CHAPTER XXXIV.

TURK WEST'S APPEARANCE AT THE WEST-END THEATRE, AND ITS RESULTS.

Early in the morning I watched for an opportunity to endeavour to make peace with Jessie. My mother had been in great anxiety about me during the night, and had come down to my bedroom three or four times, whispering my name at the door; but I pretended to be asleep, and as the door was locked, she could not enter the room. I passed a sleepless night, and tossed about in bed, longing for daylight. When it came, I rose and commenced to work, and even in the midst of my great unhappiness I found comfort in it, for I loved it. At seven o'clock I heard my mother calling to me, and I opened my door.

'At work so soon, my dear!' she said, in a tone of exquisite tenderness.

I answered that I had a great deal of work in hand, and that it would not do for me to be idle. She sat by my side, and was saying meekly that her boy must not work too hard, but must take proper rest, when she broke down. Looking at her, I saw an expression of such yearning devotion in her pale face, such sweet and wistful love, that, softened for a moment, I laid my head on her shoulder, and sobbed quietly. Her tears flowed with mine.

'Ill could help you, dear child!' she murmured.

You cannot--you cannot,' I murmured in reply. Mother, Jessie must not go out this morning without my seeing her. I _must_ speak to her alone.'

Soon after breakfast, when uncle Bryan was in the shop, I heard her tell Jessie to wait in the parlour for a minute or two, and then I knew that Jessie was alone. I immediately opened my door, which led into the parlour, and stepped to Jessie's side. She did not look at me.

'I have come to ask you to forgive me,' I said.

'What have I to forgive?' she asked.

'You know,' I answered. 'What I said yesterday about Mr. Glover. I did not mean it, Jessie; I spoke in passion. It was cruel of me. Say that you forgive me, Jessie.'

'It was unjust as well as cruel,' she said; but I am not the only person you are cruel to. Do you know what time your mother came to bed this morning?'

'It was very late,' I said remorsefully.

'Have you any idea what she suffered while she waited up for you, Chris? Because you and I have quarrelled, is that a reason why you should be cruel to her?'

'I have been doubly wrong,' I said, 'but I have made my peace with her.'

'Yes, that is easy with such a nature as hers; mine is harder.'

'Still you forgive me; say that you forgive me, Jessie.'

'Yes, I forgive you,' she said coldly; 'not because you were unkind to me, for I deserve that, perhaps, but because you were unjust to me.'

I could extract nothing more than this from her, and I was fain to be satisfied. But I saw clearly enough that she was less cordial towards me than heretofore. The spirit that animated and sweetened our intercourse in the dear old days seemed to have fled, never to return. But I had something in my mind which, when carried out, might, I thought, be the means of reëstablishing myself in Jessie's favour. Her birthday was approaching; in a fortnight she would be eighteen years of age. From the day on which Jessie had given me, as a birthday present, the silver locket, with the words engraven on it, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love,' I had had many anxious consultations with myself as to what kind of gift I should give her on her birthday, and I had resolved that a gold Geneva watch and chain would be appropriate and acceptable. I had seen the very thing I wanted in a jeweller's shop, and the price asked for the pretty ornament--seven pounds--was not beyond my means, for I had been saving money for some time, and was now earning more than two pounds a week. On the very day on which Jessie and I made up our quarrel, I went to the jeweller's and purchased the birthday gift, and gave instructions that on the inside of the case should be engraven, From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love.' In my state of mind nothing less fervent would satisfy me. Being attracted by a plain ivory brooch, in the form of a true lover's knot, I purchased that also, and felt, as I did so, that that would complete our reconciliation. As I sat at my work after the transaction of this business, I thought of what had passed between me and Jessie when she gave me the silver locket, and I reproached myself very strongly for having uttered a word to give her pain. Was not the inscription, 'To Chris, with Jessie's love,' sufficient? I decided that it was, and I resolutely refused to harbour the words of Mr. Glover which came to my mind, to the effect that Jessie and I had been brought up as brother and sister, and that it was natural we should be fond of each other in that way. How, thought I, could I ever have been so mad as to entertain a doubt of Jessie? She was better than I, cleverer than I, and she saw faults in me which she wished to correct, and she was also naturally hurt at my suspicions of her. Well, I would never again suspect her; from this moment I would have the fullest faith in her goodness, her purity, her love. It was in this mood that I presented myself at Mr. Rackstraw's office, somewhat doubtful of the manner in which Jessie would receive me, but resolved to show her in every possible way how truly I loved her and what faith I had in her. Mr. Glover was there of course, and we all three walked together from the office. That I abased myself before him is true, and it is quite as true, notwithstanding the resolution I had formed, that I despised myself for so doing. Jessie looked at me thoughtfully, and seemed to be considering within herself whether she approved of my new mood. For this reason Mr. Glover found her a somewhat inattentive listener to his confidential utterances, the intervals between which he improved by talking to and at me on his pet theme--his character and good name. Before we had walked a mile, Jessie proposed that she and I should take an ..omnibus home, as she was tired, and Mr. Glover left us. On our way she told me that Mr. Rackstraw had offered her an engagement on the stage. Did she intend to accept it? I asked; and she said that she had deferred her answer until after her birthday.

