TWO ACTRESSES.

The arrangements made between Mr. Samuel Erin, on behalf of his son William Henry, ‘an infant,’ with Mr. Albany Wallis, for the production of the play were eminently satisfactory. Mr. Erin was to receive three hundred pounds on the morning after the first night of representation, and half profits for the next sixty nights. Shakespeare himself had probably never made so good a bargain.

The news of the acceptance of the ‘Vortigern’ by the management of Drury Lane Theatre immensely increased the public excitement concerning it. In those days ‘Old Drury’ (though indeed it was then far from old) was the national theatre; and the fact of a play being played upon its boards (independently of Sheridan having chosen it) gave it a certain imprimatur. It was not unreasonable, therefore, in William Henry that he already saw himself half way to fortune, while his success in love might be said to be assured; there are but few of us in truth who, at his age, are in a position so enviable. For, as when we grow old, prosperity, if it does come, comes but too often too late for its enjoyment, so the sunshine of youth is marred by the uncertainty of its duration, and by the clouds that overhang its future. Of the reception of the ‘Vortigern’ the young fellow had but little doubt; he believed it would run a long and successful course, as most people do believe in the case of the hare of their own finding. And yet the manifestation of his joy was by no means extravagant. The gravity and coolness of his demeanour, which had characterised him throughout the discoveries, did not now desert him. At times, indeed, even when Margaret’s arms were about his neck, he looked anxious and distrait; but when she rallied him about it he had always an explanation, natural enough and not unwelcome to her.

‘I feel,’ he said, ‘as you once told me you felt in looking at that fair scene near Stratford, that it seemed almost too beautiful to be real, and that you had a vague fear that it would all melt. When I look on you, dear, I feel the same: such happiness is far too high for me; I have not deserved it, and I fear lest it should never be mine.’

‘But you have deserved it, Willie,’ she would lovingly reply. ‘Not even my uncle questions that. He spoke of you in the highest terms, he told me, to the Regent himself.’

For Mr. Erin had been sent for to Carlton House, and had shown the precious Shakespearean manuscripts to the future ruler of the realm, who had expressed himself as ‘greatly interested.’ He had been unable, he said, to resist the weight of evidence which had been adduced in favour of their authenticity, and had especially admired the ‘Vortigern.’ The old man’s head was almost turned with the royal praises; and it was not to be wondered at that he had expressed his satisfaction with the youth by whose means he had been introduced into so serene an atmosphere.

‘I do not think I am without desert, Madge, though there was a time when you used to think so [an allusion, of course, to her old scepticism as to his genius]; but I do not deserve you,’ was William Henry’s grave reply.

A modest rejoinder, which, we may be sure, secured its reward.

Margaret thought that there never had been, and never would be, so deserving a youth as her Willie, or one who, having received his deserts, bore his honours so unassumingly.

Nevertheless—for, in spite of the proverb, ‘It never rains but it pours,’ good fortune seldom befalls us mortals without alloy—there were drops of bitterness in his full cup. The Poet Laureate Pye had been reminded of his promise to write a prologue for the ‘Vortigern,’ and had performed it, but by no means in a satisfactory manner.

It had come to them one morning at breakfast, and had been received with rapture by Mr. Erin—till he came to read it. It commenced as follows:—

If in our scenes your eyes, delighted, find,
Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind;
If at his words the tears of pity flow,
Your hearts with horror fill, with rapture glow,
Demand no other proof;
But if these proofs should fail, if in the strain
Ye seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,
Should critics, heralds, antiquaries, join
To give their fiat to each doubtful line,
Believe them not.

‘Curse the fellow!’ cried the antiquary, throwing down the manuscript in disgust; ‘why, this is worse than useless. What the devil does he mean by his “ifs“ and “nots”?’

‘I fancy Mr. Malone could tell us,’ observed William Henry quietly.

‘No doubt, lad, no doubt,’ said Mr. Erin, eagerly catching at this solution of the Laureate’s change of front. ‘That man would drop his poison into the ear of an archangel. Not that Pye is an archangel, nor anything like it.’

‘Archangels must write very indifferent poetry if he is,’ remarked William Henry smiling.

