CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SUNDAY-NIGHT SUPPERS AT THE WESTS'.
In due time I was introduced to other members of the West family, and grew so much attached to them, and so enamoured of their ways, that I spent nearly all my leisure in their company. Uncle Bryan seemed to resent this, growling that 'new brooms swept clean,' and asking me sarcastically if I intended to adopt the fashion through life of throwing over old friends for new ones. Jessie stepped in to defend me, and said boldly that uncle Bryan was not so fond of our society as to have reasonable cause to grumble at our absence.
'How do you know that?' asked uncle Bryan sharply. 'You want people to be like peacocks or jackdaws, always showing their feathers or chattering about themselves.'
The cause of this little disturbance was that we often stayed at the Wests' until eleven or past eleven o'clock at night.
Now that I have you to take care of me, Chris,' said Jessie, we need not be so particular.'
'You had better live with your new friends altogether,' observed uncle Bryan.
'I will, if you wish me to,' replied Jessie indignantly; 'I know that I'm a burden to you.'
'No, no, my dear,' interposed my mother; 'uncle Bryan does not mean what he says.'
And indeed uncle Bryan was silent, and retired from the contest. These little quarrels were always smoothed over by my mother, and Jessie herself not unfrequently played the penitent, and atoned indirectly to uncle Bryan for the sharp words she used. It is needless to say that I took sides with Jessie in the sometimes noisy, but more often quiet warfare, which existed between her and uncle Bryan. As I grew older, I recognised the helplessness of her position in uncle Bryan's house, and I found bitter fault with him for his manner towards her. It was wanting not only in tenderness, but in chivalry, and were it not for the respect and consideration he showed for my mother, I have no doubt I should have quarrelled with him openly. As it was, I looked forward to the time when I should be able to offer my mother a home of my own, where she and Jessie and I could live together in harmony. With the Wests I became a great favourite. My talent as an artist contributed to this result, and I drew innumerable sketches of them in their various capacities. Miss West's Christian name was Josey (short for Josephine), and by that familiar title she insisted that I should address her. So it was Jessie and Josey, and Turk and Brinsley and Chris, with us in a very short time, as though we had been on the most intimate terms for years. The walls of all the rooms in the house, with the exception of the kitchen, were soon adorned with portraits and character sketches, with the artist's initials, C. C., in the corner. The portrait of Josey West, as the Witch of the Blasted Heath, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of little Sophy West, as Celandine, in the Fairy Dell, as played by her &c. &c.; the portrait of Augustus West, as Claude Melnotte (I would not take him as Orlando), as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Brinsley West, as Tom Shuffleton, as played by him &c. &c.; the portrait of Turk West, as The Thug, as played by him &c. &c.; and numberless others, were shown to admiring visitors, and contemplated by the admiring originals, to the glory of 'the eminent young artist,' as Miss West called me. It is necessary to add that in most of the superscriptions at the foot of the pictures the word 'eminent' did good service. It was the eminent tragedian, the eminent comedian, the eminent character actor; and so on. Certainly the name of the West family was legion. Three of them were married, and seemed from appearances to be emulative of the example of their parents in the matter of children. Sometimes on a Sunday evening the entire family would be assembled in the one house, and as the married folk brought their broods with them--the youngest three of which invariably were babies in arms--the total number of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts was something alarming. The house was overrun with them.
'If we go on like this for a hundred years,' Miss West said to me, in confidence, 'we shall become an institution. Sheridan has seven already, and his wife is quite a young woman; J. H. has five, and Clarance four--and more coming, my dear!'
That was the chronic condition of the wives. There were always more coming. Sheridan, J. H., and Clarance were the eldest of Josey West's brothers, and were well known to the British theatrical public in our quarter of London. In the commencement of our intimacy the constant introduction of members of the family, of whose existence I had been previously ignorant, was very confusing to me, especially as Miss West, without preliminary explanation, spoke of all her relatives by their Christian names, and placed me on a footing of personal intimacy with them. I used to write lists of the names, with descriptions appended, and privately study them, so that I might not make mistakes in addressing them, but some of them were always in a tangle in my mind. The Sunday-night suppers were things to remember; every available article of crockery in the house was pressed into service, and as even the youngest members of the family were accustomed to late hours and late suppers, the result may be imagined. Those for whom there was no room at the table had their supper on chairs, on stools, or on their laps as they sat on the ground. It was very rough and undignified, but it was delightfully enjoyable. The chatter, the laughter, the ringing voices of one and another trying to make themselves heard, the good humour, the free-handed and free-hearted hospitality of those merry meetings are present to me, as I recall the reminiscence. There was always plenty to talk about, and plenty of words spoken that were worth listening to. A theatre in which one of the family was engaged was doing a bad business, and the actors were compelled to work on half salaries; one or two others were going on a provincial tour; another was out of an engagement; a manager had failed and the theatre was closed; and so on, and so on.
'There's always something,' said Miss West. Directly one saves a bit of money--it's precious little one has the opportunity of saving--something happens that sucks it up. But, bless your heart! what else can be expected with such swarms of children as we've got in the family!'
