"He is scarce fit for the strain of the past weeks. He uses himself up
too fast. The fires burn within too fiercely; and his long illness,
though seeming only to cripple his limbs, has told upon him. I have
feared it might be so, therefore we are not altogether unprovided."
"I know," answered Grey quietly. "I was going to say as much. Anthony
Frewen has the part of Father Time at his fingers' ends. He can play it
for Mr. Wylde till this illness be overpassed."
"That is true. I am glad you should know. He is ready at any time to
take the part. It will be for him a great opportunity. But it would be
well for you to rehearse with him ere appearing before the public.
Shall we arrange for this to-morrow forenoon? As for this dress, it
must be given at once into the hands of tailor and perruquier. But
there should be no difficulty in having it repaired in time. A few
guineas will set that matter to rights."
"At my cost," answered Grey promptly. "Let that be understood. It is
in the bond; though I shall be grateful if you will see to the matter
for me. As for the rehearsal, and even the performance to-morrow and
the next few nights, I am not certain if I myself shall be able to go
through my part. See here!" and Grey drew from the sling his maimed and
stiffened hand, showing even a greater extent of injury in the daylight
than he had observed before. His white face and drawn brows showed that
he was suffering considerable pain; and Mr. Butler whistled in dismay.
"This is serious," he said, with a look of perplexity on his face.
"Yet methinks there is a way out of the difficulty," spoke Grey, with
some eagerness. "Could you find and send to me the young actor Lionel
Field, who has lodgings somewhere in these regions, for he comes and
goes at the theatre, and has visited us often, albeit he has never told
me where he dwells?"
"I could find the fellow, doubtless," was the answer; "but do you know
your man? A fellow sober one day, drunk the next, upon whom no reliance
can be placed, though his talent is considerable, and he has caught the
public taste before now."
"Ay, and adversity has something sobered and tamed him," answered Grey
eagerly. "I have a sort of liking for the fellow, though he has a
jealous feeling towards me, in that I have stepped into a place without
serving apprenticeship thereto. But believe me, he could act this part
of mine. I am sure of it. He has studied it, I know. He has sat many a
time in that chair whilst I have been going through my paces before my
master. I have seen him watching and following all. Send him hither to
me. I will undertake that he shall be ready to act for me till I am my
own man again. Let him have the chance. I am sure he will remain sober.
He has been steadier for long; and this, he knows, may give him just
that lift for which he has been waiting and longing. It may be the
beginning for him of better things; and since we are much of the same
height, and he is only something broader and more stoutly built, there
will be little trouble with the dress. Let him play the Youth for one
week at least in my place, and I will give my time to my sick friend
yonder, and let my injured hands recover their strength and suppleness."
The manager had been studying Grey's face with some attention. He saw
that it would be impossible for the young man to act for some days to
come. There was a look of fever about him, and the state of his hands
was quite prohibitive. He spoke with a note as of warning in his voice.
"Do you know what it is that you would do?" he asked. "Have you heard
the tale of the countryman who warmed a viper at his hearth, which
afterwards did him to death?"
"The fable I know," answered Grey with a smile, "but I do not see the
application in the present."
"Perchance you may have reason to understand it, if you do as you
purpose towards Lionel Field. A man consumed by vanity and envy is not
the safest wearer of one's discarded shoes."
"But is there any other?" asked Grey. "I know of none."
"No, nor I, i' faith. We have feared that the old man might break
down--he has been growing so gaunt and hollow-eyed of late; but we had
never thought of such a thing as the Youth failing us. We have no
substitute for you, Mr. White. If you fall ill, the interlude must
cease; and it were pity too, for it still draws us crowded houses."
"No, it need not cease," spoke Grey with energy. "Send me only Lionel
Field this day, and I will undertake that by to-morrow forenoon he shall
be fit for the rehearsal with Anthony Frewen in the theatre. Let him
take my place till I am ready to fill it again. He will do it better
than I, with these maimed hands, and with my heart so full of anxious
fears for Mr. Wylde."
"Then so be it," answered the manager, with audible relief in his tones.
