“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman
Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air—
On air—air—’”
Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few
moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of
the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder
through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware
of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen
countenance.
When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all
assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the
others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and
delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members,
presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token
of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it
would reflect upon the troupe.”
That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two
shillings.
He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any
other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening
appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance.
He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and
pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for
one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that
peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at
Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a
logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It
was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he
(Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the _principle_ he
objected to; it appeared penurious.
Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which
Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood
who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through
rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from
feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges,
with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the
British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving,
vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often
profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded
respect.
Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not
prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run.
We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in
all directions.
I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical
experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage
alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my
whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of
the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it
was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere
chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or
Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in
contact.
M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had
built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a
kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to
grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very
distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what
raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants
might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.
Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this
town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glittering with sunshine.
The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered
about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched
lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable
feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and
in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held
a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of
distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted
their scythes.
Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on
foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes,
that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M——
from parts unknown.
The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier
now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper
muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which
lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by
cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his
naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden
times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation I gained
by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have
been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell,
as I said, was tall.
And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of
former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a
respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look
any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself
through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was
something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a
weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there
before. Perhaps he had walked many miles.
I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an
unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of
genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was
against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without
friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them;
and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess
the contents of his coat-tail pocket!
Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out
of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during our conversation
told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his
knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the
experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms
with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the
circumstances my interest awakened.
A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town
and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a
shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly
helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the
man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented
himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on
this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and
the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg
would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt
had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at
once for his relief.
Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent,
especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it
was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of
Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One
appeal was sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least
relieve his present wants.
There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the
barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a
room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a
worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce,
blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz.
And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed
himself into the one shady corner.
Old Mounse was a besotted beggar round town who had arrived at the state
where the rims of his eyelids appeared to be turned inside out and
resembled raw beefsteak. The landlady, who was somewhat more
compassionate than her worser half, fearing that Boydell might die on
her hands, had sent up old Mounse, an hour ago, with a little gruel
which he had swallowed himself, and was then peacefully snoring in the
corner.
We sent immediately for a physician, and employed ourselves in having
Boydell removed to another apartment, where, at least, he might escape
being broiled to death by the sun, or devoured by flies. When the doctor
arrived, we had him fixed in quite comfortable quarters. Boydell’s
disease, as we feared, was a severe form of the typhoid fever. From the
lifeless stupor, he suddenly broke into the wild ravings of delirium, so
that our combined strength could hardly avail to keep him upon the bed.
We reinstated old Mounse on his watch, only with strict orders that the
granulated eyelids were to be kept wide open. Old Mounse was one of
those rare persons with the _delirium tremens_, who had hovered on the
verge of dissolution for thirty years, and still lived along. Palsied
and feeble, and crippled and unshaven, and dirty and whiny, he just
managed to keep himself on this side of the grave. The adjective “old,”
which had become a prefix to his name, could not have been better
applied, for his clothes, too, were ready at any moment to keep him
company and return to their original element. Old Mounse’s one merit
was, he had become so aged that he could just do what he was told and
nothing more. The case had assumed altogether a new aspect to him, now
that Boydell seemed to have friends.
Every day the doctor reported the condition of his patient, which grew
more and more unfavorable, until one morning he came and told us he
thought Boydell had not over twenty-four hours to live. We went
immediately to the tavern with him. Boydell, for the first time since
his illness, was perfectly conscious. Here, in the silence of this
barren room, unhallowed by the presence of sorrowing ones, the wild,
reckless life was drawing to a close. It seemed as if the specter hands
of death were already stretched out to snap the last binding thread. The
face on the pillow, haggard and ghastly with its hollow cheeks, very
little resembled the one over which that weary, indefinable expression,
the shadow, the forerunner of the fever, had crept but three weeks ago.
Boydell recognized me, and motioned to a chair beside the bed. He made
two or three efforts before he spoke.