'If a legitimate actor,' said Turk moodily, 'could be certain of a regular engagement, it would be all right; but the public taste is vitiated--vitiated! They want novelty; they're not satisfied with legitimate business. Why, if any one of us had happened to be born covered from head to foot with red pimples, with a green sprout sticking in the middle of each of them, he could command his fifty pound a week, while a man of sterling talent is compelled to vegetate on a paltry fifty bob!'
This sally was received with screams of laughter, and cries of Bravo, Turk!'
'I've got an idea,' cried Josey West; 'why don't we start a theatre ourselves, on the sharing principle? Here we are, all ready-made: leading man, walking gentleman, low comedy, genteel comedy, new style of acting, old style of acting, old men and women, heavy villain' (a general laugh at Turk, who joined in it readily), 'chambermaids, and ballet, all complete.'
'It's all very well,' interposed Gus West, but where's the theatre?'
'It's all very well,' added Turk, but where's the capitalist?'
'Advertise for one,' said Miss West. '"Wanted, a capitalist with five thousand pounds to undertake the management" (tickle him with that, eh, Turk?)--"to undertake the management of a highly talented theatrical family, nearly forty in number (and more on the road), who can play tragedy, comedy, melodrama, farce, ballet, burlesque, and pantomime in an unrivalled manner. They are furnished with well-stocked wardrobes, including wigs, and they will be happy to give private exhibition of their abilities, in proof of their competency. Included in their number is a dramatic author, who will be willing to supply new pieces, if desired, to suit the capacity of the company. As a proof that they are not pretenders, they have all been born in the profession" (listen to that, Turk)--"they have all been born in the profession. No objection to travel. In India and Australia they would astonish the natives, and would be sure to create an immense sensation. A certain fortune. Competition invited and defied." There! would that catch a capitalist?'
'And what should I do,' asked Jessie, laughing, if the capitalist were to come and carry you all away?'
'Come out with us as leading lady, to be sure,' replied Josey West promptly; 'and Chris can come as scene-painter, and there we are, all complete. Quite a happy family, my dear!'
We made very merry over the fancy, and extracted many amusing pictures from it. I was sorry when Josey West called to us that it was late and time for us to go. It was a fine night, very quiet and very still, and Jessie and I lingered and talked of the Wests and their merry light-hearted ways.
'They have plenty of trouble, though,' said Jessie; 'all that glitters isn't gold.'
'I have never seen any one happier than they are,' I said. 'Suppose they had all the money in the world, could they have spent a merrier evening?'
'What makes you mention money, Chris?'
'I don't know exactly, except that it came into my head to-night, that if everybody had just a little more, everything would be right. But then I suppose when they had just that little more, they would want just a little more?'
'That is in uncle Bryan's style. Chris, I think you are clever!'
'I don't know, Jessie; Mr. Eden is pleased with me, and says I shall get along very well. I would like to; I would like to be rich.'
She mimicked uncle Bryan: 'You would like to be rich! You would like the moon! Open your mouth, and what you would like will drop into it.'
I laughed at the imitation, which was perfect, and said, 'Well, I suppose it is all nonsense--wishing, wishing! Uncle Bryan would be right if he said that, Jessie, and it's just what he would say, if he had the opportunity. Most of the great men I've read about had to work and wait for success. The other night, when uncle Bryan was in one of his amiable moods, he said that success was like the robbers' cavern in The Forty Thieves, and that there was one magic key which would always open it. When I asked him what that key was, he said, Earnestness.'
'That's one of the things that uncle Bryan would never give me credit for.'
'Uncle Bryan is very unjust and very unkind. Let us turn back and walk a little. The night is so beautiful and I feel so happy at this minute that I should like it to last for ever.' Jessie's hand stole into mine, and I held it close; the silence that followed was broken by Jessie.
'Why would you like to be rich, Chris?'
'For your sake, Jessie, more than for my own. If I could give you all that you desired, I shouldn't wish for anything more.'
'You are very good to me, Chris. Why?'
'Because I love you, Jessie,' I replied.
'Really and truly?' she exclaimed, half tenderly, half tantalisingly.
'With all my heart and soul,' I said, in a low passionate tone.
'When one loves like that' (she was speaking seriously now), 'what does it really mean?'
'I can only speak of myself, and I know that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. I am sure there is nothing you could ask me to do that I would not do; if I could die to make you happy, I would do so gladly, Jessie.'
'But I don't want you to die, Chris; what should I do without you? Then when one loves really and truly, and with one's heart and soul, there is no selfishness in it? One doesn't think of oneself?'
'I think of nothing but you, Jessie. I should like to be successful, for your sake; I should like to be rich, for your sake. Now do you understand?'
She did not reply, and when presently I ventured to look into her face, I saw that there were tears in her eyes.
'You are not angry with me, Jessie?'
'I should be an ungrateful girl indeed, if I were. No, Chris. I love to hear you speak to me as you have done. I was only thinking that I wished others were like you.'
'You mean uncle Bryan,' I said, with a quick apprehension of the direction of her thoughts. 'But he takes pains to make people dislike him. Besides, he is at war with everything--he is, Jessie! He never goes to church; he never opens a Bible. I believe,' I added, my voice sinking to a whisper, 'that he is an atheist.' (And I said to myself mentally, as I gazed into Jessie's sweet face, If he does not believe in God, it is less strange that he does not believe in you.')