‘Just so—a deuced bad poet!’ rejoined Mr. Erin. ‘His prologue, even without an “if“ in it, would damn any play; I’ll write to Burgess—Sir James will do it, I’ll warrant.’

And Sir James did it accordingly, and in a fashion much more agreeable to ‘Vortigern’s’ sponsors.

No common cause your verdict now demands,
Before the court immortal Shakespeare stands;

.......

Stamp it your own, assert your poet’s fame,
And add fresh wreaths to Shakespeare’s honoured name.

There was no doubt in Mr. Erin’s mind as to Sir James Bland Burgess being a better poet than Mr. Pye.

There were other hitches—nay, absolute breaks-down—which could not be so easily mended. Mrs. Siddons, who it was hoped would play the chief female character, Edmunda, had a severe cold, which was suspected by many people, and known by her friends, to be a stage cold—a malady which actors and actresses assume at pleasure as a pretext for declining any objectionable part. When a barrister refuses a brief, it is naturally concluded that his client’s cause is precarious—a lawyer, it is argued, would never send money away from his doors except for the gravest reasons; and similarly the ‘Vortigern’ suffered in public estimation when the news of Mrs. Siddons’s indisposition got abroad. Her reason, as Malone and Company averred, was that ‘the whole play was an audacious imposition.’ In this case that flattering unction of ‘There are as good fish in the sea,’ &c., could hardly be laid to Mr. Erin’s soul; it was unquestionably a bitter disappointment; the part had to be given to Mrs. Powell, a much prettier and younger woman, but not the queen of the stage. His sister’s conduct, too, seemed to have an unfavourable effect on Kemble, whose interest in the play was already at the best but lukewarm, and it was felt absolutely necessary to conciliate him.

Mr. Erin wrote to him to say that, notwithstanding the circumstance of ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ being the production of the immortal bard, the great tragedian was at liberty to use his own excellent judgment in preparing it for the stage.

A cold reply was received, to the effect that it should be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre.

These were bitter drops; but where is the cup of human prosperity without them? In reading the record of even the most fortunate man’s career, we may be sure that, though it appears to run with such unbroken smoothness, there is many a hitch. We hear the triumphant pÆans, but not the deep low notes of chagrin and disappointment that to the hero’s own ear accompany them and turn his blood to gall. The shining shield, bossed with victories, appears to be of solid gold, but there is but a thin coating of it, and underneath lies rusted and corroding iron. It is something, however, to show gold at all; and Margaret was prompt with her comfort.

‘When, my dear Willie, was good fortune without its drawbacks? These are but spots in the sun of our prosperity, and we should have only room in our hearts for gratitude. Think how much sunshine we have had of late, and how far beyond our expectations. When you first chanced upon these wonderful discoveries, how great a thing it would have seemed to you to light on such a treasure trove as the “Vortigern,“ and then to have it accepted by Sheridan for Drury Lane! Think of that!’

‘Quite true, my darling; and yet you have not mentioned the highest gift that Fortune has vouchsafed me, compared with which all her other favours are mere gilt and tinsel—your dear self.’

‘Tut, tut; you are a born actor, sir, and should offer your services to Mr. Kemble.’

He looked at her with troubled eyes, gravely, almost sorrowfully, then folded her to his breast without a word.

It was clear, she thought, that Mrs. Siddons’s refusal to play her part had disappointed him cruelly.

One day two ladies called to see Mr. Erin. The antiquary, as it happened, was out: upon hearing which, they expressed a wish to see his son. William Henry, who no more went to the office in the New Inn, but transacted his father’s business for him at home (not so much that he was necessary to it as because the old gentleman preferred to keep the lad about him), was neither mounting drawings nor cataloguing prints, but exchanging pretty nothings with Margaret, when the servant came with her message.

‘Ladies to see you, Willie,’ said she, laughing. ‘I am almost inclined to be jealous; I wonder what can be their business?’

‘They want to see the MSS., I suppose,’ he said indifferently. ‘Well, at all events I can’t get at them; your uncle has taken the key of the chest with him.’

Margaret shook her head.

‘They have come about the play,’ she said; ‘they are actresses.’

