drawing-rooms; the day for the reception of dramatists as honoured
guests at the houses of the nobility was not yet. They were, however,
respectfully conducted to a small apartment and offered refreshments,
which they partook of sparingly, and then conducted through the garden
to a large temporary structure, which Lady Romaine had insisted on
having run up, so that she might invite a very large audience to her
house for the occasion.
There was a well-arranged stage for the actors, and the scenery, such as
it was, had been well painted, in imitation of that at the theatres;
Father Time's throne was a very fine erection, and all the arrangements
were excellent. The old man seemed to throw off his lassitude as he
made his observations, and the fire came back to his eyes and the power
to his voice. Grey forgot his uneasiness in the excitement of the
moment, and in the realization of where he was and who might at any
moment appear before his eyes, and he was resolved that this
representation should be the finest which had ever been seen heretofore.
In the grand reception-rooms of the Countess, Geraldine stood apart as
one who dreams. She saw the throng of fashionable persons assembling;
she heard delighted exclamations about the wonders of the little theatre
which all had heard of. It had been brought from Spring Gardens, and
the moving of it had been quite a small excitement for the fashionable
world, who declared that Lady Romaine was the cleverest and most
delightful of women, and that it was quite too charming to be able to
witness this representation, of which all the town was talking, without
the crush and fatigue of attending the theatres.
Geraldine heard as in a dream all this hubbub and clatter. She herself
was as eager as any to witness the dramatic interlude, but from a motive
different from that of the rest of the world. There was an unwonted
flush upon her cheeks, a brilliance in her dreamy eyes. Many persons,
who had scarcely noticed her before, or had passed her by with the
epithet, "a maid of ice," "a snow-queen," now regarded her with greater
attention, and said one to another that the Lady Geraldine was a more
beautiful creature than they had fancied before.
Lord Sandford, pushing his way through the throng towards her, felt a
peculiar thrill of triumph run through him as his eyes dwelt upon her
face.
"She is a splendid woman--just fit to be the future Lady Sandford, the
mother of those who shall come after me! My wooing shall not last much
longer. I know the mind of her mother, and though her father promises
nothing, he wishes me well. He will not have her coerced, nor would I.
She must come to me willingly; but come she shall. She has no mind
towards marriage, as other maids and damsels. Better so, better so. I
would not have my mistress one of those whose ears are greedy for the
flattery of all the world--one who looks upon each man as he appears in
the light of a possible suitor. No, I would have my white lily just as
she is--pure, spotless, calm, cold. It is for me to kindle the fire,
for me to unlock the heart; and I will not grumble if the task be
something hard, for better is the prize for which we have toiled and
sweated, than the one which drops into our hands at the first touch."
So thinking, he pushed his way till he stood by Geraldine's side, and
met the clear, steady glance of her eyes.
"Fair lady, I give you greeting. You are not going to absent yourself
from the representation this night? We never know in our garish world
where the Lady Geraldine will appear, or what places she will illumine
with the light of her countenance. I rejoice to see you here to-night."
"I have a great desire to see this spectacle of which I have heard so
much," answered Geraldine quietly; "I would fain have gone to the
theatre, if so be that my mother had not arranged this representation
here. I have heard of the Old Lion of the stage, though never have I
seen him. There is something grand in the story I have heard of his
talent, his early successes, and his bravely endured eclipse and
poverty. I am right glad he has lived again to taste success and the
plaudits of the people."
Lord Sandford laughed at her earnestness.
"You are a philanthropist in sooth, Lady Geraldine, to interest yourself
in the affairs of such persons as these."
"Are they not of our own flesh and blood, my lord?" she asked.
"Faith, I know not, and I care not! At least, they are not of our
world, which is more to the point in these days."
Geraldine turned away with a look upon her face which roused the hot
blood of Lord Sandford; he was not used to scorn.
"Lady Geraldine," he began; but a sudden stir and as sudden a hush in
the great rooms brought his words to an abrupt stop. The Duchess of
Marlborough herself was making her formal entry, and there was almost
the same respect paid to her as though royalty itself were appearing.