I had given no thought to time, and now, when the church bells struck one o'clock, I was startled at the lateness of the hour. With a guilty look at each other, Jessie and I hurried home; before I could knock at the street-door, it was opened for us by my mother. She put her finger to her lips.
'I heard your steps, my dear,' she said, with anxious tenderness; 'hush, don't make a noise. You might wake your uncle.'
'We had no idea of the time, mother,' I said; 'it isn't Jessie's fault. I kept her talking, and really thought it was no more than eleven o'clock. I am so sorry we have kept you up! See what a lovely night it is.'
We stood at the door for a little while, my mother in the centre, with her arms round our waists. When she kissed me and wished me good-night, I saw that she had been crying; but her pale face brightened as I put my arms about her neck, and held her to me for a few moments. When I released her, I found that we were alone; Jessie must have stepped upstairs very quietly, for I did not hear her leave the room.
CHAPTER XXIV.
TURK, THE FIRST VILLAIN.
Of all the male members of the West family, Turk was the one I liked best. Our intimacy soon ripened into friendship, and he made me the confidant of his woes, and as I was a good listener, we got on admirably together. It seemed that he had never had 'a chance,' as he termed it, and that he had been condemned by fate to act a line of business which he declared was distasteful to him--although I must confess that my after experience of him convinced me that it was exactly suited to him, and he to it--and in theatres where the intellectual discernment of the audiences was proverbially of a low standard.
'Perhaps you will tell me,' he said to me, in one of our private conferences, 'what there is in my appearance that I should have been selected to play the first villain almost from my birth--from my birth, sir, Chris, my boy. Do I look like a murderer? Do I look like a man who had passed through a career of the deepest-dyed ruffianism, and was eager to go on with it? Speak your mind--it won't hurt me; I'm used to criticism, and I know what value to place upon it.'
Turk was really a slight-made man, and as I had not seen him act at the time of these utterances, I could not understand his sister's praises of him as the best murderer to slow music that she had ever seen. His appearance in private life was, to say the best of it, insignificant, and as utterly opposed to that of a deeply-dyed ruffian as can well be imagined. The only likeness to the description Josey West had given of him that I could see was his 'glare,' and he certainly did roll his eyes as he spoke, with an effect which was nothing less than tremendous. I mentioned to him that I had heard the greatest praises of his acting, and that he played the villain's part to the life.
'And what does that prove?' he asked, with an oratorical flourish. 'Does it prove that I am fit for nothing better, or that I am a conscientious actor? When I have a part to play, I play it; I don't play Turk West every night. See me play the Thug, and I defy you to recognise me; see me as the First Murderer in Macbeth, and I defy you to recognise the Thug. When I first played the Thug, my own mother didn't know me; "That's something like acting," she said; and she ought to have known, rest her soul! for she played a baby in arms before she was out of long clothes, and spoke lines on the stage when she was three years old. Why, sir, my struggle with old Martin, in The Will and the Way, was said to be the most realistic thing ever seen on the stage--and do I look as if I would murder a man? It was art, sir, pure art. I am a conscientious actor--a conscientious actor, sir, Chris, my boy--and what I have to play, I play. Give me a strong leading part in a good piece, in a good theatre in the West-end--in the West-end, sir, Chris, my boy, not in this heaven-forsaken quarter--and then see what I can do! Why, sir, there are men occupying leading positions in our best theatres who can't hold a candle to Turk West--I'm not a vain man, and I say they can't hold a candle to Turk West! There are men--whose names I'll not mention, for I'm not envious and I only speak in the interests of art--men on the boards on the other side of Temple Bar--where I've never been seen--who are drawing large screws, and who have as much idea of acting as a barn-door fowl. What do they play? They play themselves, never mind what characters they represent. Dress doesn't make a character--it's the voice, and the manner, and the bearing. Why, look at----never mind; I said I wouldn't mention names. Directly he comes on the stage--whether he plays a young man or a middle-aged man or an old man, a man of this century or a man of the last century, or farther back if you please--everybody says, "Ah, there's old So-and-so!" And he uses the same action and the same leer and the same walk, as if the hundreds of characters he has played in his time were written to represent him, not as if, having taken to the stage, it was his duty to represent them. Call that acting! It's death and destruction to art, that's what it is. And the public stand it--stand it, sir, Chris, my boy--being led by the nose, as asses are, by critics who have reasons of their own for not putting their thumbs down on such incompetency. That's the word, sir, Chris, my boy, that's the word--incompetency. But wait-till I come out; wait till an author that I have in my eye-- yes, sir, I have him; I know him, and he believes in me, and I believe in him; we fight a common cause--wait till he has finished the piece he is writing for me, a piece representing two passions; one is not enough for Turk West. When that piece is performed at one of the West-end theatres, with Turk West in the leading character, you may mark a new era in the history of the stage. But mum, Chris, my boy, mum! Not a word of this to any of my relations.'
My acquiescent rejoinders were very pleasing to him, and he expressed a high opinion of my judgment.
'You shall come and see me play to-morrow night,' he said, 'at the Royal Columbia. I'm engaged there for the heavy business. Can you get away from work at half-past five o'clock? I'll come for you, if you like, and we'll walk together to the shop' (thus irreverently designating the Temple of Thespis).
I said I thought I could get away, and he promised to call for me.
