Volume Ii Part 7 (1/2)
CHAPTER VI.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF ”A HEART OF GOLD.”
Three-quarters of an hour before it was time to start for the Star Theatre, Fred Cornwall with a cab was at the Lethbridges' door. There was no one but 'Melia Jane to receive him. Everybody was dressing, and 'Melia Jane, with a jug of hot water in her hand, informed Fred Cornwall that ”Miss Phoebe, sir, she do look most lovely,” for which she received a sixpenny bit.
”Take these flowers up to the ladies, 'Melia Jane,” said Fred, ”and be careful you don't mix them. These are for Mrs. Lethbridge; these are for Miss Lethbridge; these for Miss Farebrother; and ask them how long they will be.”
”Lor', sir!” exclaimed 'Melia Jane, ”now you're 'ere they'll be down in no time.”
”That foolish boy,” observed f.a.n.n.y, when the flowers were brought into the girls' bedroom, ”will ruin himself. You will have to check him, Phoebe. But what taste he has! Did you ever see anything more exquisite? I knew he would bring us flowers. And of course he has the cab at the door, waiting; he hasn't the least idea of the value of money. I shall have to give him a good talking to, the foolish, extravagant boy!”
This was a new fas.h.i.+on of f.a.n.n.y's--to put on matronly airs and to talk of Fred Cornwall as a foolish boy. He was greatly amused by it, and he listened to her lectures with a mock-penitential air, which caused her to deliver her counsels with greater severity.
”You are a model of punctuality,” he said, as f.a.n.n.y sailed into the room.
”And you're a modeller,” retorted f.a.n.n.y gaily. ”How do I look?” turning slowly round.
”Beautiful!” exclaimed Fred, advancing eagerly as Phoebe entered.
”Oh, of course,” cried f.a.n.n.y. ”Come here, Phoebe,” taking her cousin's hand. ”He sha'n't admire one without the other.”
With looks and words of genuine admiration, Fred scanned and criticised the girls, who, truly, for loveliness, would take the palm presently in the Star Theatre.
”That's very sweet of you,” said f.a.n.n.y, when he came to the end of an eloquent speech, ”and you may kiss my hand. But don't come too near me; I mustn't be crushed; and Phoebe mustn't, either. Oh, my dear, beautiful mother!” And the light-hearted girl ran to her mother, who at this moment entered the room.
Aunt Leth was the picture of a refined, gentle-hearted sweet-mannered lady. She had her best gown on, of course; and so cleverly had she managed that it looked, if not quite new, at least almost as good as new. She gazed with wistful tenderness at her daughter and niece, and kissed them affectionately; then she greeted Fred, and thanked him for the flowers.
Phoebe and f.a.n.n.y had already thanked him, and when he gave Uncle Leth a rose for his coat (he himself wearing one), f.a.n.n.y whispered to Phoebe that she had not a fault to find with him.
”What I like especially about Fred,” said f.a.n.n.y, ”is that when he does a thing he does it thoroughly. Did you notice how pleased dear mamma was when he gave papa the rose? He could not have delighted her more. You lucky girl!”
Altogether Fred's position in that affectionate family was an enviable one, and if he was not a proud and happy young fellow as he rattled away with them to the Star Theatre, he ought to have been. Any gentleman in London would have been happy to be in his shoes.
Bob, of course, had gone early to the theatre, convinced that the success of _A Heart of Gold_ depended upon the way in which he would announce ”Mrs. Portarlington,” ”Mr. Praxis,” and ”Lord Fouracres.”
There was a great house. The manager had taken more than usual pains to obtain the attendance of the critic of every influential paper. Fred, who knew a great many of them, pointed them out to the eager girls, and described their peculiarities and the qualities for which they were famous. Mr. Linton, although he had written seven or eight pieces, all of which had been played, was not yet looked upon as a dramatist of mark; some of the best judges had declared that he had a great deal in him, and that he would one day surprise the public, and take London captive by the production of a play of the greatest merit. This opinion was more or less shared by most of the dramatic writers on the press, and they came to-night prepared to deal generously toward him if he showed himself deserving of it. There were others who came prepared for contingencies: theatrical frequenters of pit and gallery, regular ”first-nighters,” who knew by sight every critic on the London press, and every notability in the city. Before the music commenced they kept up a buzz of conversation, pointing out the celebrities, and tiptoeing over their neighbours to catch a sight of the great men. ”It's quite like a party,” observed Aunt Leth, as she saw the friendly greeting and salutations of those who were in the habit of meeting on such occasions.
Then came a cheer or two and a clapping of hands, which was taken up gradually in all the cheaper parts of the house. A favourite actress had entered a private box, and the enthusiastic play-goers were showing their regard for her. She smiled, and turned to the pit with a pleasant nod, which added to the delight of her admirers. They compared notes: ”Did you see her in so-and-so? Wasn't she stunning? Ah, but she was better than all in such-and-such. What does she play in next?” Hungry and eager and ever-ready are the theatrical public to show favour to established favourites; beloved by them are the actor and actress who have given them pleasure; and thus much being acknowledged, it is strange that the dramatic author should hold in their regard what is at best but an equivocal position. They call him out when the curtain falls to hoot or applaud him, and it is a moot point which of the two processes pleases them more. It was of this moment to come that Mr.
Linton was thinking as he sat hidden in a box behind the curtains, his fingers playing convulsively on the palms of his hands. To-night, he believed, was to make or mar him. More hung upon the success of _A Heart of Gold_ than the public was aware of. He was poor, very poor; his wife was nursing a sick child, for whom the doctor had prescribed what it was not in Linton's power to afford. Would the result of this night's work put him in funds, cause him to be in demand, and make the world bright for him? He saw an American manager in the stalls, and he knew if _A Heart of Gold_ was successful that he would at once receive an offer from him for the American rights. That meant money--meant, perhaps, the life of his child. He had sat by the bedside at home till the last minute, and when he kissed his little one, had whispered, ”Wish father good luck, my dear!” ”Good luck, father!” murmured the child, and kept his arms entwined round the loving father's neck so tight that they had to be loosened by gentle force. Then he had held his good wife in his embrace for a moment, and she pressed him fondly to her; he could not speak, he was almost choked; his lips trembled so that he could scarcely kiss her; and he bore with him, as he ran out of the room, the memory of the patient, wistful face, which would have been more cheerful had their circ.u.mstances been better. He saw it now as he sat hidden behind the curtains in the private box; he saw his little child in bed, pining away. ”Oh, G.o.d!” he muttered, ”if they but knew! if they but knew!”
”Who is in that box?” asked f.a.n.n.y. ”Not a soul can be seen; but--there, there it is again--the curtain just moved, and some one peeped through.”
”That is the author's box,” said Fred. ”I have no doubt Mr. Linton is there.”
”Poor gentleman!” said Aunt Leth. ”How anxious he must be! I wish we had him here with us.”
”They prefer to be alone, as a rule,” said Fred, somewhat grimly, ”on the first nights of their pieces.”
The leader of the band entered the orchestra, gloved for the honourable occasion. People began to seat themselves; the music was lively and appropriate, and put them in good humour. Linton gnawed his under-lip, and leaning forward suddenly, almost betrayed his presence. The curtain rose, and _A Heart of Gold_ commenced its perilous career.