'I wish with all my heart,' I said, that you were not going on the stage; not that there is any harm in it, Jessie, nor that there could be harm in anything you do, but because it seems as if it will take you away from us.'

'Do you think,' was the reply, 'that a woman has not an ambition as well as a man? If I have a talent--and I really think I have, Chris--why should I not turn it to good account? Besides, I have my plans. I owe money, Chris.'

To Mr. Rackstraw for your lessons. Well, I can pay that, Jessie. All that I have is yours, and you don't know how rich I am growing.'

'You are too good to me, Chris,' she said, giving me her hand, which I took and held close in mine beneath her mantle; in that moment all my trouble vanished, and a feeling of ineffable delight brought peace to my heart once more. Will nothing cure you?'

'Nothing will ever cure me of loving you,' I said, in a glad whisper. 'You would not wish that.'

She turned the subject.

'I owe other money as well. I owe a great deal to uncle Bryan; he is poor, and I should like to pay him. But we'll not talk of this any more just now, Chris; wait till my birthday comes.'

'You will have a secret to tell me then, Jessie.'

'Yes; I have thought a great deal lately of the letter I am to read for the first time on that day.'

'And you have never had the curiosity to open it, Jessie?'

'Oh yes, I have; but I have never opened it. I can be steadfast and faithful, Chris, as well as other people. Let us call in together and see Josey West.'

'Ah,' said that little woman, with a shrewd glance at us as we entered, so you two lovers have been making it up?'

'Don't be foolish, Josey,' exclaimed Jessie.

'How do you know we ever quarrelled?' I asked, in high spirits.

'How do I know that it will be night to-night, you meant to ask.

Because I'm crooked, you think I can't see things perhaps. Have you seen Turk?'

'No,' I answered.

'He has gone to your house to tell you something. I dare say he is waiting there for you. Here is a rose for you.'

I took and dropped it.

'Ah,' said the queer little creature, 'because a rose is pretty and fresh, and smells sweet, you think it can't prick you! There, get along with you, Mr. Wiseacre, and mind how you handle your roses for the future.'

Turk had great news to communicate. His chance had come. By a fortunate combination of circumstances, an opening had occurred in a West-end theatre, and he was to make his first appearance there on the ensuing Saturday night in the new play that had been written for him.

'It's a fluke, Chris, my boy, a fluke,' he said, walking up and down the room excitedly; 'a sensation piece that the lessee thought would be a great draw is a most complete failure, as it deserves to be. He must either fill his house with paper or play to empty benches, so he withdraws his sensation piece, and gives me a show. We came out without much of a flourish; but we shall astonish them, Chris, my boy. The simple announcement of a new play and a new actor at that theatre is sufficient to draw all the critics, and we shall have a great house and a great triumph. You shall come, Chris, my boy; you shall come to witness the effect I shall produce. You shall go into the pit; here is an order for you. I don't ask you to take a big stick with you--I scorn to solicit undeserved applause; but at the same time every friend is a friend, and what's the use of a friend if he isn't friendly, eh, Chris, my boy?--a word to the wise; you understand; there's no need of anything more betwixt _us_. The piece will be wretchedly put upon the stage; there will be no scenery to speak of; the stock actors who play the other parts will be--well, no better than they should be, Chris, my boy, and, in addition, they will not be disposed to regard with favour a man who is an actor, Chris, my boy, and who comes to break down vicious monopolies and vicious systems. But what matter these small drawbacks to Turk West? They daunt not him! Resolved to conquer, he goes in and wins. Turk's sun will rise on Saturday night, Chris, my boy, and ever after it will blaze--that's the word, sir, Chris, my boy--blaze refulgent, and all the lesser suns shall pale before it.'

