with Joan at times, though mother frowns and says she is not fit.
Eh, Audrey, if I could have a dress of red silk, with gold and bright
stones, like you wore last night! Old days I had more than you, but
all’s changed now. Joan says”--
The Widow Constance rising to take leave, it did not appear what Joan
had said. The visitors from the country went away, nor came again
while Audrey dwelt in Williamsburgh. The schoolmaster came, and while
he waited for his sometime pupil to slowly descend the stairs talked
learnedly to Mr. Stagg of native genius, of the mind drawn steadily
through all accidents and adversities to the end of its own discovery,
and of how time and tide and all the winds of heaven conspire to bring
the fate assigned, to make the puppet move in the stated measure.
Mr. Stagg nodded, took out his snuffbox, and asked what now was the
schoolmaster’s opinion of the girl’s Monimia last night,--the last act,
for instance. Good Lord, how still the house was!--and then one long
sigh!
The schoolmaster fingered the scars in his bands, as was his manner
at times, but kept his eyes upon the ground. When he spoke, there was
in his voice unwonted life. “Why, sir, I could have said with Lear,
_’Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow!’_--and I am not a man,
sir, that’s easily moved. The girl is greatly gifted. I knew that
before either you or the town, sir. Audrey, good-morrow!”
Such as these from out her old life Darden’s Audrey saw and talked
with. Others sought her, watched for her, laid traps that might achieve
at least her presence, but largely in vain. She kept within the house;
when the knocker sounded she went to her own room. No flowery message,
compliment, or appeal, not even Mary Stagg’s kindly importunity, could
bring her from that coign of vantage. There were times when Mistress
Stagg’s showroom was crowded with customers; on sunny days young men
left the bowling green to stroll in the shell-bordered garden paths;
gentlemen and ladies of quality passing up and down Palace Street
walked more slowly when they came to the small white house, and looked
to see if the face of Darden’s Audrey showed at any window.
Thus the winter wore away. The springtime was at hand, when one day
the Governor, wrought upon by Mistress Evelyn Byrd, sent to Mr.
Stagg, bidding him with his wife and the new player to the Palace.
The three, dressed in their best, were ushered into the drawing-room,
where they found his Excellency at chess with the Attorney-General; a
third gentleman, seated somewhat in the shadow, watching the game. A
servant placed, chairs for the people from the theatre. His Excellency
checkmated his antagonist, and, leaning back in his great chair,
looked at Darden’s Audrey, but addressed his conversation to Mr.
Charles Stagg. The great man was condescendingly affable, the lesser
one obsequious; while they talked the gentleman in the shadow arose
and drew his chair to Audrey’s side. ’Twas Colonel Byrd, and he spoke
to the girl kindly and courteously; asking after her welfare, giving
her her meed of praise, dwelling half humorously upon the astonishment
and delight into which she had surprised the play-loving town. Audrey
listened with downcast eyes to the suave tones, the well-turned
compliments, but when she must speak spoke quietly and well.
At last the Governor turned toward her, and began to ask well-meant
questions and to give pompous encouragement to the new player. No
reference was made to that other time when she had visited the Palace.
A servant poured for each of the three a glass of wine. His Excellency
graciously desired that they shortly give ‘Tamerlane’ again, that
being a play which, as a true Whig and a hater of all tyrants, he much
delighted in, and as graciously announced his intention of bestowing
upon the company two slightly tarnished birthday suits. The great man
then arose, and the audience was over.
Outside the house, in the sunny walk leading to the gates, the three
from the theatre met, full face, a lady and two gentlemen who had been
sauntering up and down in the pleasant weather. The lady was Evelyn
Byrd; the gentlemen were Mr. Lee and Mr. Grymes.
Audrey, moving slightly in advance of her companions, halted at the
sight of Evelyn, and the rich color surged to her face; but the other,
pale and lovely, kept her composure, and, with a smile and a few
graceful words of greeting, curtsied deeply to the player. Audrey, with
a little catch of her breath, returned the curtsy. Both women were
richly dressed, both were beautiful; it seemed a ceremonious meeting of
two ladies of quality. The gentlemen also bowed profoundly, pressing
their hats against their hearts. Mistress Stagg, to whom her protégée’s
aversion to company was no light cross, twitched her Mirabell by the
sleeve and, hanging upon his arm, prevented his further advance. The
action said: “Let the child alone; maybe when the ice is once broken
she’ll see people, and not be so shy and strange!”