'You will see, sir, Chris, my boy, the most villainous and incomprehensible blood-and-thunder melodrama that ever was presented on the stage--it is called The Knight of the Sable Plume, or The Bloodstained Banner. Isn't the very title enough to drive intelligent persons from the doors? But, sir, Chris, my boy, we play to a twopenny gallery, and the twopenny gallery will have blood for its money, and plenty of it. The Bloodstained Banner is a vile hash put together for a "star"--an arrant impostor, sir--who plays the leading part. I'll say nothing of him--you shall see and judge for yourself. I play Plantagenet the Ruthless; I don't slur my part because it's impossible, absurd, and ridiculous--you'll find no shirking in Turk West; he knows what duty is, and he does it. If I have lines given me to speak in which there isn't an atom of sense, it isn't my fault; I speak them because I'm paid to speak them, and I do my best to illuminate--that's the word, sir, Chris, my boy--to illuminate a character which is an insult to my intelligence. Necessity knows no law, and if I'm compelled to knuckle-down to fate to-day, I live in hopes that the sun will shine to-morrow.'
I said that I sincerely hoped the sun would shine to-morrow, and that it would shine brightly for him; and Turk West wrung my hand, and said that he wished the audiences he had to play to were as intellectually gifted as I was, adding that then there would be hope for the drama.
I obtained permission to leave on the following evening at the time mentioned by Turk, who was as good as his word in coming for me, and we walked together to the Royal Columbia Theatre.
'Prepare yourself, my boy,' he said, in the tone of one who was about to initiate a novice in solemn mysteries; 'I am going to take you behind the scenes.'
I was duly impressed by the great privilege in store for me, and I walked by the side of Turk West, glorified in a measure by his importance. The theatre was not yet open, and a large number of persons was waiting for admittance, some of whom, as regular frequenters, recognised Turk and pointed him out to their companions, who regarded him with looks of awe and wonder; others, unaware of the great presence, were kicking vigorously at the doors. After lingering a little and looking about him with an unconscious air (really, I now believe, to enjoy the small tribute of fame which was descending upon him; but I did not suspect this at the time), Turk preceded me down an unobtrusive narrow passage, the existence of which could have been known only to the initiated. This led to the stage-door, which to my astonishment was the meanest, shabbiest, and most battered door within my experience. We plunged at once into the dark recesses of the theatre; and after bumping my head very severely against jutting beams, and nearly breaking my neck by falling up and down unexpected steps, which were nothing more nor less than traps for the unwary, I found myself in a long barn-like room, full of draughts (which latter feature, indeed, seems to be the chronic complaint of all theatres, before and behind the curtain), and with a very low ceiling, which Turk informed me was the principal dressing-room for the gentlemen of the company. Therein were congregated seven or eight individuals, making-up for the first piece; some were rubbing themselves dry with dirty towels, some were dressing, some undressing, some painting their faces. One, whom I afterwards discovered was the low-comedy man, was sticking pieces of pluffy wool upon his nose and cheeks, and dabbing them with rouge, with which he was also painting his eyebrows, so that they might match his close-cropped, carroty-haired wig. Turk was familiarly and merrily greeted by all these brothers-in-arms, who all addressed him as 'Cully;' and as he returned the compliment and 'cullied' them, I presumed it was a family name which they all enjoyed. Turk proceeded at once to disrobe himself, and I, filled with wonder at the mysteries of which I was, for the first time, a privileged observer, turned my attention to the other members of the company. The room adjoining was also occupied, by the ladies of the company, to judge from their voices; they were in the merriest of spirits, and a smart rattle of jokes and saucy sayings passed from one room to another. Turk was evidently a favourite with the ladies, who called out 'Turk, my dear' this, and 'Turk, my dear' that, he returning their 'dears' with 'darlings,' as became a man of gallantry. When, after the lapse of a few minutes, I looked towards the place where Turk was, I discovered in his stead an imposing individual with a pair of magnificent moustaches on his lips, and such a development of calf to his legs as I certainly never should have given Turk credit for without ocular proof. I gazed at him in doubt as to whether it really was Turk I saw before me, and his voice presently convinced me that it was Turk, and no other. Over his herculean calves he drew a pair of doubtfully-white cotton tights, and over these a pair of yellow-satin breeches, rather the worse for wear; around his waist (no longer slim, but bulky, as became the 'heavy man') he drew a flaming red-silk sash, with enormous fringes, and a broad black belt, in which were ominously displayed two great knives and three great pistols. Then came a ballet shirt which had seen better days (or nights), then a blue-velvet jacket, with slashed sleeves and large brass buttons, and he completed his attire by throwing carelessly upon his head-- which was framed in a wig of black ringlets--a peaked black hat, with a stained red feather drooping over (I feel that I ought to say o'er') his brow.
'This is the regulation kind of thing, Chris,' he said to me in a low voice--'this is the stuff that draws the twopenny gallery.'
