"But why renew these cruel memories? It is a frightful thing for a sensible, philosophic man thus to give thecoup de grâceto a fellow-man!Now, then, Miss Woodville, if you please. One—two—we are in the key offa."
One day Mrs. Marsham found O'Flannigan in the midst of explaining to his pupil the principles of his favorite art. With her left hand upon her hip, her body proudly curved, her cheeks aglow, and her eyes dancing with pleasure, Esther attacked and parried imaginary thrusts, while she poked with a long cane the bony old body of O'Flannigan, who applauded rapturously, though he rubbed his sides.
"Are you mad, monsieur?" she cried. "Giving fencing lessons to my niece!"
"Madame, I am the humblest of your servants!"
O'Flannigan performed the sword salute with the cane he held in his hand, and attempted todeposit a kiss upon the mitten of the Quakeress, who found herself quite disarmed in spite of herself by such a display of courtesy and high breeding.
"Come, come, Monsieur O'Flannigan," she breathed; "suppose you return to your music."
"At your command, madame.—Now, then, mademoiselle; one—two—three. We are in the key ofsol!"
After the Irishman's departure, Esther passed the remainder of the morning in walking up and down the little garden, studying the charmingrôleof Beatrice in "Much Ado about Nothing," which she was to play in a few days. Then came the dinner hour, which reunited Mrs. Marsham, her son Reuben, Esther, and the ancient Maud; since, in accordance with the usage of the sect, the servants consorted with their masters and sat at table with them. Moreover, Maud was no ordinary servant. She possessed the sense of second sight. At certain hours she prophesied and spoke in a strange tongue which no one understood. "The Spirit is upon her!" they were wont to say respectfully upon such occasions. Very deaf and purblind, even with her double vision Maud could not see the spiders' webs which festooned the ceiling; she could hear "voices," though not that of her mistress when it called her. Any one in the wide world except the Marshams would have quickly recognized the inconvenience of having a vaticinal cook.
At the dinner-table the dangers which Esther had encountered upon the preceding night became the topic of conversation. Mother and son regarded the event from their own standpoints. The former blessed Providence who had guidedthe girl through her peril safe and sound; the latter cursed the malice of the men who had madly risked their lives in breaking a minister's windows for the glorification of a stupid soldier. How many there were who would have permitted themselves to be killed for Rodney, who would not have raised a finger for Christ! Esther uttered not a word concerning Lord Mowbray; she simply spoke of the excellent gentleman who had escorted her home.
"The brave man!" said Mrs. Marsham. "I long to know and thank him."
"I saw him leaving, or rather flying, like a malefactor," muttered Reuben. "Would he not have remained to receive our thanks, if he had thought he deserved them?"
"Virtue is diffident, my son; her right hand knoweth not what her left hand doeth."
Reuben only replied by an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. The repast over, Maud returned to her kitchen, where she held forth all alone for several long hours. Mrs. Marsham installed herself in her rush-seated chair and adjusted a pair of silver-and-horn spectacles upon the tip of her nose, the rigid steel mounting of which suggested the curved arch of some ancient bridge. She selected one of her favorite books, the "Pilgrim's Progress," or the life of George Fox, which for thirty years had fascinated her timid, childish imagination. Soon the regular breathing, like the purring of a great drowsy cat, informed Esther that her aunt was in Morpheus's arms. Indeed, she had fallen asleep with an ecstatic smile upon her features. Perhaps she dreamed that she walked in a fair garden, attended by angels, and that one came to her, clothed in white raiment, with a lily in hisright hand, and said to her, "Good morrow, my good Mrs. Marsham. How are you? My father will be rejoiced to see you." And then, stooping, he would gather stars from theparterreof heaven and arrange them in a bouquet for the elect; for Mrs. Marsham was frequently favored with such dreams, and upon awakening she would recount them to her friends as did the personages in the Old Testament. She was forever searching some explanation of them, since she considered them in the light of celestial visions.
"She sleeps, and is happy," said Reuben in a lowered tone. "Would that I could find repose!"
"Why can you not?" asked Esther negligently.
"Because my heart is troubled by the thought of the iniquities which are committed in Israel. Sometimes it seems to me that I am a scapegoat, and that all the sins of England are upon me."
"Rather a heavy burden, my poor cousin!"
"Oh, do not laugh, Esther; for it is you who are to be pitied; it is for you that I weep."
"For me?"
"Yes, for you, and because of your fatal beauty."