“Mr. Lee,” said Evelyn sweetly, “I have dropped my glove,--perhaps in
the summer-house on the terrace. If you will be so good? Mr. Grymes,
will you desire Mr. Stagg yonder to shortly visit me at my lodging? I
wish to bespeak a play, and would confer with him on the matter.”
The gentlemen bowed and hasted upon their several errands, leaving
Audrey and Evelyn standing face to face in the sunny path. “You are
well, I hope,” said the latter, in her low, clear voice, “and happy?”
“I am well, Mistress Evelyn,” answered Audrey. “I think that I am not
unhappy.”
The other gazed at her in silence; then, “We have all been blind,” she
said. “’Tis not a year since May Day and the Jaquelins’ merrymaking.
It seems much longer. You won the race,--do you remember?--and took
the prize from my hand. And neither of us thought of all that should
follow--did we?--or guessed at other days. I saw you last night at the
theatre, and you made my heart like to burst for pity and sorrow. You
were only playing at woe? You are not unhappy, not like that?”
Audrey shook her head. “No, not like that.”
There was a pause, broken by Evelyn. “Mr. Haward is in town,” she said,
in a low but unfaltering voice, “He was at the playhouse last night. I
watched him sitting in a box, in the shadow.... You also saw him?”
“Yes,” said Audrey. “He had not been there for a long, long time. At
first he came night after night.... I wrote to him at last and told
him how he troubled me,--made me forget my lines,--and then he came no
more.”
There was in her tone a strange wistfulness. Evelyn drew her breath
sharply, glanced swiftly at the dark face and liquid eyes. Mr. Grymes
yet held the manager and his wife in conversation, but Mr. Lee, a small
jessamine-scented glove in hand, was hurrying toward them from the
summer-house.
“You think that you do not love Mr. Haward?” said Evelyn, in a low
voice.
“I loved one that never lived,” said Audrey simply. “It was all in
a dream from which I have waked. I told him that at Westover, and
afterwards here in Williamsburgh. I grew so tired at last--it hurt me
so to tell him ... and then I wrote the letter. He has been at Fair
View this long time, has he not?”
“Yes,” said Evelyn quietly. “He has been alone at Fair View.” The rose
in her cheeks had faded; she put her lace handkerchief to her lips, and
shut her hand so closely that the nails bit into the palm. In a moment,
however, she was smiling, a faint, inscrutable smile, and presently she
came a little nearer and took Audrey’s hand in her own.
The soft, hot, lingering touch thrilled the girl. She began to speak
hurriedly, not knowing why she spoke nor what she wished to say:
“Mistress Evelyn”--
“Yes, Audrey,” said Evelyn, and laid a fluttering touch upon the
other’s lips, then in a moment spoke herself: “You are to remember
always, though you love him not, Audrey, that he never was true lover
of mine; that now and forever, and though you died to-night, he is
to me but an old acquaintance,--Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View.
Remember also that it was not your fault, nor his perhaps, nor mine,
and that with all my heart I wish his happiness.... Ah, Mr. Lee, you
found it? My thanks, sir.”
Mr. Lee, having restored the glove with all the pretty froth of words
which the occasion merited, and seen Mistress Evelyn turn aside to
speak with Mr. Stagg, found himself mightily inclined to improve the
golden opportunity and at once lay siege to this paragon from the
playhouse. Two low bows, a three-piled, gold-embroidered compliment, a
quotation from his “To Sylvia upon her Leaving the Theatre,” and the
young gentleman thought his lines well laid. But Sylvia grew restless,
dealt in monosyllables, and finally retreated to Mistress Stagg’s side.
“Shall we not go home?” she whispered. “I--I am tired, and I have my
part to study, the long speech at the end that I stumbled in last
night. Ah, let us go!”
Mistress Stagg sighed over the girl’s contumacy. It was not thus in
Bath when she was young, and men of fashion flocked to compliment a
handsome player. Now there was naught to do but to let the child have
her way. She and Audrey made their curtsies, and Mr. Charles Stagg
his bow, which was modeled after that of Beau Nash. Then the three
went down the sunny path to the Palace gates, and Evelyn with the two
gentlemen moved toward the house and the company within.