They were only waiting for her to troop through the covered way into the
theatre; and Geraldine, taking advantage of the movement and the
confusion incident to this, escaped from Lord Sandford, who would have
given her his arm, made her way rapidly downstairs by a private way, and
took up a position in the theatre where he was quite unable to get near
her.
She had decided beforehand where she would sit--near to a side-door into
the garden, which, standing half-open, let in a current of cool air into
the heated place. It had been warmed beforehand, and was dimly lighted
by a number of small lanterns overhead, such as were used in the gardens
of Vauxhall and Ranelagh.
Her heart was beating almost to suffocation as the curtain went up, and
she saw the often-described figure of Time upon his throne. But it was
not of his rounded periods nor his telling gestures that she had been
dreaming; and though she listened and watched with a sense of
fascination, she knew that she was waiting--waiting--waiting for the
next actor, with a sense almost of suffocation in her throat.
Why had she thought this thing? Why had it seemed to her no
impossibility that Sir Grey Dumaresq, vanished utterly from his old
world, should be masquerading now in this part of the Youth? She could
not have answered even to herself these questions, yet her heart was all
in a tumult. Had he not once said to her, as he plucked a white rosebud
and gave it her, "Why was my name not White instead of Grey? Then it
would be like unto you"? Was that enough to build upon? Hardly, but
yet she could not help it. Did not men speak of his grace, dignity,
manly beauty? and did not many say of him that his face seemed familiar
in some sort, yet none could say who he was? And now a thunder of new
applause rent the air. For a moment her vision grew dim and she could
not see. Then it cleared, and her heart gave a great bound. Clear
silver tones fell upon her ear, and the ring of a voice that she knew.
His face for the moment was turned away. He was addressing himself to
Father Time; but as he turned towards the house and gazed full upon the
audience sitting in spellbound silence, the foot-lights fell full upon
his face, and she knew him!
She knew him--that was enough! What he said or did, she knew not--cared
not. She sat with her gaze fastened full upon him. She recked not why
that alone seemed enough. A strange trance that was half dream fell
upon her. She gazed, and gazed, and gazed.
"Good lack, but the fellow is the very mirror of my husband! I had not
believed it, had I not seen it with mine own eyes." The voice of the
Duchess was clearly heard above the clarion notes of the actor. She was
not one to hush her tones, and she was not a little astonished by the
performance. Pleasure, gratification, and surprise were all written
upon the hard but handsome features of the Queen's favourite; and every
now and again she would tap her long ivory fan with some vehemence upon
the back of the seat in front, and would exclaim aloud,--
"Vastly good! Vastly well done! Faith, but he is a pretty fellow, and
knows what he is about. I must have speech with him. I would learn
more of this. Beshrew me, but the Duke must see this when he returns!"
This loud-voiced praise could not but reach the ears of the actors, and
they could not fail to know who it was that spoke. All knew that the
Duchess was to be present, as a special mark of good will and
condescension, and that she should speak such open praise seemed to set
a seal upon the success of the entertainment. Lady Romaine could scarce
contain herself for delight.
Geraldine still sat as in a maze of bewildered happiness. It was not
till just as the performance was closing that she was awakened from her
trance, and that somewhat rudely. The last words of the interlude were
being spoken. Father Time and the Youth were standing together making
their last speeches to the audience, and she was gazing with all her
eyes into the face of one whom she alone out of all the company had
recognized, when one of the lanterns overhead, insecurely fastened,
burnt its way loose, and fell flaring and blazing upon the light train
of her dress. Instantly she was in a blaze. The flames shooting up made
a glare all over the house, and a hundred piercing shrieks attested the
terror of the ladies at the sight.
But one had seen even before the flames shot up. Already the young actor
had leaped like a deer to the floor of the house; in a moment he had
reached the side of the lady. He had caught up in his hands a great rug
which was picturesquely flung over the throne of Father Time, and before
any other person in the room had recovered presence of mind sufficient
to stir, he had the flaming figure wrapped round in this rug, and had
borne it out through the half-open door into the safety of the grassy
garden without, where, laying his burden down upon the ground tenderly,
despite his haste, he was quickly able to stifle the flames and
extinguish the last spark.