"Fatal! I take the compliment from whence it comes, and am charmed to know that you consider me even passing fair. But pray tell me why my beauty is fatal."
"Listen and give heed, Esther. You have read the Holy Scriptures?"
"Yes."
"When God imprints upon the face and body of woman a charm which renders the wisest fools, there is a hidden reason which should be visible if we would but open our eyes. He has createdher for the salvation or the perdition of a variety of men. Eve worked the ruin of Adam; Bethsheba unconsciously corrupted the holy king; Delilah delivered Samson over to his enemies; Salome snatched from Herod's luxury the condemnation of the Precursor. On the contrary, Ruth exhaled joy and consolation about her; Esther softened the anger of a terrible king and saved the people of God; Jabel drove a nail into the temple of Sisera; Judith delivered Bethulia by cutting off the head of Holofernes. Which will you be, a Delilah or a Judith?"
"Neither, I hope. In the first place, pray do not count upon me to cut off anybody's head. I am a sorry coward, and I have a horror of seeing blood. The other day I saw a dog with a bleeding paw, and I thought I should faint."
"Ah!" exclaimed Reuben bitterly, "better were it to cause the impious to lose every drop of blood in his veins than to inspire a single evil thought in the just. I feel within myself that it is a sin to look upon you; my will totters when for too long a space my eyes have rested upon those shoulders, that slender form, those brilliant eyes, that bud-like mouth. Sometimes it seems to me that I would suffer eternal damnation for you, and that I should find an abominable pleasure in it! How many times have I prayed God to destroy those adorable features which it has pleased him to create! Willingly would I obliterate and annihilate them!"
"Are you going mad?" cried Esther in alarm. "And yet you say you love me!"
"Yes," replied Reuben: "we alone know how to love, because we alone know how to hate,—we, the sons of the saints whose hearts are fullof bitterness and sorrow. They do not love who live in joy and pleasure. My love increases with the tears that it causes me to shed, with the combats that I undergo for you, and, moreover, with the fury that I experience against those who raise their eyes upon your beauty!"
Involuntarily he had raised his voice. The old lady awoke with a start.
"Naughty children!" she murmured querulously. "Quarrelling again?—you who were born to understand one another, and to be happy!"
Esther succeeded in persuading good Mrs. Marsham that she ought not to accompany her to her next sitting with Sir Joshua, since the great painter desired to be alone with his model. The age and eminent reputation of the President of the Academy removed far from him all suspicion; consequently there was nothing to be done but to respect his wishes. Therefore Esther went alone to Leicester Fields in a sedan-chair borne by a couple of doughty Irishmen; but she could not repress a movement of impatience upon perceiving Reuben on horseback following her at a short distance with his sombre glance. When she entered the house the young man quickly alighted, attached the bridle of his horse to the railing of the square, and, seating himself upon a bench, fixed his eyes upon Sir Joshua's door.
"Shadowed!" murmured the girl.
The desire of deceiving one's jailers, the omnipresent dream of evasion which ever haunts the prisoner, filled her mind and inclined her to anger.
"Bah!" she thought, "my deliverance is close at hand."
She swiftly mounted the stairs which led to the studio, and was received by Francis Monday.
"The President has been unexpectedly summoned to an audience with his Majesty, who has come in from Kew to St. James's this morning," he explained. "Be so good as to wait for SirJoshua, who will return before long. Shall I request Miss Reynolds to come and keep you company?"
"Why disturb her? There are so many curious things here to amuse one! One might pass a whole day looking about this apartment without being bored for a moment."
"So be it!" replied Frank in a slightly tremulous voice. "Shall we look about together?"
He forthwith proceeded to show her all the rare objects arranged in order within their glazed cases, giving her explanations of everything. There were snuff-boxes, fans of which one was said to be the work of the poet Pope, and foreign arms brought home by Sir Joshua from a journey in barbaric lands. Frank also named the originals of the unfinished portraits which awaited upon their easels the good pleasure of the painter.
The door of the adjoining apartment, whence the girl had seen him emerge upon the preceding day, stood ajar; she quickly glanced within and saw a quantity of antique casts spread upon large tables, and plaster heads heaped one upon another.
"It is there that I paint," he said, "in order that I may always be near at hand in case Sir Joshua should call me."
"As yesterday," she said rashly; then, realizing the memory which she had evoked, she blushed. As for him, he became pale. However, she soon continued:—
"Sir Joshua loves you very dearly."