He had no wish to withdraw the piece whilst it was still so high in
favour. No one knew how soon the capricious public might tire of it; but
for the moment, with the Duke of Marlborough the popular idol, and
expected home week by week, nothing that gave him praise and honour
could fail to catch the popular taste. The house filled double as full
on those nights on which Time and the Youth were to appear as it did on
the others. Grey knew this, and would not for the world have had the
performances to cease on his account. He had no petty jealousy of an
understudy. He simply desired that a man he had come to pity sincerely
should have the chance he so coveted; and when Lionel Field stood before
him, flushed, excited, filled with strenuous desire to succeed--to fill
the part as ably as it had been filled before--Grey's only desire was to
help him to this end.
It was a strange day that was passed in that upper chamber. On the bed
lay the sick man, for the most part lying in the lethargy of weakness,
but from time to time rousing up, watching with sudden feverish
eagerness the actions of the young men, and occasionally in whispering
tones giving some fragment of keen criticism or dramatic suggestion. At
the other end of the room stood Lionel, going through his part again and
yet again, with an unwearied energy and with increasing grip and power;
whilst Grey, white-faced and exhausted, but still bent on the task
before him, sat beside the fire watching, listening, instructing, rising
every now and again to show how a certain trick of manner or of voice
must be managed, to recall the great Duke to those who knew him. The
master was in earnest; the pupil was eager and resolved to excel.
Lionel had never lacked talent. What he had lacked was the power of
self-restraint, whilst vanity had led him into the snare of thinking
himself invaluable. A bitter lesson had followed, and he had learned
wisdom by experience. His chance had now come to him most unexpectedly.
He meant to use it well. He was grateful to Grey for selecting him at
this juncture. He did not consciously meditate doing him an ill turn,
but he resolved in his heart that this opportunity should be used to the
uttermost. It would bring him once more before the public which once
had favoured him. He would take care he did not sink into obscurity
again.
It was dusk before he left with his part perfect, and everything learned
that Grey could teach him. As his footsteps clattered down the wooden
stairs, Grey sank back exhausted into his chair, closing his eyes in
utter lassitude. It was more than an hour before he moved, and then
nothing but the necessity for giving food to Wylde would have roused
him.
The Old Lion was awake now, and his breathing, though very rapid, was
somewhat easier. He was excessively weak; but the quiet day spent in
the warm attic and without any exertion on his part had not been without
effect, and there was more comprehension in the gaze now bent upon
Grey's face than he had seen there since the previous night, when the
old man had been taken suddenly ill.
"What is the matter, boy, and what have you been doing all day? Who was
that went out at dusk? Methought it looked like young Lionel Field."
"It was he, sir. He came to learn--or rather to perfect--the part of
the Youth. You and I are to take a week's holiday, and enjoy a rest
together. Your cough is too bad for you to go abroad, and I have burnt
my hands and must needs get them healed ere I step the boards again.
Anthony Frewen and Lionel Field will take our places for the nonce; and
after we are restored to our former health, and strength, the public
will welcome us back the more gladly for our absence."
The Old Lion's eyes flashed suddenly from beneath their heavy lids. He
half raised himself in his bed.
"I shall never tread the boards again. My acting days are done. I
murmur not. I have had my heart's desire. I can now depart in peace.
But you, boy--you! Why have you given up the place that was yours? I
hear the knell tolling for you too. Not for your life--nay, you will
live after these limbs are laid in the grave; but for your triumph--for
your fame. You have given up your birthright to the supplanter. You
will never take your rightful place again--never--never!"
Grey smiled at the sorrowful intensity with which these words were
spoken. He laid the old man down, and spoke to him soothingly.
"Nay, do not fear; do not let such thoughts trouble you. I have seen
Mr. Butler. All will be well. My place will be kept for me till my
return. When I am able for it, I shall play the 'Youth' again; and we
will live upon the proceeds till you are hale and strong; and then you
shall write a great play which shall hold the whole world captive and
enthralled. But now trouble not yourself of these matters. Only rest,
and all will be well."