This was a conclusion to which William Henry had already arrived, though he had not thought it worth while to mention it. His heart, indeed, had leapt up within him at the news in question, not that he was the least inclined to play the gay Lothario, but that everything connected with the representation of the ‘Vortigern’ immensely interested him. Hitherto he had been kept out of it; the whole affair had been carried on up to this point without his interference, as indeed was natural enough; it was not as if the ‘Vortigern’ had been his play.

‘It is very unlikely,’ said William Henry diplomatically; ‘but it is possible they want Mr. Erin’s opinion about some reading, and since I know his views I had perhaps better see them.’

His tone was interrogative, but he did not wait to hear her opinion on the subject, but at once repaired to the parlour. That apartment, hallowed by so many antiquarian associations, was now tenanted by two persons of a very different stamp from those who generally visited it. ‘If critics and commentators indeed were beings like these,’ was the young rogue’s reflection, ‘“cherished folios“ would be things to be envied.’

Both ladies were young, though an expert in such matters, which William Henry was not, might have come to the conclusion that they were not quite so young as they looked. It is true they were neither painted nor powdered; but besides being very fashionably and becomingly dressed, there was that brightness of expression in their lively faces which makes more head against time than all the cosmetics in the world. It is always a matter of surprise among dull people that actresses, even of a high type, should be so popular, and often make such good matches with men of culture and good breeding. The reason is, I think, that if they are not natural, they at least do their best to appear so; they do not stifle nature, as is the habit of some of their sex who are much more highly placed. Languor and studied indifference are not of themselves attractive, and they are suspected, and with reason, of being very convenient cloaks for stupidity.

The intelligence of these ladies shone in their eyes, which also twinkled with amusement. They had both had a very hard time of it during one portion of their lives, but it had extinguished neither their good-nature nor their sense of humour. The appearance of William Henry, who looked all youth and simplicity, instead of the snuffy old antiquary whom they had expected to see, tickled them excessively. The fact that he was very good-looking also aroused their interest. If they had come upon business, in short, they remained for pleasure; and the sense of this (for it was unmistakable) embarrassed not a little their involuntary host.

By sight he knew both the ladies; the younger was Mrs. Powell, a handsome woman, very tall and elegant, who had of late stepped into a much higher rank of her profession, as, indeed, was clear enough from her having been made the substitute of Mrs. Siddons in the forthcoming tragedy. Just now, however, she was undertaking comedy, and her melodious tones and speaking face made a harmony like ‘the voice and the instrument.’

The other lady was Mrs. Jordan, who, without enjoying so high a dramatic reputation, was a still greater favourite with the public. She, too, was tall and comely, but her beauty was of a simpler type—it would be better described as loveliness. The charms which had carried all before them when she made her fame as ‘The Country Girl’ were more mature, but not less attractive. The world of play-goers was at her feet, the knowledge that an eminent personage had gained her affections, and even, it was said, contracted a private marriage with her, aroused the envy of many a gilded flutterer, and had driven at least one of them to despair. Her tenderness of disposition and generosity to the distressed were notorious, and could be read in her smile.

‘We have ventured to call upon you, Mr. Erin, as you may perhaps guess, with reference to “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ said Mrs. Powell.

‘I am so sorry, but my father is not at home,’ stammered William Henry.

‘Well, really!’ returned the lady reproachfully.

‘At all events, we are not sorry,’ said Mrs. Jordan slily.

‘I did not mean—you know what I mean,’ pleaded William Henry with a blush that they probably envied. ‘I am so sorry to be so awkward, but I am very young.’

‘Does he mean to say that we are not?’ ejaculated Mrs. Powell with a majestic air. ‘Great heavens!’

‘I think, sister, since he has thrown himself upon the mercy of the court,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan good-naturedly, ‘that we should not be hard upon him.’

‘Youth and inexperience,’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell judicially, ‘are no excuses for crime; but since my learned sister—— You have seen her as Portia, no doubt, young man, and a very pretty lawyer she makes—don’t you think so?

It was like two people speaking from the same mouth—the one all gaiety, the other all merriment.

‘Of course I have seen her, who has not?’ said William Henry, plucking up his courage, though with such desperation that it almost came away by the roots.

‘That’s much better,’ smiled Mrs. Jordan approvingly.