"He treats me with an almost paternal kindness; I respect him, and entertain for him the affection of a son. I owe him all that—"
"Yes, I know."
"Ah, but you cannot know all. Perhaps you have been told that I have been adopted and educated by Sir Joshua, but if you only knew from what a future of misery and despair he has snatched me, from what a hell he has saved me!"
He pronounced these words with so simple, so profound an accent that the girl, suddenly touched with sympathy, bent her eyes upon him and said:—
"Where were you before you knew him, and what did you do?"
"I lived with the pirates of the Thames, who forced me to learn their horrible business."
"But how happened it that you fell into such hands?"
"I know not. I know neither my birthplace nor my parents. Even my true age is unknown to me. I have nothing in the world, not even so much as a name—only a surname; they called me Mishap. Perhaps my parents were like those wretches. The thought has often come to me, and driven me almost desperate."
Esther did not speak, but her eyes assured Frank that she was listening with deepest interest.
"We lived in a hovel," he continued, "down by the water, opposite Greenwich, and sometimes in a half-decayed barge on the river which was anchored some twenty yards from shore. By day they sent me on land to beg, and beat me if I returned empty-handed. At low tide I used to search the mud which the sea left dry when it retired."
"For what purpose?"
"To look for things which might have fallen into the water. One found all sorts of stuff on the bed of the river,—wood, rope, bits of cloth, and rusty iron. Frequently I encountered fearful things there, such as human remains, bodies of the unfortunate whose death had been unknown and would never be avenged."
"Heavens! what a dreadful business!"
"You are right: a dreadful business indeed! Those who carry it on are called mud-larks; yet little do they resemble those tiny voyagers of the air which sing so proudly, so joyously, which build their nests in the furrows and soar aloft to heaven's gate. The mud-larks crawl along their wretched way, sometimes immersed to the knees in the icy slime, and frequently they fall victims to the fever as the result of their long searches. Nevertheless, the Thames has engulfed much riches, and sometimes it gives it back. There have been cases of poor wretches finding precious jewels there. One summer's day, during a season of excessive drought, the tide being lower than usual, I espied something glittering in the rays of the rising sun. I stooped; it was an old gold piece bearing the effigy of Charles II. Perhaps for a century it had slept there in the mud."
After a moment of silence he continued:—
"How carefully I wiped it! How I caressed it! How long I contemplated that little coin! At first I decided that I would show my treasure-trove to no one. But where could I hide it? I wore neither shoes, stockings, nor shirt; nothing but an old ragged jacket and trousers without pockets. When I was permitted to go to bed I slept upon a sack filled with rags, along with a boy older than myself. I passed the coin from one hand to the other; I even put it in my mouth beneath my tongue. It seemed a fortune in my eyes, and I thought that when I went to London I should be able to buy out the whole town. Yes; ah, but I was way-wise for my years, and I foresaw what would take place were I to offer my sovereign for sale as the gentlemen did. The dealer would exclaim, 'Such as you with a gold piece! You have stolen it!' Forthwith I should be sent to prison, and from there to the smoky hall of the Old Bailey, where I had seen many a little thief condemned to twenty or thirty lashes. I saw myself bound to the terrible wooden bench, black with human blood; I saw the executioner approach with his awful cat-o'-nine-tails. My thin knees knocked together as I drew the mental picture."
"And what did you do?"
"I determined to hide my sovereign under a tuft of grass on the river bank near Deptford. And I went there often to take a peep at it, while I waited for better days. Alas! there came a great tempest in September; the river rose and overflowed its banks; my hiding-place, my treasure, all disappeared!"
"Poor boy!"
"All these miseries were as nothing comparedwith others. The worst work was that which I was made to do at night. Of foggy evenings our boat slipped along like a phantom, with the oars muffled in bits of old wool so that they moved without a sound. Thus we circled about the big ships at anchor, or prowled around the sleeping warehouses. At such hours the river belonged to the bandits, to the vagabonds who were called light-horsemen; they were alone, and sovereign masters there."
"But what part did you play upon these nocturnal expeditions?"
"They made me climb up a knotted rope to the bowsprits of the ships, which they knew to be but poorly guarded by the drunken sailors at that time of night. From there I would crawl to the deck. Then I would glide into the storeroom and bring thence a bag of 'sand,' a sack of 'peas,' or a bottle of 'vinegar,' which is pirate slang for sugar, coffee, and rum. When I had lowered my booty into the boat moored under the bow, I would let myself down, my teeth chattering, half dead with fright."
