Then steady disappointment told upon him. His temper began to change—he grew sullen, suspicious, and began to tell strange tales of being followed at night by certain actors—generally stars. No man could call Sandy MacIlhenny a sponge or beat. When he reached the point where he could not extend a general invitation to those present to drink—he ceased to share in the general invitations of others. And when he could no longer pay his own footing, he no longer entered the saloon, but loitered outside to talk to the actors. Imagining things were not well with him, the actor for whom MacIlhenny had read asked him to accept some payment, but with ever-ready quotation, Sandy refused, gravely repeating: “There’s none can truly say he gives—if he receives!”
Then even the outside visits grew far apart, and through my passing of his door I was the only one who knew anything of him, and I knew so little, dear Heaven! so little! Only that he studied, rehearsed, declaimed! I did not know how many, many days passed without bringing Mrs. Sandy any job of work, and their pride-sealed lips made no complaint. The old Scotch couple were not unlike a pair of sharp, old razors—perfectly harmless if left alone in their own case, but very unsafe things for general handling—and so in the midst of plenty, they suffered the pangs—the gnawing pangs—of hunger for weary days and wearier nights, and no one knew!
One spring-like day, as I passed the cottage—the window being raised—I heard MacIlhenny’s voice at some distance, and recognized the lines of Woolsey in Henry VIII.: “Had I but served my God, with half the zeal that I have served—have served—,” he stopped—so did I. Some change in his voice held me! What was it? It was weak and husky, to be sure; but there was something else, some force, some thrill, some strange quality. Again the voice rose: “Had I but served my God with half the zeal that I have served—have served—,” almost unconsciously I gave the words, “My King,” and he, without even turning his face, took it up, saying “Aye, aye! ‘My King—he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies!’” and he laughed. As I hurried on, in all my nerves there was a creeping fear, for in his voice I had felt the subtle difference between ranting and raving—had felt the man was mad! And that very morning an actor mentioned him, saying he had seen him in liquor. “Oh, no,” I answered, “MacIlhenny never drinks!”
“Well,” insisted the actor, “when a man staggers in his walk and talks to himself on the public street, it looks as if he had been drinking too much rye.” And another standing by, laughingly said: “Perhaps the old chap has eaten too little, instead of drinking too much!”
Such cruel truths are sometimes said in jest. A few days later, having only to appear in the farce, I was quite late in going to the theatre, and as I neared the cottage, I saw lamplight streaming from its window, and heard Sandy reciting, as usual. But there was some other noise. His words, too, came in gusts and gasps, and I said to myself: “Why, that sounds exactly like two men rehearsing a combat for Richard or Macbeth!” The cottage was flush with the sidewalk and, as I came opposite the window, I could not help looking in, and there I stood and stared, for in the center of the room old Sandy and his wife were struggling desperately for the possession of a hatchet which he held! “Sandy!” she cried, “Sandy!” and all the time Macbeth’s lines poured from his lips: “They have tied me to a stake!” Almost he wrenched himself free from her: “I cannot fly, and bear-like, I must fight the course!”
At that moment his wife tore the hatchet from his hand and flung it across the room. He plunged forward to recover it, but in a twinkling she had a grip upon his arms just above each elbow, and next moment she had shoved him into the chair close to the window, and leaning over him, in spite of his writhings, held him tight.
She must have felt my gaze, for suddenly she turned her white face and saw me. Into her eyes there came both fear and furious anger, and then, without loosing her hold for one moment on Sandy’s arms, she thrust her face forward, and catching the shade between her teeth, she fiercely dragged it down! And though the rebuff was sharp as a blow in the face, yet for a moment more I stood staring, and saw on the white shade a black shadow-woman bending over and holding fast a shadow-man, and, as a kaleidoscope responds to a touch, at a single movement these shadows blurred, parted, joined again, and this time, though she still held him close, the shadow-woman was on her knees, and her head was on the breast of the shadow-man!—and ashamed to have watched so long, I hurried away and said to myself: “To-morrow I will go there, and sharp words shall not drive me away, until I learn by what route help can reach them!”
Next day I stood and rapped and rapped, but no one answered to my rapping. The house was very quiet, the room seemed empty, but when I carefully looked I saw a little smoke rising from the chimney. The following day the shade was down—I saw no smoke—but I was obstinate, and I went around to the back door and knocked there, and was instantly met by a white-faced “fury!”
“So,” she cried, “you have come to spy for them! Well, take them the news! Their work is done! They have no one now to fear—he’s gone! He that was greater than them all! Come!” dragging me by main force into the room and to the bed-room door: “See for yourself how he lies there, dead of slow starvation!” One forced glance I gave at the long, long, rigid outline on the bed, but even that forced glance caught, mockingly peeping from under the dead man’s pillow, a yellow-covered play-book.
Wrenching myself away from the sight, I turned, and putting my arms about her trembling, old body, I held her close and said: “Oh, you poor wife! you poor, poor wife!”