He bent over her, his face white and ghastly in the moonlight.
"You are not hurt--say you are not hurt!"
"I think not; you were so quick--so quick. How can I thank you?"
Her eyes looked into his; it was just one moment before the people came
rushing out upon them in a frantic crowd. But that moment was their
own. They looked into each other's eyes, and a thrill passed from heart
to heart that never could be forgotten. Out rushed Lord Romaine, frantic
with anxiety; out followed a motley crowd--some weeping, some gasping,
some exclaiming, some even laughing in hysterical excitement. Grey
stood up suddenly, and slipped away like a wraith in the moonlight.
Lord Romaine bent tenderly over his daughter, who was struggling to her
feet, still encumbered by the folds of the great rug. She was
dishevelled, her dress was torn and burnt, she held the folds of the
covering wrap about her still; but her voice was only a little tremulous
as she clung to her father's arm.
"I am not hurt; no, I am sure I am not. The hot breath of the fire just
scorched for a moment; but then it was crushed out.. Please send the
people away. I do not want to be stared at. I am not hurt. Please
take me in, and let me go to my own room."
"Bless me, but what a pretty kettle of fish!" cried a loud and imperious
voice. "Let me see the child and be sure she is all safe. Ha, there
you are, my pretty white bird! A nice scare you gave us all wrapped
about in a ring of fire like--who was the woman?--Brynhild, or some such
outlandish name. But it was a fine ending to the drama. We have not
quite lost our heroes yet. My faith, how he leaped down! He must have
seen it before any of the rest of us. Well, well, well; it is a good
thing that his fine show of bravery was not all in words. He is a
mettlesome youth, and deserves the praise of the town. He will be more
the hero of the hour than ever. Where is the boy? I would have speech
of him myself."
The Duchess looked about her; but no one like the Youth was to be seen.
He had vanished altogether; but, doubtless, he would be somewhere on the
place, and could be fetched to receive the thanks of the parents and the
compliments of the Duchess.
It was too cold to stand out in the moonlight, and there was a general
move towards the house, Geraldine still clinging to her father's arm,
avoiding the shrill questions, comments, and congratulations of the
company, and shrinking back especially when Lord Sandford would have
approached.
"The luck was not for me to-night," he said; "nevertheless, give me the
chance, Lady Geraldine, and you shall see what I will do. But that
actor chap shall not lose his reward for his promptitude. I will see to
that."
She started as though she had been stung.
"My lord, do not insult him!"
He stared at her in amaze; but she slipped away and vanished like a
wraith. He strode moodily about the rooms, joining in the general
inquiry after the young actor whom the Duchess had sent for; but the
servants came back after some time to say that the young man could not
be found. He seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*FICKLE FORTUNE.*
Grey had a double reason for his rapid disappearance from the scene of
his recent exploit. For one thing, he had recognized amid the audience
assembled by Lady Romaine to witness the performance quite a number of
men whom he had known with more or less intimacy in the former days, and
whom he now desired to avoid. He knew that both his flowing wig and his
fine clothes had received some injury from the fire, and moreover he
quickly felt that his hands and one of his arms had suffered from the
flames. If he were to be taken possession of by friendly or
compassionate persons, to have these matters looked to, there was no end
to the possible complications which might arise. The sensitive pride of
the young man of gentle birth rose in arms against being unmasked in the
midst of old associates. He pictured the laugh with which Lord Sandford
would make the discovery that the youthful baronet, his whilom friend,
was playing upon the boards of the theatre for a livelihood. That was a
thing he could not and would not endure. And he had fled hastily from
the coming crowd, so soon as he had been assured that Lord Romaine was
on the spot to take care of his daughter.
Again, he was frightened by the intensity of his own feelings. When he
held Geraldine in his arms, and when their eyes met, and he knew himself
recognized, the flood of emotion which surged over him had well-nigh
mastered him and led him into some wild act of folly. He had had much
ado to stay the burning words which rushed like a torrent to his lips.
He dared not trust himself to look again upon Geraldine's fair face. He
was frightened at the immensity of the temptation which had assailed him
to break into some wild declaration of love.