"Were you aware that you were doing wrong?"
"No: no one had taught me the difference between good and bad; no one had ever pronounced in my presence the name of God, unless it was with the accompaniment of some frightful blasphemy. I was simply aware that there existed another race of men who waged war upon my masters; that when the landsmen captured our water-folk they dragged them into a great black house called Newgate, and from there to a place called Tyburn, where they set up a gallows. I saw many of my companions hanged there, for thieves never miss an execution. Have you ever seen a hanging, Miss Woodville?"
"Oh, never!" cried Esther shudderingly.
"You would think it a festival. All along Holborn stagings are set up for those who wish to see, and tables for the wine-bibbers. The mob laughs and sings, and jokes the ladies who have hired windows, and who hide their faces behind their fans. Venders of apples and gin thrust their handcarts into the thick of the crowd. The mountebanks perform their tricks and dances as at the fair of Saint Bartholomew, while the street urchins for half a penny proclaim the complaint against the doomed man. At last he appears upon a cart drawn by a wretched hack, which itself seems on its way to slaughter. I have seen certain men in this plight who were bold and impudent in the face of death, who winked at the women, and responded to the jeers of the crowd. Yes, I have heard them try to sing songs, which the mob took up in chorus. But there have been others!—those who were deaf to everything, deaf even to the exhorting voice of the clergyman. Quivering like dead animals with every jolt of the cart, fainting, convulsed, livid, horrible to look upon, their eyes dilated with terror, they seemed scarcely human, scarcely living but for the evidence of their fear."
He paused for an instant, paling at the recollection. "I saw it all," he pursued, "and knew that after twenty or thirty years of infamy that fate would be mine. If I refused to obey my masters a few blows of the gasket very soon got the better of my resistance. To be beaten by the mud-larks or lashed by the hangman—such was the frightful choice which was offered me, such the view of life which I enjoyed for eight years. Eight years! The age of dependence, confidence, and joy! The age whichshould know the sweetness of a mother's love and caress!"
Esther's eyes filled with tears as she grasped poor Frank's hands and held them in her clasp.
"Neither have I known a mother," she said; "but I have not suffered as you have. Those about me were kind enough, and I can smile when I compare my miseries with yours."
"One night," continued Frank, "when I refused to play my part in an expedition with the pirates, one of them in a fit of rage threw me into the dark river which hissingly closed over my head."
Esther uttered a cry as though she saw it all, saw with her own eyes the child plunge headlong into the water.
"Fortunately I could swim. I knew the river and it seemed less wicked, less hostile than man. It almost seemed like a mother to me, since it had rocked me upon its bosom and nourished me for so many years. I succeeded in gaining the shore, where I wandered about, shivering, until daybreak. I don't see what prevented my dying, except that such wretches as I are blessed with more enduring vitality than others. Nevertheless, I had some terrible trials to bear. For several days I subsisted upon mouldy crusts floating in the water, cabbage leaves, and other rubbish which I picked up about the market-places. I devoured these sad repasts while inhaling the odor of roasts in Cheapside and Fleet Street. Now and again a charitable gentleman would give me alms without my daring to solicit it other than with my wretched, famished glances. At night I slept sometimes in a church porch, sometimes in an abandoned stable, sometimes under an old wall, whichscreened me from the wind. One morning I lay asleep, with a stone for a pillow, in the neighborhood of Covent Garden, when I was awakened by a strange voice which seemed to address me. I saw a middle-aged gentleman of modest appearance, with a kind and venerable air, who stood gazing upon me as he leaned on his silver-headed cane. This cane and his old-fashioned wig would have caused me to divine that he was a doctor, had I known the costumes of the different professions.
"'My boy,' he said to me, 'what are you doing there? Why are you not at home at such an hour? Surely your parents must be anxious about you.'
"I answered him rudely, for I knew no other mode of speech.
"'I have no home, and no parents.'
"'What is your name?'
"'They call me Mishap.'
"'Well, friend Mishap, I am going to give the lie to your name, for I am going to take you to the best man in the world.'