And he turned, with much affability, and accepted a pewter-pot offered to him by a brother with a 'Here, Cully!' and drank a deep draught. Then he took me into the passage, and asked some person in authority to pass me into the theatre. The people were pouring in at all the entrances, and in a short time the house was completely filled. They were fully bent upon enjoying themselves, and began to kick and applaud directly they were seated. When the lights were turned up and a bright blaze broke upon the living sea of faces, there was a roar of delight; and as the musicians straggled into the orchestra, they were greeted with applause and exclamations of familiarity, which fell upon ears supremely indifferent. I was placed in a good position, where I had a capital view of the stage, and having purchased a playbill, I began to study it. The programme was an imposing one, and the occupants of the twopenny gallery could certainly not complain that they did not have enough for their money. First, there was the romantic melodrama of The Knight of the Sable Plume, in which that distinguished actor, Mr. Horace Saint Herbert Fitzherbert (pronounced by the entire press to be superior to the elder Kean, and to surpass Garrick), would sustain the principal character. To be followed by the thrilling drama of The Lonely Murder at the Wayside Inn. After which, a comic song by Sam Jacobs, entitled the 'Jolly Drunken Cobbler,' and the clog hornpipe, by Mr. Dicksey. The whole to conclude with the stirring domestic drama of The Trials and Vicissitudes of a Servant-Girl; winding up with a grand allegorical tableau in coloured fires. The appetite that could have found fault with the quantity must surely have been unappeasable. In due time the music ceases, a bell rings, there is a moment's breathless expectation in the house, and the curtain rises on The Knight of the Sable Plume. Scene the first: A wood. In the distance, the battlemented castle of Plantagenet the Ruthless. (So says the programme, but I cannot see the battlemented castle, although I strain my eyes to discern it, being interested in it as the family residence of my friend Turk.) Enter two ruffians in leather jerkins and buff gloves. Times are very bad with them. They want gold, they want blood, and--ahr! they want revenge (with a redundancy of r's). They roll their eyes, they gnash their teeth. Yonder is the castle of Plantagenet. There sits the lordly tyrant who grinds his vassals to the dust. Shall he be allowed to go on in his ruthless course unchecked? No! Hark! a thousand echoes reiterate the declaration. (I fancy the echoes.) No no! no! They kneel, and swear revenge in dumb show. Who comes here? As they live, it is the lovely Edith, the heiress to those baronial halls. The Fates are propitious. They'll tear her from the domestic hearth, and bear her senseless form to mountains wild. Exit ruffians elaborately. Enter Edith pensively. She is pretty, and she receives a round of applause from all parts of the house. She bows, and tells the audience that she has just dismounted from her snow-white palfrey outside. This accounts for her coming in without a hat, and with her hair hanging down her back over a white-muslin frock. The sparkling foliage of the trees tempted her to stroll along the mossy sward. She sighs. Who is the stranger she met nine days ago upon this very spot? She did not speak to him, she did not see his face, but the beating of her heart, the clouds athwart the sky, the dew upon the grass, the whisper of the breeze, the beauteous birds that warble delicious notes to scented flowers, all, all whisper to her that she loves him. Ah, yes, she loves him! Could she but see once more his manly form, she'd die content. Cue to the musicians, with whose assistance Edith sings a plaintive song expressive of her wish To quit the sordid world, And with her love be whirled To other lands. On sorrow bent (she sings), I'd die content If he were by my side. Oh, take me, love, To realms above, And let me be thy bride. The ruffians enter at the back of the stage, and roam about with stealthy steps. They draw their knives, and breathe upon them. Expectation is in every eye. The ruffians advance. The high-born maiden continues her song. The ruffians retreat. The high-born concludes her song with a tra-la-la. The ruffians, having just made up their minds at that point, advance again, with a quick sliding movement. Seize her! Oh, spare me, spare me she cries. Spare you, daughter of Plantagenet the Ruthless! spare you! Never! Did thy gory sire spare my white-haired parent when, with his bloody sword, he clove him from head to foot, and laid him writhing in the dust? Spare you! Not if lightnings flashed and thunders rolled, not if all the powers of earth and air interpose their forms protecting, shall you be spared! Revenge! The music is worked up terrifically during the scene. The ruffians drag the maiden this way and that, evidently undecided as to which road they shall take to their mountains wild. They seem bent upon rending her lovely form into small pieces and running off the opposite sides of the stage with the fragments. Help, oh, help me! she cries. A sudden tumult is heard without. Make way there, make way! is heard, at least two yards from the spot. She shrieks more loudly. I hear his lovèd step without! she cries. And the next moment a figure clad in armour rushes in, and with one blow lays the two ruffians dead upon the stage. His visor is down, and towering in his helmet is a sable plume. It is he, the Knight of the Sable Plume! He supports Edith on one arm; he raises the other aloft to the skies, and the curtain drops upon the picture amidst the admiring plaudits of the audience. Vociferous cries for Fitz! Fitz! bring that hero to the front of the curtain, where he gracefully bows, and wipes his brow languidly with a cambric handkerchief The second act introduces my friend Turk West, in the character of Plantagenet. I am glad to find that he is a favourite with the audience, who clap their hands, and two or three profane ones cry out, 'Bravo, Turk! Go in and win!' I am not aware whether this is a stimulant to him, but he certainly 'goes in' with vigour. The scene in which he appears is described as the grand hall in the castle, and its appointments are two chairs and a brown wooden table of modern manufacture. Very ruthless and very fierce indeed does Turk look, and he is accompanied by the pair of dead ruffians, who now appear as retainers: I recognise them