But when he had reached the waiting coach which was to convey him and
his companion back to town, his thoughts were directed into quite
another channel by the frightened faces of the servants who stood by.
"You had better get Master Wylde home without delay," spoke one, "and
have a leech for him. He was taken with bleeding at the mouth almost as
soon as he left the stage. He has only spoken once, and that was to ask
for you. He should be got to bed as quick as may be, and kept there
till he is better."
With a pale and anxious face Grey threw himself into the coach where the
Old Lion was sitting, leaning back feebly against the cushions, his face
ghastly, his hand holding to his mouth a kerchief stained and spotted
with blood. In a great fright the young actor bade the man drive fast,
and stop on his way at the residence of one of the many physicians, or
quacks, who drove so brisk a trade in these times, each having some
wonderful nostrum of his own for the cure of all ills under the sun, and
some of them thriving so mightily that they drove four or six horses in
their coaches, and had lackeys in scarlet and silver lace running beside
them and distributing small leaflets, in which the wonders their master
had performed were set forth.
Grey had heard of some of these men, and that they performed wonderful
cures; and he cared not what he paid, at that moment, so that his master
and friend might be relieved and healed.
With no small trouble he got him up the stairs to their attic, and put
him to bed. But more than once the hacking cough brought back the
dreaded bleeding; and by the time that the leech arrived, pompous and
haughty, and none too well pleased at being summoned from the convivial
gathering of friends whither he had betaken himself, he looked more like
a corpse than a living man.
Grey was in a fever of anxiety, and listened with earnest heed to the
words of the leech, and his instructions for the relief of the patient.
He bought every suggested medicament, regardless of the cost, and made
no hesitation in handing the exorbitant fee demanded by the great man
for his valuable services. He cared for nothing, so that his master
should recover; and the leech, finding that gold was plentiful in this
humble abode, and rather interested in the discovery that he was
attending the actor whose Father Time had made such talk in the town,
really began to take some interest in the case, and to put forth his
best skill; so that before very long the death-like hue of the patient's
face changed to something more natural, and the hemorrhage was for the
time being checked.
"He must be kept perfectly quiet. On no account must he exert his
voice, or leave his bed, or take any liberties. Nature must be
humoured, my dear sir; nature must be helped and aided. She is a kind
mother to her obedient and reasonable children, but she has many a rod
for the backs of those who despise her warnings. Our worthy friend has
been tendering a deaf ear to her counsels; therefore has she chastened
him somewhat severely. But let him show himself mild and docile under
her rod, and it may be that she will restore him to favour again, and
that the world will once more pay to him its tribute of admiration and
praise."
So saying the leech took his departure, promising to come at any hour of
the day or night that he might be sent for; and Grey was left alone with
his patient, who had been soothed off to a quiet sleep by a draught
administered. And it must be said in justice to these men--half
physician, half quack--who flourished at this time, that some of their
remedies were of no small value when properly applied. They used herbs
and concoctions brewed from the leaves and roots of plants far more
freely than has since become fashionable. Many purchased their nostrums
from old women, who went forth into the fields and lanes, and distilled
from their spoil mixtures which they regarded as remedies of infallible
potency. Much ignorance prevailed as to the action of these simples
upon the human body; but many of them were of no small value in
sickness, and when used in cases where it chanced to be the thing
required, worked wonders in rapid healing, and became at once the
favourite elixir of the moment amongst those who had known of the cure.
So the Old Lion was at least soothed to quiet sleep, and in the warm
atmosphere of the attic his breathing was sensibly relieved. Grey was
able now to strip off his own finery, rather aghast at the sorry state
of his coat, the total destruction of his costly ruffles, and the singed
condition of his wig.
"These must be made good quickly, or I shall not be fit to appear on the
boards on Monday night," he mused, as he looked at them. Luckily as
this was Saturday night, he felt as though there were breathing time
before him. "I must send word to Mr. Butler of what has befallen.
Anthony Frewen, or some other, must needs play Father Time for a score
of performances at least, I fear me. It will be a loss: I shall earn
but the half of what was given us before. Still it will suffice to keep
us, and I trust and hope that it will not be long ere he recover, to
take his place once more."