'But if you should fail,' I suggested.

He glared at me in incredulous astonishment.

'There's no such word in Turk's vocabulary, Chris, my boy. The man who goes in with an idea that he will fail generally does fail, and deserves to fail. Is there any want of pluck in Turk West? Is there any want of stamina in him? No, no. It's no game of chance that he plays. On Saturday night next he throws double sixes. And after that he'll be able to serve his friends.'

Did his family know of it? I asked.

'Yes, they know of it,' he replied, and those who can come will be there--in different parts of the theatre, Chris, my boy, strangers to each other. And old Mac will be there, with an oak stick; it's an off night with him. Here are a couple more orders which you may like to give to _friends_,' with most significant emphasis on the last word.

I fully understood his meaning, and I gave the orders to persons who promised to applaud Turk on every available opportunity, and who, I have good reason for believing, basely betrayed their trust; but there are not more ungrateful persons in the world than those who go to a theatre without paying. The receipt of an order has a baleful effect upon them; it deadens their sense of enjoyment, and makes them miserably hypercritical. On the following Saturday I made my way to the West-end theatre in a state of great expectation and excitement. Meeting with a man in the streets who sold walking-sticks, I purchased the stoutest in his collection, and, thus armed, seated myself in the front of the pit, half an hour before the curtain rose. The theatre was quite filled before the performances commenced, and a fashionable company was assembled in the stalls and private boxes. I recognised several members of Turk West's family in different parts of the house, who stared at me stolidly, and made no response to my familiar nods. Debating with myself upon the reason of this, I came to the conclusion that they had resolved not to know any person on that night lest they might be set down as partisans of Turk, and thus tarnish the genuineness of his triumph. The conclusion was strengthened by the circumstance which I noted, that they seemed to be perfectly oblivious of each other's existence; but there was certainly a family likeness in the sticks they carried. Studying the playbill, I found that a piece of some importance would be played first, and that Turk would not make his appearance until past nine o' clock. I paid but little attention to the drama in which Turk was not; my stick was as indifferent as myself; and the other sticks witnessed this part of the performance in mute inglorious ease; nevertheless there was a good deal of applause when the curtain fell. About this time there straggled into the stalls and private boxes certain persons whom a communicative stranger who sat next to me, and who appeared to be a wonderful authority on all matters connected with the drama, pointed out as notabilities.

The critics were the most interesting persons in my eyes, and I stared at them with interest, and with some feeling of disappointment because they were so like ordinary mortals. I asked my neighbour what he thought of Mr. Turk West as an actor--when I mentioned the name of my friend, I consulted my playbill with the air of one to whom he was a stranger--and I learnt to my mortification that he had never heard of him. He did not seem to be very sanguine of the success of the new play or the new actor, and I was mean enough to agree with him. The title of the play was _Twice Wedded, or Torn Asunder_; and in due time the curtain rose for its introduction to the audience. I cannot undertake to describe it, for the reasons that a good deal of it was not heard, that the actors and actresses were imperfect in their parts, and that the story was so involved and mysterious as to baffle description. The heroine, it appeared, had been twice married--once, many years ago to Turk, who had been torn from his wife, for no assignable reason, on the wedding-day, and who was supposed to have died in battle (what battle, and why he went to battle, were not explained); and afterwards to a person whose identity I was not successful in discovering. Turk played two characters, an Irish servant and the first husband, who instead of dying in battle, as he should have done, had been confined in a madhouse, from which he had just made his escape. After a comic scene as the Irish servant, which was mildly tolerated by the audience, Turk came on in a high-peaked hat, a long cloak, and hessian boots, and hearing that his wife had married again, behaved in so mad a manner as to fully justify his long incarceration. Being a very short man, Turk's appearance in this costume was even in my eyes most ludicrous; no effort of imagination could have made a hero of him, and as (for the sake of contrast, I suppose, with his other character) he spoke in the most lugubrious tone, the audience went through various transitions of feeling. First, they were, as I have said, mildly tolerant; then they became impatient, then indignant, and then, there was something so really comic in the little man's despair, they hooted and laughed at him. Directly the feeling of derision came into play, even I knew that both Turk and his new and original drama were, in dramatic parlance, 'damned.' An unfortunate word which Turk used was taken up as a catchword by the audience, and they flung it at him with merciless enjoyment. They literally screamed with laughter when he was most serious, and even the critics threw themselves back in their seats and showed by their merriment (for critics are rarely merry) that they were tasting a new sensation. In vain the sticks rapped approval; in vain did Turk's friends endeavour to stem the current. The knowing man who sat next to me declared, as he wiped his eyes, that he would not have missed this first night for anything. It's the richest thing I've ever seen,' he said; and, like a coward as I was, I flung away Turk's colours, and basely murmured that it was the richest thing _I_ had ever seen. I was very sorry for poor Turk, and more so because he was so brave all through. He did not exhibit the slightest sign of discomposure at this miscarriage of his ambition, but faithfully spoke every word of his part, until the curtain finally fell amidst peals of laughter; and then the stage-manager came forward and stated that the new drama would _not_ be played again.