"I rose and followed him. Later I learned that he was Levet, the French surgeon of the poor, so poor himself that Dr. Johnson had given him an abiding-place in his house. Thither he led me. The doctor, too, in his time had suffered from poverty and hunger. In his old age he returned good for the evil which he had suffered in his youth. His home was, and still is, a sort of asylum and hospital. With Levet lived Mrs. Williams, the blind poetess, and the negro Frank, whom the author of 'Rasselas' treated more as a friend than a servant. These good people gave me a cordial greeting. They gave me breakfast and made me tell them my story. For the firsttime in my life I ate of white bread and listened to decent language. Then my heart, which lay like a stone in my breast, melted, and I wept hot tears. They baptized me next day, the good negro being my humble godfather. To the Christian name of Francis they added, for want of a family name, the name of the day on which I had been discovered shivering in my sleep. Some days later, well washed and newly clothed, with shoes and stockings on my feet, all of which seemed strange to me and not a little awkward, I accompanied Dr. Johnson to this house, and in this very room made my first bow to Sir Joshua, who at the time was painting the portrait of Kate Fisher. I can still see the pretty creature, who had brought her friend, Mary Summers, with her. One was all beauty; the other, all wit—component parts of Aspasia.
"'My dear sir,' said the doctor in his grand, solemn way, 'I have brought with me a child for Ugolino to eat.'
"The speech made me shudder, while every one present laughed. Later it was explained to me that during the intervals between his engagements Sir Joshua caused an aged street-paver, who had fallen into necessitous circumstances, but who possessed an expressive head, to sit for him. His name was White, but one day Mr. Burke, seeing him in the lower hall, said to Sir Joshua, 'That man would make an admirable Ugolino.' And from that time he was never called by any other name. It suggested to my master the idea of making him the centre of a great composition representing Dante's terrible scene; but it was necessary to find some children with whom to surround Ugolino. Now you understand thedoctor's joke. 'Here is something for you to do,' remarked Sir Joshua to me, 'which will be easier than working for the mud-larks.'
"'What must I do?' I inquired.
"'Remain perfectly quiet, which you may find rather difficult at your age.'
"'It could never be difficult for me to obey and please you,' said I.
"I was given a sort of chamber in the garret, which I still occupy; and from that day I led the life of those by whom I was surrounded. Living from morning till evening amidst painting and designing, the desire to try my hand came to me. I armed myself with a bit of chalk and a slate. Sir Joshua surprised me in the midst of my occupation, and when I made an attempt to conceal my sketch, he remarked: 'Do you know upon what and with what I made my first picture? Upon a scrap of sail-cloth and with a pot of paint which had been left upon the strand at Plympton by the boat-painter.' He looked at my sketch, and the result of his examination was that he sent me to the Royal Academy, which had recently been opened. There I sketched the faces of all the young women who represented Dido or Ariadne. My companions blew peas at them until they made them cry. Then they would clap their hands and pretend that they had given the models the desired expression. I did not know what they meant, but when I had filled my sketch-book to the very last page with Didos and Ariadnes, I respectfully confessed to Sir Joshua that I had much rather paint trees, flowers, grass, and, more than all, water. My dear, great river, where I had lived so long, the ever-changeful home of my infancy!—I am never weary ofdepicting it, by turns dull as a leaden disk, brilliant as a mirror of burnished steel, now ruffled and agitated, now radiant and peaceful, little rural stream that it is at Hampton Court, arm of the sea at Gravesend, with its perspectives, its shore life, the ships which fleck its surface, and the seafarers it bears upon its bosom."
"Then," inquired Esther, "am I to understand that you are happy?" The young man lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment.
"I am," he answered, "profoundly grateful to my master for all his kindness, for the friendship which every one testifies for me, and for the interest which such men as Mr. Burke and Dr. Johnson take in my studies. But can I be wholly happy? Nothing can replace the affection of a mother,—unless it be that of a wife. There is a void in my heart. Will it ever be filled?"
So humble, so penetrating was the accent of the poor, lonely fellow at this moment that Esther was more deeply moved than she had been by the recital of his boyish sufferings. In her turn her eyes drooped as if, in the young man's words, something had particularly affected her.
"Ah!" he murmured, "you are laughing at me now; but, since I began to speak and you deigned to listen to me, I have told you all. Now I am going to show you the one who, since my entrance into this house, has consoled and sustained me in the hours of discouragement and sadness." And taking her by the hand, he led Esther into his studio, before an unframed picture, from which he drew aside the drapery which covered it.
"A portrait! A portrait of a woman!"