A troubled look came over Grey's face as he looked towards the bed, and
noted the patient's sunken cheek and cavernous eyes. He wondered that
he had not before seen how thin and shrunken the old man was getting;
but there was always so much fire about him that it deceived even those
who saw him oftenest and loved him best.
"It has been too much for him," mused Grey, as he sat beside the fire,
pain of body and anxiety of mind precluding all thought of sleep. His
hands were becoming increasingly painful, and he had forgotten to ask
the leech for any medicament for them. However, he applied linen rag
steeped in oil; and the burning smart lessened somewhat, though he had
no disposition to seek sleep.
"It hath been too much for him--the triumph, the adulation, the
excitement of taking again his old place before the world. It meant so
much to him, this play. It was like the child of his old age. It
brought him his final triumph; but it took much out of him also. The
fires of life blazed up too fiercely. Now they seem sinking down to
ashes. Heaven grant that we may feed them yet, that he may recover him
of this sickness. Yet will he ever be able to face the world again as
heretofore? It is hard that his trumpet voice should be taken--the last
of those attributes which made him the idol of the stage. Oh, it has
been hard how one thing has followed another with him! Some men seem
born to success and triumph, whilst others with equal gifts and powers
are doomed to misfortune and sorrow."
Grey fell into a reverie of a sombre nature. "Was he fated to be one of
those luckless mortals, ever falling lower and lower in fortune's
favour, till perhaps a pauper's grave should at last close over him?
"What has life given me heretofore? A good old name, which I may not
use for very pride; an estate so burdened and crippled that it is none
of mine, save in name. I have had my days of glory and happiness; but
what lies before me now? If my master dies, or lies sick and helpless,
what will become of us in the future? I may play the part of the Youth
with Anthony Frewen or some other till the world tires of it; but what
then? Shall I join the crowd of cringing, hollow-eyed men, crowding the
taverns and the stage doors of the theatres, and begging for some
inferior part upon the boards? Shall I go vaunting my powers, or
chaffering my wares in a market already overstocked, that wants none of
me? No. Whatever happens, I will have none of that. I have tasted of
the life, but it hath no charms for me. Rather would I gird my sword
upon my thigh, and go forth as a soldier in foreign lands; and, indeed,
were I alone in the world, methinks I would hesitate no longer, but
offer myself for this."
As he spoke, his eyes turned to the bed where the old man lay, and a
softer look came over his face.
"I cannot leave him. With him I must stay till he recover, or till he
die. He took me in in my hour of need. To desert him in his would be
base beyond all words. I will play the part of son to him so long as he
needs me; and for his sake will I go through my part as before, though
without him the joy will be gone. But it will bring us the needful
gold; and we are not without our hoard, as it is. Truly my master was
wise when he decided not to leave these rooms--not to live like rich men
on the strength of our earnings. We have sufficient gold laid by
against a rainy day. Ere that is spent, doubtless there will come some
change to our fortunes."
But with the dawn of another day Grey found himself in very sorry
plight. Great blisters had risen over his hand and arm, and the fingers
were so swollen and painful that he could scarcely move them. He was
forced to contrive a sling in which to carry his left hand and arm, and
he could only just use his right sufficiently for the needful attendance
upon the sick man, and that not without considerable pain. He began to
feel feverish and weak himself from the effects of pain and shock.
It began to come over him with more and more conviction that he himself
would be unfit to appear upon the stage on the morrow. And as soon as
the morning light had fully come, he sent the servant of the house
wherein they lodged to the rooms occupied by Mr. Butler of the Drury
Lane theatre management, asking him to come at once to see him upon a
matter of importance.
Mr. Butler was part proprietor of the theatre, and the practical stage
manager, and he listened with great interest and concern to Grey's tale,
looking earnestly at the sick man muttering to himself upon the bed, but
taking no notice of what went on about him, and bending over him not
untenderly, to see if could elicit some response. But the Old Lion
unclosed his dim eyes for a few moments, looked into his face, and then
turned restlessly and began the mutterings as before, interrupted
sometimes by fits of coughing, which left him visibly exhausted,
although there was no return of the hemorrhage.