by their buff boots. It is in vain that I endeavour to unravel the plot; the threads slip from me directly I attempt to gather them together. From a lengthy soliloquy indulged in by Plantagenet, I learn that he is not the rightful owner of the battlemented castle. Seventeen years ago he killed a noble prince in cold blood (which popular phrase cannot be a correct one), and murdered his beautiful child, the last, last scion of a noble race. (Here Turk grows magnificent, and 'goes in' with a will.) Oh, agony! He beholds once more their mangled corpses, he sees the death-sweat br-reaking on their brows! The demon of remorse is tearing at his vitals. Oh, would he could recall the past, and restore the two wooden chairs and the table to their rightful owner! During the applause that follows, Turk winks at me, and I am delighted. The low-comedy man and a waiting-maid in short petticoats and wearing an embroidered apron, as was the fashion with waiting-maids in the days of chivalry, play important comic parts in the piece, and send the audience into convulsions of laughter. But the plot has quite baffled me, and I have given up all hope of unravelling it. The Knight of the Sable Plume has been thrown into prison by Plantagenet, after a desperate fight with eight retainers (in slippers), and is released by the hand of the lovely Edith, to whom he swears eternal fealty. The last scene is the same as the first--a wood, with the (invisible) battlemented castle in the distance. Plantagenet the Ruthless enters. He is mad with rage. His prisoner has escaped. He gnashes his teeth. He'll search the wide world through but he will find him. Usurper! ye search not long. Behold him here! He enters, the Knight of the Sable Plume. At length we stand front to front! Back to thy teeth thy lying words! Villain! Defend thyself! They fight to music. One, two, up; one, two, down; one, two, three, four, sideways. They turn round, and when they are face to face, they clash their swords terrifically. They lock their arms together, and fight that way. The gallant knight is getting the worst of it. He is forced first upon one knee, then upon the other. He fights round the stage in this position. By a herculean effort he gains his feet. The swords flash fire. Ah, the usurper yields! He stumbles. He lies prostrate on the ground. Over him glares the knight. Recreant, beg thy miserable life! Never! Die, then, remorseless tyrant! With a piercing shriek Edith rushes in, and cries, Spare him, oh, spare him; he is my father! The Knight of the Sable Plume is softened; his sword drops from his grasp. He kneels, and supports the head of the Ruthless. It is too late; Death has marked me for his own, says Turk. The knight raises his visor. Ah! what is that scar upon thy brow? cries Turk. Avenging heaven! it is his child. These possessions are thine. Take them. Take my daughter. Her love will compensate for her father's hate. He joins their hands, and turning up the whites of his eyes (which elicits from the gallery cries of 'Bravo, Turk!') and saying, 'I die hap-pappy!' proceeds to do so in the most approved corkscrew style. Thus ended The Knight of the Sable Plume, by far the most incomprehensible piece of romance it had been my good fortune to witness. Mr. Horace Saint Herbert Fitzherbert was called before the curtain at the end of the drama, and appeared; there were calls also for Turk, but he did not appear. He gloomily informed me, when the performance was over, that Fitzherbert was on a 'starring' engagement, and that it was in the agreement that in his own pieces nobody should be allowed to appear before the curtain but himself. On reference to the playbill, I found that in The Lonely Murder at the Wayside Inn Turk was the murderer, and I am afraid to say how many times he deserved to be hanged for the dreadful crimes he performed in The Trials and Vicissitudes of a Servant-Girl. In the last piece the allegorical tableau in coloured fires may have conveyed a good moral, but the smell was suggestive of the lower regions, where good morals are not fashionable.
Following out the instructions given to me by Turk, I made my way, when the curtain fell for the last time, to the dressing-room at the back of the stage, and whispered my praises of my friend's acting. Before we went home, he and a number of his professional brethren 'looked in' at a neighbouring bar, where pewter pots were freely handed about. There was no lack of animated conversation, and the subject of course was the drama. One man, who had played a small character in The Knight of the Sable Plume, and played it well, was holding forth to two or three unprofessional friends on the peculiar hardship of his case. As he had not played in the last piece, I inferred from his condition that he had been regaling himself at the bar for some time before we entered. He was an elderly man, and Turk whispered to me that he had once been leading man in the theatre, but that he had come down in the world. Those who addressed him by name called him Mac.
'Ah, Turk, my boy,' he said, giving Turk a left-handed grasp; his right hand held his glass of whisky-toddy--'ah, my sons, come in to drink? That's right. Drown dull care.'
'You've tried to do that for a pretty considerable time, Mac,' said Turk good-humouredly. 'Take a pull at the pewter, Chris.'
'I have, my boy, I have,' returned Mac; I'm an old stager now, but, dammee! there's life in the old boy yet. I'll play Claude Melnotte with the youngest of you. I'm ready to commence all over again. Show me a more juvenile man than I am on the boards, and dammee! I'll stand glasses round I will--and pay for them if I can borrow the money!'
A volley of laughter greeted this sally, in which Mac joined most heartily.
'Drown dull care!' he continued. 'I've tried to do it for a pretty considerable time, as Turk says--dammee, my sons! I've it all my life, and I'd advise you to do the same. Care killed a cat, so beware. Before you came in, my sons, I was speaking to these gentlemen'--indicating his unprofessional friends--'who kindly asked me to take a glass with them--thank you, I don't mind; my glass is empty; another whisky-toddy--The cry is still they come! eh, my sons?--I was speaking to these gentlemen, whose names I have not the pleasure of knowing, but who take an interest in the profession. I was speaking to them of myself, in connection with the noble art. I was saying that I act for my bread----'
'And sack,' interrupted a member of the company. 'And sack. Mac.'
