MR. FISHER'S SUBSTITUTE.
"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, where you 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 permission to 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,—capricieuse or tout amiable? But I am wrong: a face like yours demands a suitable accompaniment. Esther Woodville—pardon my liberty of speech—should have her hair dressed à la Esther 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 dwelt in 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 confusedly divined 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, the coiffure of 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, if we 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 accommodate les élégantes in 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 the rôle, 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-shaped coiffure. 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.
"You love me? You have already said the same thing to twenty others,—to Bella Vereker, for instance!"
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"I have never owned a second love! Neither she, nor any one else. You are my first love, and you shall be the only one!"
"I do not believe you. You are not telling me truth."
"Certainly I am," he exclaimed. "You shall be Lady Mowbray in the sight of God and man, with the reversion of the office which my mother holds at court."
This was no illusion! Esther began to weaken, vanity being in reality her vulnerable point.
At this moment a heavy knocking sounded upon the door, so resonant, so brutal that they both trembled.
"They are about to begin!" cried a voice in the passage. Perhaps it may seem singular to those who have not experienced similar situations, that such an incident can save a young girl; that the sentiment of secondary but immediate duty can brusquely awaken her at the moment that the notion of primal duty is losing its hold upon her. Esther recovered her presence of mind upon the instant.
"I am on in the first scene!" she cried. "Quick, my costume!"
She threw open the door. The callboy had disappeared, but one of the company who was to play the part of Hero, already dressed, was just descending to the greenroom.
"Are they beginning?" Esther demanded.
"Not yet."
"But I have just been called."
"Who could have done it? Some joke of course. You have a quarter of an hour yet."
"But I am alone!"
"Then I will help you."
During this dialogue Mowbray made good his escape. The blow had been struck! Who had struck it at the decisive moment? Who had dared to snatch his prey from him? Could it be Lebeau? He again! At the thought Mowbray's face grew dark with hatred.