"Well, well; yes, for me all will soon be well," was the old man's
dreamy answer. "But for you, my son--for you, what will befall? Fickle
Fortune did smile at you; but her smile has changed to a frown. The open
door is closing in your face, and where will you find another?"
Grey smiled and answered not. At the present moment he was too worn out
in mind and body even to care what the future might hold.
*CHAPTER XV.*
*DARK DAYS.*
For above a fortnight things went very strangely for Grey in that upper
room which had been for so long his home. The Old Lion was very
ill--dangerously ill for many days; and though the leech was called in
several times, and sometimes gave a medicine which brought relief, it
was little his skill availed, and the tender nursing of the young man
was undoubtedly the means under Providence whereby the sick man's life
was saved.
But Grey himself was suffering from severe prostration, from an
intermittent fever, and from much pain from his burns, which were slow
to heal and made his task of nursing very difficult.
Nevertheless he would let no one else rob him of this labour of love;
for none could soothe the sick man as he could, and if left to other
care, he always became restless and feverish.
As for the world without, that was altogether blotted out from Grey's
thoughts. He never even heard of the return of the Duke of Marlborough
from his glorious campaign of victory; he never knew of the grand
procession through the streets from Whitehall to Guildhall, and thence
to the Vintners' Hall, where the victor of Ramillies was feasted by the
civic authorities, after the standards taken at the great battle had
been flaunted through the streets and acclaimed by a huge and
enthusiastic crowd.
All this, if he heard rumour of it, passed through his brain unheeded.
He did not even know that the Duke attended a performance at Drury Lane
of "Time and the Youth," and laughed and applauded the representation,
in which so much subtle flattery had been introduced. Always eager for
popular applause, the Duke was not a little delighted by the ovation he
received in his own person, and in the words of the interlude itself,
which were cheered to the echo by a house crowded to suffocation.
Afterwards the actors were summoned before him, and each received a
purse of gold from the hands of the Duchess. And she told the Duke how
that the young actor had been so brave and prompt in the saving of the
life of her favourite, Lady Geraldine, at the private performance of the
piece a short while back. So great a lady as the Duchess could not be
expected to note any difference in the actors of the interlude, and none
explained her error, for what did it matter? Anthony Frewen and Lionel
Field were drawing just as well as the original pair had done, since the
enthusiasm for the Duke was increasing with his presence in England.
They asked lower terms for their services, and they gave none of the
trouble that the Old Lion had done by his autocratic demands and his
hasty temper. The managers of both theatres were well content with
matters as they were, and congratulated themselves that nothing more had
been heard of their former employes. Wylde's uncertain health would
render his re-engagement a matter of some difficulty, if not of
impossibility; and Anthony Frewen had openly declared that he would act
only with Field. They had studied together. They understood each
other, and they wanted no "interloper" coming between them.
This was in substance what Grey heard when, after three weeks of anxiety
and watching, he found that their exchequer was almost empty, and
realized that he must bestir himself again to earn the needful weekly
sum to enable them to live comfortably, and provide the wherewithal for
the sick man's needs. His hands were now almost well. He had discarded
his sling and could use his arm freely. The fever had left him somewhat
weak, but he believed he had power to take his part without any fear of
failure, and he sought out the friendly stage-manager, Mr. Butler, to
tell him as much. Little did he anticipate the answer he received.
The matter was fully and kindly explained; but there seemed no
hesitation about the decision.
"I am sorry--very sorry--Mr. White. But what are we to do? Frewen and
Field are both old stage favourites. Their return has been hailed with
approval in many quarters. They have acted all this time together, and
Frewen declines to act with any other. It is possible that he fears in
you a rival; for there is a dash and a divine afflatus (if I may use the
phrase) in your acting which is lacking in that of Field. Talent is
always ready to be jealous of genius. It may be that the matter lies in
that nutshell. However this may be, these are the facts. These two mean
to do well; they refuse to be separated, and therefore--"
"I understand," answered Grey quietly. "It is quite right, I suppose.
For myself I care little, but for Mr. Wylde I have my regrets. After
all, it is his piece that is filling your pockets. Has he no claim upon
you for that? I know not what the law may be; but can you suffer him to
be in want whilst his genius is bringing you such success?"