In fact it was the counterfeit presentment of a young woman clothed in white. The picture was still unfinished. The attire, the accessories, the background were scarcely indicated; the head alone seemed almost complete. It was a fine, delicate head, softly illumined by a faint smile as by a ray of autumnal sunshine, the eyes of a dull blue, hesitant in glance as though weary of the light,—infinite weariness in the inclination ofthe neck and the droop of the shoulders. An indefinable charm of sorrow and resignation overspread the entire countenance. The very uncertainty of the sketch lent to it an ethereal, almost supernatural character, enveloping it in that vague, ideal film which veils the figures in a dream.
"Who is this lady?" inquired Esther.
"She died twenty years ago, and I never saw her in life. I only know that she is called Lady Mowbray."
"Lady Mowbray! The mother of young Lord Mowbray whom you resemble so closely?"
"The same."
"But why has the portrait remained unfinished?"
"The death of the original interrupted the sittings. She knew that she was doomed and wished to bequeath her portrait to her son; but apparently no one cared for her or respected her last wish, since the sketch has never been claimed by the family. It is said that she was most unhappy, and wept her life away. I am as attached to this portrait as to a living person. It watches me and smiles upon me; I speak to it and it responds. How many times have I kissed those poor hands which are now folded in death! I have wished that my mother might resemble her, and in my folly I have more than once addressed her by that holy name. Athwart the space which separates us my heart yearns towards her. What would I not give to have known and consoled her! What do you think of such foolishness, Miss Woodville?"
"I understand you; I assure you that I understand you, and it seems to me that from to-day I shall no longer be the same, that I shall be lessfrivolous, less thoughtless, that I shall regard life with other eyes."
And turning suddenly she came in contact with an object in the shadow, which upon being disturbed gave forth a queer sound, like to the click ofcastagnettes.
"What is that?" she exclaimed.
"That is nothing, only a skeleton used in anatomical studies."
He drew into the light the singular companion, whose arms and legs projected absurdly every which way. One would have said that it was a drunken sailor attempting a hornpipe. As if to increase its height a lace cap with red ribbons, carelessly placed upon its cranium, had slipped to one side, suggesting the idea of ghostly joviality. Esther burst into a laugh which she quickly repressed.
"Poor thing!" she said. "Like us, he has possessed a heart and a brain. Perhaps he has loved, perhaps they have said he was handsome. Pardon me that I laughed, poor skeleton!"
The words of her well-beloved poet recurred to her memory.
"Do you remember where Hamlet, in the graveyard, holds the jester's skull in his hands? 'Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?'"
"'To what base uses we may return, Horatio!'" added Frank.
"Yes," she replied; "'Imperial Cæsar, dead and turn'd to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away.'" And she recited the verses which close the scene.
Frank listened with a sort of religious tenderness.
"You love Shakespeare?" he asked.
"I adore him!"
Attracted by this new bond of common admiration, they spoke of that sovereign master of souls, and exchanged the emotions which he had aroused in their hearts. Hand in hand they wandered, and lost themselves in that vast, murmurous forest filled with alarms and enchantments, with refreshing springs and hideous pools, with jocund imps and menacing monsters, where the fairy flowers of sentiment bloom and fade in the umbrage of gigantic thoughts, amidst which passes, like a stormy wind, a tremor of the vague Beyond, the breath of the invisible, unknown world.
As they conversed thus, seated upon an old sofa between the skeleton and the portrait of Lady Mowbray, Reynolds entered. For two hours they had been together. The painter looked at them, and smiled with indulgent penetration.
"We have been talking of Shakespeare," Frank explained, slightly ill at ease.
Sir Joshua did not believe one word of it. Either he knew not, or he had forgotten that old age alone requires tospeakof love. In youth, love impregnates every word, insinuates itself into the very gestures, plunges into the glance, exhales at every pore, saturates the air we breathe. Then of what import are words?
"And there is Reuben waiting all this while!" thought Esther suddenly.
That thought alone re-established all her roguish coquetry in the space of one second.
"Mr. Fisher!"
Thus invoked by his name, the hairdresser who had the honor of attending the leading artists of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, stopped suddenly upon the dim staircase which led to the dressing-rooms.
"Who is it?" he inquired, striving to distinguish the person who had accosted him. "What do you want? I am in a hurry. Miss Woodville waits. What!You, my lord?" he added as his interlocutor advanced into the doubtful radiance shed by the argand-lamp upon the upper landing.
A trifle arrogant at first, with a mingling of poorly dissimulated nervousness (for courage was not Mr. Fisher's besetting virtue), the tone of the worthy hairdresser had become obsequious in the extreme. Lord Mowbray was one of his best clients.