When I was out of the theatre, I was almost inclined to run away, for I felt that the verdict was a just one, and I was afraid that Turk might wish me to declare otherwise; but I liked him too well to desert him. I waited for him near the stage-door, and so did a few other of his friends, who seemed to regard their big sticks, as I did mine, with gloomy disgust. Turk soon made his appearance, and, to my surprise, with a cheerful countenance. Not a word was said about his failure. We adjourned to a neighbouring tap, and talked of anything but the drama. Old Mac was there, enjoying his toddy, but he did not at first join in the conversation. Turk, also, was silent. Suddenly old Mac burst out:

'Hang it, my sons, let's speak! Turk, you acted bravely. I was never prouder of my profession than I was to-night when I saw you go manfully and artistically through your part in defiance of the senseless howlings of the envious crew. If I could have broken all their heads with one blow of my stick--did you hear it going, Turk? I stuck to you, my son; I stuck to you like a man--I'd have done it! Dammee, I'd have done it, to see where the brains were. I'd have made a quarry with thousands of these quartered slaves as high as I could pick my lance! Thank you; I will. Another glass of whisky-toddy, miss--as before. As before!' Here old Mac drew the back of his left hand across his eyes, and holding out his right sympathisingly, said: 'Turk, my boy, drown dull care! A small piece of lemon, if you please, miss. Here's confusion to the rabble!'

'Now what's the use of beating about the bush?' demanded Turk, a little huskily. 'I'm not such an ass as not to see that I've made a failure. Is Turk West going to bury his head in the sand, like an ostrich, and refuse to see it? Not he! Well, I'm not the first, and sha'n't be the last. Pass me the pewter, Chris. It served me right. I ought to have taken more time; I ought to have gone on by degrees; I ought to have stuck to my last. I've had my lesson, and I mean to profit by it. Mac, old boy, you and I will never meet again at Philippi. I've had my dream, and it's over.'

'The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces!' murmured old Mac.

'It was all the fault of the piece,' said one. 'What audience could be expected to stand such a hash?'

'It wasn't all the fault of the piece,' retorted Turk manfully. 'We were both to blame. It isn't a first-rate piece. I can see that now; but there's merit in it, merit, my boy, although the subject is an unfortunate one. I've brought desolation upon more than one breast to-night.' He beat his own, and the action would have been ludicrous, but for the genuine tone in which he spoke. 'The author had set his all upon the hazard of the die, and I saw him rush from the side-wings, with the salt tears running down his face. What did I say I'd throw to-night, Chris, my boy? Double sixes? Well, I threw for both, and threw double blank. A nice bungler I am I! My mind's made up. Othello's occupation's gone! Turk West acts no more.'

'Nonsense, old fellow, nonsense!' his friends remonstrated. 'You'll think better of it.'

'I've said it,' cried Turk, with stern resolve. 'I act no more.'

'In that case,' said old Mac, in a tone of gloomy desperation, 'I'll take another glass of whisky-toddy. Little does the English stage know what it has lost this night!'