"Well, well, well, we will see what we can do. I am sorry, very sorry,
that you ever gave up your part. Oh, I know it was inevitable. You
were not able for it; and you showed magnanimity in your instruction of
another. But it was a mistake on your own part--the countryman and the
viper--did I not warn you? A man of more worldly wisdom would have done
differently."
"If you will only see that Mr. Wylde lacks not for the necessaries of
life, I care nothing for my own loss," answered Grey with perfect
truthfulness. "I am young and strong; I have the world before me. But
whilst he is ill I cannot leave him; and if I lose my post here, how can
I hope to support him through the bitter winter now upon us? I can face
destitution for myself, but it were shame to let him suffer."
"Well, well, he shall not starve; we will do something for him. I
promise you that. But it was a thousand pities that you did not receive
the purse of gold from the hands of the Duchess last week. That would
have set you on your feet for some time to come; and, after all, it was
for you it was really meant. Field should be made to divide it."
"No, no," answered Grey, with sudden haste and imperiousness; "I touch
no gold that I do not earn." And when he heard the story of the
performance at which the Duke had been present, he rejoiced greatly that
he had not played the "Youth" that night. He felt as though the eagle
eyes of the Duke would have penetrated his disguise; and how could he
have met the victor of Ramillies again in the garb of an actor, winning
his bread on the London boards?
There was a curious strain of pride in the young man's nature. Although
his short dramatic career had been so successful, he shrank with the
deepest distaste from recognition by any of his former friends. He hated
the very thought that the name of Grey Dumaresq should be linked with
that of the actor of the "Youth."
In the same way he had always abstained from making any use of the token
of favour bestowed upon him by the Duke of Marlborough as a pledge of
friendship. He always carried the ring about his person, hung round his
neck by a silken cord. But although he knew it would win for him the
patronage of the great Duchess, whose influence with the Queen, if not
the paramount power it once was, was still very great, he had never been
able to make up his mind to use it. He had not learned how to present
himself as a suppliant for favour. He felt that he had talent. He
desired to see that talent recognized and rewarded. But to go about
seeking for a patron to push him into notice was a thing he had never
brought himself to do. Whilst living with the Old Lion he had rewritten
his romance, and had made of it a very delicate piece of workmanship,
which might well win him fame if he could but get it taken up. But
hitherto he had been too busy to think much about the matter. The
romance must wait his greater leisure. Now, however, turning away from
the theatre feeling very certain that his dramatic career had closed as
suddenly as it had opened, he began to realize that something must be
done to keep the wolf from the door; and his thoughts instinctively
turned to his pen with a certain joy and pride. For therein lay more
real delight to him than in the plaudits of assembled crowds. If he
could win fame in the realms of literature, he would with joy say
farewell to his brief career as actor.
Walking thoughtfully along, he almost ran into two men who were
strolling arm in arm along the pavement. Stopping short from the recoil,
he looked at them, and saw that they were Anthony Frewen and Lionel
Field--the very two whose amicable partnership had ousted him from his
hoped-for employment. But there was no rancour in Grey's heart. Already
his facile and eager mind had turned to other themes. He would have held
out his hand in fellowship to his quondam pupil; but the young actor's
face had suddenly flushed a deep crimson, and he pulled his companion
down a side alley, laughing loudly, and affecting not to have seen the
other. Plainly, he feared reproaches and recriminations, and was stung
by the goad of an uneasy conscience.
Grey smiled a little as he pursued his way.
"It is something strange," he mused, "how that a man can never forgive
one whom he has injured! Had I supplanted him, he might have swaggered
up to demand explanation or redress, and we might even have made it up
again; but since he has injured me, he will have none of it. I am
henceforth to him an outcast."