"Mr. Fisher," said the young nobleman, "you are going straight home and to bed."
"I, my lord! Your lordship must surely be jesting. They are waiting for me up-stairs, and I must—"
Lord Mowbray barred his further progress.
"I am not jesting, Mr. Fisher. I can be serious when serious matters are at stake, and there is nothing more serious than the health of an honest man like yourself. I tell you that you have a high fever and that you are going straight to bed, whereyou will keep warm and let Mrs. Fisher bring you a ptisan."
"But I have no fever, and even if I had I should not fail to perform my duty. And this, a first-night! Why, the king and queen are to honor the performance with their presence!"
"Well, let us cut the matter short, Mr. Fisher. Here is somewhat to sweeten your ptisan."
With the words a handful of guineas changed hands, the jingle of which possessed a persuasive virtue all their own; whereupon the hairdresser began to comprehend that it is sometimes to one's advantage to be feverish.
"But, my lord," he faltered, "would you have Miss Woodville go on the stage with dishevelled hair? Who will take my place?"
"I will, Fisher."
"Can your lordship dress a head of hair?"
"I studied the art in Paris under the celebrated Leonard."
"Is it so!"
"Indeed it is. The man who does not know how to dress a woman's hair misses one of the greatest delights in life. That is why, my dear friend, your art was the most agreeable to Venus; and Mons. Lebeau, my tutor, a man-of-the-world, failed not to give me ample instruction."
"Well, I am flambergasted now!"
"Make haste to pull yourself together and be off, or you will take more cold on this staircase. Quick; hand me the comb, the powder, and the patch-box. Good night, Fisher; take good care of yourself. Devil, man! You'll find you cannot trifle with a fever."
A minute later the false hairdresser, having duly knocked at the door and received permissionto enter, walked into a narrow room in which Miss Woodville was dressing, assisted by a maid, under the watchful direction of her aunt, Mrs. Marsham.
"Come, Mr. Fisher," said Esther without looking at the intruder, "we must make haste or I shall be late. Make me just as pretty as you possibly can, for the king will be in the audience."
"I shall do my best, Miss Woodville."
"But this man is not Fisher!" cried the old lady.
Esther cast one swift glance at Mowbray, caught the kerchief about her shoulders, and mechanically plunged her blushing face into the ivory horn which served to protect her eyes and lashes while her hair was being powdered.
The young nobleman respectfully saluted the Quakeress.
"Mr. Fisher is ill," he exclaimed.
"Oh, poor Fisher! What ails him?"
"He has a fever, madam,—a high fever. It would break your heart to hear the poor man's teeth chatter. So I have come in his place."
"It is impossible for you to dress my hair!" gasped Esther.
"Impossible! And why, if you please?"
"Because—because—why, you cannot, you don't know how!"
"I have studied under the best masters. It is not for me to disparage Mr. Fisher; but I venture to say that my touch is more classic than his. I have worked for the French court."
"No, no!" breathed Esther with veiled eyes.
"But, my child," said her aunt in a lowered tone, "you are unreasonable. This boy appears to know his business; besides, he has worked for the French court. Moreover, time presses."
"If Miss Woodville will deign to intrust her head to my care, all will be well," added the would-be hairdresser.
Esther saw there was no help for it but to yield. Suffused with blushes and pouting, though deeply moved, she took her chair before the mirror.
"What style will it please you this evening,—capricieuseortout amiable? But I am wrong: a face like yours demands a suitable accompaniment. Esther Woodville—pardon my liberty of speech—should have her hair dressedà laEsther Woodville!"
"Anybody can see at a glance that you came from Paris," interposed Mrs. Marsham; "you know how to pay compliments. I fear that your talents may stop there, and that your comb is by no means the equal of your tongue."
"Madam shall be the judge. By his work is the artist known."
With a firm, experienced hand he seized the loosened tresses which overspread the girl's shoulders. Bending above her, inhaling her very personality, he spoke not, he hardly breathed, overcome by the violence of his emotions; while she, bending slightly forward, maintained a strange immobility. A cloud passed before his eyes; his brain reeled. Could he maintain the mastery of himself sufficiently to play the comedy to the end?
All at once a confused turmoil arose from the street below. Mrs. Marsham pricked up her ears.
"Can it be the king already?" she exclaimed.