“I am going to die—”
We could only answer by silence. It was something terrible to see this
strong man, now weaker than an infant, lie calmly on the brink of
eternity; even old Mounse dropped his beefy lids, and drew back with a
subdued sniffle of awe. We asked if there was any thing that he wished
done. After a little he turned his head that his voice might the better
reach us.
“I have relatives—it will not matter to them that I am gone; they hold
themselves up in the world; it will only be a disgrace wiped out; but—I
would like them to know, and when I am dead, why—I wish you would please
write to—to my brother. I have not heard from him for nearly fifteen
years.”
He closed his eyes, and seemed to dream, but presently roused himself,
and looked anxiously about the room.
“There was something else—oh, yes. Tell him that—I am gone. He is rector
of St. Paul’s Church, S——, Lower Canada.” He paused and then said
slowly, as though repeating his words for the first time, “It is no
matter—but tell him I am—dead.”
He felt up and down the seam of the quilt feebly with his fingers, then
closed his eyes again in unconsciousness.
All day the dread phantom hands seemed to hover closer to that quivering
thread of life, until sometimes we almost thought it broken; but at
nightfall they receded, and the shred strengthened. There was a change
for the better, and Boydell fell into soft, natural slumber.
Several days after this it occurred to me that if Boydell had relatives
in Canada who were well off, they ought to help him in his time of need.
Without making him or any one else acquainted with my intention, I wrote
a letter setting forth Boydell’s illness and utterly destitute condition
among strangers. As they held no communication with Boydell, they would
hardly be willing to send him the money. I was unknown, and to assure
them it was no imposition, I wrote if they wished to send any
assistance, direct “To the Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church, M——,
Illinois.”
About a week later that minister came to me and showed a letter
post-marked S——, which contained a check for three hundred dollars. It
specified that the money was to be given to Boydell only on condition
that he would promise to renounce the stage forever, and so soon as he
was able to travel, come home to his relatives. I felt delighted at the
success of my plan, for of course he would accept the money, and whether
he fulfilled his promise afterwards by renouncing the stage and going
home to Canada, which would be extremely doubtful, I considered was no
business of mine.
When we entered his room, Boydell was propped up almost in a sitting
posture by pillows. The window-shutter had been thrown partly open to
admit the air, and a narrow streak of sunlight fell across the bed. We
told him of the good news, and after we had made him understand how it
had all come about, read the letter aloud. He listened in perfect
silence, without changing position, and when it was finished, took the
check and said,—
“Three hundred dollars?”
“Yes,” we said, “it is three hundred dollars.”
He held the slip of paper in his emaciated hands, that trembled with
weakness, and repeated,—
“Three hundred dollars—”
He seemed trying to convince himself of its reality; but suddenly a
bewildered expression broke over his face, and he looked from the check
to the letter, which still laid open. We asked Boydell if he wished to
hear it again, but at the second reading his bewilderment only seemed to
increase. He looked at us with an inquiring gaze that wandered round the
bare, desolate room, and settled on the strip of blue sky in the window.
Then he said, as if asking himself the question,—
“Give up the stage? Renounce the stage?”
His eyes came back to the money in his hand. Presently he folded it up,
pressing the creases with his thin fingers, and slowly holding it out,
shook his head saying,—
“Send it back.”
The ribbon of sunlight had crept further and further round until it
stretched itself across the broad, white forehead, and we stood in
greater awe than when the angel of death had hovered there. Suddenly
before us a dazzling ray had flashed out from the black waste of that
sinful life. The unbroken check went back to Canada.
A month later I was riding in the country. A purple light overhung the
shadowy prairie, which stretched away, broad, level and without bound.
Occasionally a wild bird rose up and darted with swift wings, seeking a
resting place, for already the September moon waited the coming night.
Nearer, the tall weeds raised themselves from the great, soundless ocean
of grass, like the masts of receding vessels. A single wagon, the only
object on all the void prairie, stood out bold and sharp against the
bright line of the horizon, and clearly defined above the driver, high
up on top of the hay, the figure of a man cut the sky. Even at that
distance I knew it was Boydell.
Some one had given him a little money, and with renewed health and
spirits he was going out of M——. Whither?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]