Grey was not disposed at once to return home, to encounter the keen eyes
and perhaps the burst of righteous indignation which no doubt his news
would awaken within the breast of the Old Lion. That Wylde had had some
fears of what the event had justified, Grey was aware. He knew the
emulations, jealousies, and small cabals of the theatre, and how a young
actor, raised by lucky chance to a post of eminence, is suspected and
plotted against by others as an interloper. His own reputation and
Grey's brilliant success had served them in good stead so long as he was
able to retain his own place; but now that his influence was withdrawn,
and Grey had shown himself not indispensable, the thing which he foresaw
had come to pass; and the young man regretted it more for his master's
sake than for his own, save for the immediate difficulty of seeing where
the daily necessities of life were to come from.
But at least he had obtained a promise that something should be done for
the old man, and he could surely fend for himself.
He was walking northward along the frost-bound road. A spell of bitter
weather had succeeded the torrents of rain which had characterized the
earlier part of the winter. Icicles hung from the eaves, and the water
was frozen in the gutters and puddles. The sun hung like a red ball in
the clear frosty sky, and there was a biting keenness in the air which
made rapid motion a necessity.
Grey was not depressed, though he was grave and thoughtful. He walked
on rapidly, one thought chasing another through his brain. Had it not
been for the necessity of taking care of his old friend, he would have
liked well enough to walk all the way to Hartsbourne, to see old Jock
and faithful Dick, from whom the recent almost impassable state of the
roads had sundered him. During the days of his extreme poverty Grey had
hidden himself even from Dick. But with brighter times he had written to
his faithful henchman; and once the latter had visited him at his new
abode, and had accompanied him to the theatre to watch the performance
there, which had filled him with pride and joy at his master's triumph,
albeit he felt a pang of pain to see him reduced to such a method of
earning his bread.
That was the last time they had met, for the constant rains had made the
roads well-nigh impassable. But the frost had come as a friend to
travellers, and Grey felt sure that Dick would not be long in availing
himself of the changed conditions for a visit to town. It might be
indeed that they would meet one another, if only he persevered in his
walk. He wanted news of Don Carlos--now his one valuable asset. Much
as it went against him to sell his beautiful horse, he brought himself
to contemplate it as a possibility. As a poor man in London, the
creature was of little use to him, and there were a score of wealthy
young bloods who had offered again and again to purchase the horse at
his own price. The strained shoulder had entirely recovered. The
creature was as sound as ever. Perhaps--perhaps--Grey had got as far as
that, when he suddenly heard himself hailed in rapturous tones as
"Master! master!" and there was Dick racing to meet him at the top of
his speed.
But the honest fellow's face was troubled; and scarce had Grey time to
greet him ere the evil news was out.
"He is stolen, master--he is stolen! Don Carlos is gone! Oh, it has
been foul play from first to last! We had kept him so safely, Jock and
I. The old skinflint had no notion of his being there. He grazed out
of sight of the house, and at night was never brought in till after
dark. But that one-eyed Judas must have discovered the secret at last,
and told his master. We never suspected it; but I will wager it was so.
Then they played this scurvy trick on me. They said the old man was
dying. The doctor must be fetched at all cost. I and my nag, who paid
our board, were known to be living with old Jock. I galloped off to
Edgeware for the leech, and Jock was kept within doors, making hot large
quantities of water, never allowed for a moment outside the brew-house,
where stood the great copper filled with water. I rode away gleefully
enough, for I had no fears for the old man's life, though of course I
would not have him die for lack of succour. I found the leech, and bade
him ride back with me full speed; but we had both been long making the
journey, for the roads were like troughs of mire, and the beasts flagged
sorely when urged. We were forced to let them pick their way as they
could, and so it was well-nigh dusk ere we arrived. He went up to the
sick-room, and I to groom down my jaded horse and fetch in Don Carlos.
When I went for him to the far paddock, he was gone! The rails were
down. There was abundant trace of trampling hoofs and footprints of
men. He had given them trouble; but they had him at last. The horse
was stolen!"
Grey listened in silence. He felt somewhat as did the patriarch Job
when one after another the messengers of evil tidings came with their
words of woe. He scarce heard all that Dick was saying now--whom he
suspected of being in complicity with his unscrupulous kinsman in this
matter. But one name arrested his attention, and he stopped to ask a
quick question.
"Lord Sandford! What said you of him?"