In order to understand the true import of those two monosyllables, "the king," for the good lady, we must go back a quarter of a century to the time when George III., aged sixteen years, still dweltin Leicester Fields with his mother, the Dowager Princess of Wales. Never did he pass through Long Acre on his way to the theatre, of which he was a constant patron, without casting a timid glance at pretty Sarah Lightfoot, where she sat at the desk in her father's shop, with her snow-white gown, her folded kerchief, and her glossy tresses innocent of powder. The young Quakeress would bend her head with a light blush beneath the mute and tender contemplation of those big, guileless eyes, undoubtedly more eloquent than their owner had any idea they were. The royal child would pause for a moment, and, heaving a sigh, would continue his way with his unequal, halting gait.
Long, long ago had his Majesty forgotten Sarah Lightfoot; but Sarah Lightfoot, the present Mrs. Marsham, had never forgotten his Majesty. Athwart her dull, peaceful, uneventful existence the charming memory cast a ray which but increased in brilliancy as the days wore on. She had never mentioned the subject in the presence of her son, fearing the disdainful shrug of Reuben's shoulders, and suspecting that he nourished some vague republican chimera; but she would speak complacently with her niece of the king's fancy, save that she asked God's pardon for indulging in such frivolous thoughts.
This was the reason why, on this particular evening, she had scarcely noticed Mr. Fisher's substitute, and why she was so attentive to the sounds in the street. She intended to see the king's arrival, for it seemed to her that the ovation intended for his Majesty by his loyal subjects in some remote way touched her. Mowbray knew nothing of these circumstances, but he confusedlydivined that by means of the good woman's curiosity he might rid himself of her presence.
"The king?" said he. "Of course it is he; if you wish to see him you have no time to lose."
For one moment Esther thought to detain her aunt, but how could she explain her perturbation without admitting the whole deceit, without causing a scandal? Then, who would dress her hair? And besides, Peg was with her. And, moreover, in the depths of her heart had not the young actress a secret desire to be left with her terrible lover, a wild longing mingled with fear, like that of the youthful soldier who anticipates with joy, yet dreads to enter, his first battle.
Casting aside her wraps the Quakeress quitted the dressing-room with a lively step, which suggested pretty Sarah Lightfoot rather than sedate Mrs. Marsham. The hair-dressing advanced rapidly, and although a trifle unsteady by reason of internal emotion, the young nobleman acquitted himself with marvellous distinction.
Although a simpler taste had begun to obtain, thecoiffureof a woman of 1780 was still a remarkably complicated affair; so complicated, in fact, that certain women, by way of avoiding fatigue or expense, had their heads dressed only two or three times a week, sometimes only once, and slept in this heavy, uncomfortable, voluminous rigging, of which their own hair was assuredly the least important element. False hair being very costly, the interior of the fragile edifices was often stuffed with horsehair, and even with hay. In some cases a brace of iron wire was affixed to the head, upon which flowers, feathers, ribbons, and jewelry could be firmly attached; and thus the scaffolding frequently rose to such a height that, ifwe may credit the caricaturists of the day, it was necessary to pierce the roofs of the sedan-chairs, and even of the coaches, in order to accommodateles élégantesin gala costume.
However, there could be no question of such exaggeration in the case of a Shakespearean heroine. Of all the poet's creations is not Beatrice the most fantastic? And was not Esther, of all who had essayed therôle, the most original in her style of beauty, the most unique in her method of playing it? That is why Mowbray, clearing all traditions at a single bound, had given free rein to his fancy. He had lowered the conventional scaffolding, cut short the tower-shapedcoiffure. The top of the head was relieved, while two undulant, billowy masses depended therefrom, flowing behind the ears, no powder being used, which brought out at once the delicate contour and exquisite coloring of the face in strong relief. There was nothing classical nor rococo about it; it was all odd, novel, and overwhelmingly graceful. Esther had but to cast one glance at the mirror to be convinced that she had never been more beautiful.
Mowbray leaned towards the maid and whispered a word in her ear.
"What is it?" inquired Esther.
"Nothing," replied Mowbray; "Miss Peg is going in search of some pins which I require."
"Peg, I forbid you to leave the room!"
But the command came too late. Whether Peg had not heard or had seen fit not to hear, she had quitted the room. Scarcely had the door closed ere Mowbray stooped and murmured her name.
She had risen and recoiled across the room.
"Oh, my lord, this is wrong!" she cried.
"Mowbray's wish makes wrong right," he replied. "What do you fear,—the man who loves you to distraction?"
Resolutely she fixed her eyes on his, striving to read therein, beyond the disarray of his senses, the true thought which animated him.