‘I am not sure,’ returned her companion. ‘Do you not also remember me, sir?’

‘Who could forget you who remembers “Juliet,“ madam?’ returned the young gentleman, with his hand (as he thought) upon his heart.

‘Left side, sir, the next time,’ observed his tormentor encouragingly; ‘anatomy has not been a special study with you, but you improve in manners. We are here to test your gallantry, to sue for favours.’

‘Whatever lies within my humble power to do for you, madam, may be considered as done.’

‘Did I say “improves”? Why, he’s perfect,’ said Mrs. Powell, with a laughing glance at her companion. ‘But it’s all for love of Portia,’ she added with a sigh.

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‘No, of Juliet,’ returned Mrs. Jordan, with another shake of her pretty head.

There was a gentle tap at the door; a face, a very charming one, looked in, and with a murmured apology withdrew as suddenly as it had come.

‘Curiosity,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly, her eyes twinkling like two stars.

‘Jealousy,’ answered Mrs. Powell derisively. ‘I do not ask which was it, but who was it, sir?’

‘I don’t know,’ said William Henry boldly; ‘I had my back to the door.’

At this both ladies burst out laughing, if an expression so coarse can be applied to as musical mirth as ever rippled from the lips of woman.

‘He doesn’t know,’ cried Mrs. Powell; ‘and this is the young gentleman we took for all simplicity. How dare you, sir? As if her fairy footfall was not evidence enough to your throbbing ears, as if her coming here at all to see how you were getting on with two wicked young women from Drury Lane, was not sufficient proof of her identity?’ Then turning to her companion, ‘How dreadful to contemplate is his depravity! So young in years, and yet so versed in duplicity.’

‘You are engaged to be married to her, of course,’ said Mrs. Jordan softly.

‘Well, yes, madam,’ admitted William Henry; he could not help thinking how charming she would look as the page, Flavia.

‘Don’t be ashamed of it, young gentleman,’ said Mrs. Jordan gravely.

‘It is to your credit, remember, if not to hers,’ interpolated Mrs. Powell ambiguously.

‘And does this pretty creature live in the house?’ continued Mrs. Jordan with tender interest.

‘Yes, madam; she is my cousin, Margaret Slade.’

‘How nice! I never had a cousin when I was so young as that. How I envy her!’

‘“This shall to the Duke,”’ quoted Mrs. Powell menacingly. Then they both laughed again.

William Henry was dazzled, delighted, and a little uncomfortable.

‘We must not take up his time,’ said Mrs. Jordan rising and consulting her watch.

‘Now that we know that he is so very much engaged,’ assented Mrs. Powell slily.

‘But you have not told me your business ladies,’ observed William Henry naÏvely.

Then they both laughed again, as they well might, for the truth was that, having something so very much more pleasant in hand, they had forgotten all about it; they were not bees, but butterflies.

‘The fact is—only your company is so delightful it put our business out of our heads—we want to go over the play with you.’

‘There is but one copy in the house, ladies, in yonder safe, and I am sorry to say my father has the key.’

‘Then you must bring it to the theatre to-morrow morning, sir,’ said Mrs. Powell imperiously.

William Henry shook his head. ‘That is the original Shakespeare MS., madam; I could not venture on such a step.’

‘What ridiculous scruples!’ cried Mrs. Powell impatiently, beating her pretty foot upon the floor.

‘But we can use the acting copy,’ suggested Mrs. Jordan, ‘and—if this young gentleman will be so good as to come himself.’ Anything sweeter or more seductive than her tone it was impossible to imagine; even the very pause and break in the sentence had literally an unspeakable charm.

‘I will come with the greatest pleasure,’ said William Henry.

There was indeed no reason why he should not do so, but if there had been it would have been all the same. He was fascinated.

‘To-morrow, then, at eleven o’clock,’ she said, and held out her hand; he pressed it, and she returned the pressure, but with mirthful eyes.

Mrs. Powell shook hands with him too, and shook her head as she did so. ‘Poor young man!’ she said; ‘poor Margaret!’

Then they both laughed again: they laughed in the parlour, they laughed in the passage, they laughed on the very doorstep. As Margaret said of them after their departure, somewhat severely, ‘They seemed to be a pair of very frivolous young women.’