'Hang it, no, my son!' exclaimed the old actor, with a capital mixture of humour and dignity. 'I act for my bread; I let my friends pay for the sack. I may, or I may not, be an ornament to my profession; that is a matter of public opinion and public taste; but whether I am or am not, I am not ashamed to say I act for my bread. I was speaking to these gentlemen also--your healths, gentlemen--of the decadence of the drama. In the halcyon days of youth, in the days of the great Kemble (I made him my model; I trust I do not tarnish his fair fame), the drama was worth something. But now, when a fellow like this Fitzherbert--a man who has been pitchforked, so to speak, into the profession--comes in and takes all the fat of the piece, and when he is puffed and posted and advertised into a successful engagement, and when every other worthy member of the company is pushed into a corner, and compelled, so to speak, to hold a variety of lighted candies to show off his spurious brightness, it's an infernal hard thing to each of us as individuals, and a degradation to the drama as an art.'
'Bravo, Mac!' said one and another, some in sincerity, some to humour the old actor.
'You are certainly right, sir,' said one of the strangers, speaking with the deference due to so eminent an authority. Your glass is empty; will you fill again?'
'Ay, till the crack of doom,' was the ready reply. 'Right, sir! of course I'm right.'
'But,' said another of the strangers, not quite so deferential as the former speaker, some one must play second fiddle.'
'Second fiddle, sir! Yes, I admit it, sir. Some one must play second fiddle--and third fiddle too, if you like. But let the man who plays second fiddle be a second fiddle, and not a first fiddle.'
'Who is to blame for all this?' asked the deferential stranger.
'Who's to blame, sir! The public, sir--the public. But what consolation is that to me? I must live, sir, I suppose. I must feed my family, or answer for it to the beak. Here am I, who will place my Macbeth in comparison with any man's--who can play Hamlet, Lear, Othello, Brutus, in a masterly manner--I don't say it of myself; it has been said of me--here am I compelled to knuckle-under to a man young enough to be my son, and with not a tenth part of my brains or experience. And what's the consequence? I haven't had a call for six months, while he gets called on three times a night. Why, sir, I remember the time when a discriminating audience called me on six times in one piece! I've had a dozen bouquets thrown to me in one night! And now, sir, these things are forgotten, and old Mac is shelved, sir, shelved!'
'The public ought to be ashamed of themselves,' said the deferential stranger.
But the public's not all to blame.. It's the managers, who allow themselves to be led, like tame sheep, into the trap; they haven't the moral courage to stand up against it. And what's a man, or a manager, without moral courage? I wouldn't mind it so much, but what's the consequence? A star is engaged upon shares, at an enormous screw, and to make this up, all our screws are reduced. That's where it comes hard. I pledge you my dramatic word, my screw isn't so much by seven-and-sixpence a week as it was six months ago. Who gets my seven-and-six? Why, who but the star? And my poor children must starve and perish, or go on the parish, if they hadn't a self-denying parent, who would pawn his shirt before they should come to want. I'll take another glass of whisky-toddy--my last, sir, my last to-night. Old Mac knows when he's had enough. Turk, my son, a word in your ear.'
Turk went aside with him, and I heard the jingling of coin.
'He's a rum old fellow,' said Turk to me, as we walked home; 'a good actor too, and might have got on well if he hadn't been so much engaged all his life in drowning care.'
'You gave him some money?' I said.
'Lent it to him, Chris; only fourpence halfpenny. The old fellow never borrows even money; it's always an exact sum for an exact purpose that he wants--fourteenpence, or eightpence halfpenny, or sevenpence, or some other odd amount. He was never known to borrow a shilling or a half-crown. There's a good deal of truth in what he says, Chris.'
'I am sorry for his wife and children,' I said.
'The best of it is,' replied Turk, laughing, 'that the old fellow has only two sons, and the youngest is thirty-four years of age, and in a very good way. But it pleases old Mac to talk like that, and he has talked like it so long, that I've no doubt he really believes that he has a destitute family somewhere, who would starve if he couldn't borrow his fourpence-halfpennies and his sevenpences now and then. It's one of the best things I know.'
Altogether this night's entertainment was a most enjoyable one to me, and gave me much food for reflection.
CHAPTER XXV.
HOLDING THE WORD OF PROMISE TO THE EAR.
So far as I could judge from outward appearances, the coldness between uncle Bryan and Jessie increased with time, rather than lessened. Their natures seemed to be in direct antagonism, and every effort to make things pleasant between them completely failed. My mother often made such efforts in her quiet loving way; Jessie herself wooed him, after her fashion, when the humour was on her; but he was implacable, except on one occasion to which I shall presently refer.
'He ought,' said Jessie to me, 'to be at the head of a monastery of monks; he thinks it is a crime even to laugh. What sort of a young man was he, I wonder?'
I could have told her, but the seal of secrecy was on my tongue. I need scarcely say that all my sympathies were with Jessie. I was an attentive observer of the state of things at home, and I had many confidential conversations with my mother concerning matters. Loving Jessie as I did, I could not, in my heart, be tolerant and kind to uncle Bryan, as she begged me to be; the hard and stern rules which he had set down for himself, the following out of which by us might possibly have won his favour, would have made life a burden. I applied these rules to himself, and his own life was his own condemnation. There was no question in my mind as to whether he was right or wrong. But I could not win my mother to my way of thinking; nor did I endeavour after a little while, for I saw that it gave her pain. Never did a hard word pass her lips concerning him; she had affectionate excuses for him in every fresh difference between him and Jessie. I thought she was wrong, but I did not tell her so, nor did I distress her by endeavouring to explain to her that her own conduct was a contradiction to her words. That she never missed an opportunity to be tender and gentle to Jessie was a sufficiently strong argument against uncle Bryan. In her love for my mother Jessie never wavered; it seemed to me to grow stronger every day. Sometimes when we were at home together--it was not a very frequent occurrence now, for Jessie and I were generally out of an evening at the Wests', or at a theatre for which orders had been given to us--I observed Jessie watching us; but when she saw my eyes upon her, she would turn hers away thoughtfully. One night we had come home late; uncle Bryan was abed; my mother had prepared supper for us. We sat down, and after supper fell into silence; I do not know what I was thinking of, but we remained silent for many minutes. Happening to look in the direction of my mother, I saw her wistful eyes upon me, and at the same moment Jessie rose, and, kneeling before my mother, drew her face down, and kissed it. I was by their side in an instant, and the three of us were clasped in one embrace; but Jessie quickly released herself, and left me and my mother together.
Time went on and there was no change, except that we were growing older, and that Jessie was growing more and more beautiful. I was getting along well, and as I was earning fair wages, I contributed, with pride, a fair sum towards the expenses of the house. I was enabled to make my mother and Jessie many little presents now, and I sometimes coaxed my mother to buy Jessie a new dress or a new hat, and not to let her know that they came from me. On the anniversary of my twenty-first birthday we had a party at home, the four of us, and were happier and more comfortable in each other's society than we had been for a long time. Even uncle Bryan softened--not only towards me, but towards Jessie.
'Your boyhood is over,' said uncle Bryan; 'you are now a man, with a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do in life. Do it well.'
'I will try to, uncle,' I replied.
'To perform one's duties,' continued uncle Bryan, 'taxes a man's judgment very severely, and as a man's judgment is generally the slave of his inclination, it is seldom that he can look back upon his life with satisfaction.'
'I don't quite understand that,' I observed; 'if a man's inclinations are good----'
Uncle Bryan interrupted me, for I had paused. He took up my words. 'Inclination is an idle selfish imp. Life is full of temptations, and inclination leads us to them; we follow only too readily.'
'All that we can do,' said my mother, caressing me fondly, 'is to do our best; we are often the slave of circumstances, Bryan.'
'In many cases,' he replied, 'not in all, a man can rise above them. We do not exercise our reason sufficiently. We cry and fret like children because things are not exactly as we wish.'
'Do you?' asked Jessie quickly. He answered her evasively. 'I have my sorrows.'
'I am glad of that,' said Jessie, in a low tone.
'There is more wisdom in your remark,' he said, with a thoughtful observance of her, 'than you probably imagine. I give you credit for using it in the best and kindest sense.'
'I meant it in that sense,' said Jessie gently, drawing a little nearer to him.
'Will you tell me why you are glad that I should have sorrows?'
'For one reason----'
'Well?'
'It does not remove you so far from us,' said Jessie, with less confidence than she usually exhibited.
'I try to do that?' he asked. 'I try to remove myself from you?'
'I think so,' she answered. 'You are not angry with me?'
'No, child,' he said, and the gentleness of his tone surprised me.
'But for sorrow and trouble,' mused my mother, the tenderest qualities of our nature would never be shown. God is very good to us, in our hardest trials. Dear Bryan! I am thinking of the time when Chris and I were in London without a friend. As I look upon my darling boy now, and think of the happy future there is before him----' She did not complete her sentence, but she went towards uncle Bryan, and stooped and kissed him.
'Say no more, Emma,' he said huskily; you do not know how vastly the balance is in your favour.'
'Notwithstanding your sorrows? questioned Jessie.
'Yes,' he replied, with an approving nod, notwithstanding my sorrows. You are sharp-witted, Jessie.'
'Thank you, uncle,' she said merrily.
It was almost like the commencement of a new and more harmonious era in our relations with one another.
'How old are you, Jessie?' I asked.
'I shall be eighteen in a little more than three months. A girl becomes a woman at eighteen, I am told. I shall expect to be treated with dignity then, Chris.'
The greatest wonder of the evening was reserved for its close. Uncle Bryan was the first to rise and wish us good-night. He grasped my hand warmly, and kissed my mother. He did not offer to shake hands with Jessie, but wished her good-night, and lingered at the door, waiting for her response; but it did not come. He turned to go, but before he could leave the room, she was by his side.
'Why are you so kind to others,' she asked, and so cold to me?' He stood silent, looking upon the ground. I want to love you if you will let me; I want you to love me. Say "Good-night, dear Jessie," and kiss me.'
He did exactly as she desired. 'Good-night, dear Jessie,' he said, and they kissed each other. He drew his arm round her, and I saw a tender light flash into his face, and rob it of its habitual sternness of expression. But it was gone in a moment, and he with it.