Part 7

I felt glad I had brought my cloak, for it was cold, very cold, and I would have been almost numb without it. I knew by the position of the moon that it must be somewhere near eleven o’clock. I sat up, shivered a little, drew my wrap closer about me and reached out one hand for the oars—when suddenly, midway in the action, I held it suspended, motionless! Sometimes there is nothing so startling as the sound of a human voice. I heard two men talking. For an instant I was paralyzed. My boat lay close beside one of these little knolls of land I have described. I could have put out my arm and touched the rank sword-grass that grew along its border. I did catch hold of it and noiselessly drew my skiff nearer, into a kind of curve, so that, though I was on the bright side, the overhanging brambles threw me into shadow, and another skiff, passing by, would hardly have detected me, when instantly I found that the men were not on the water. A cold terror crept over me. They were distant scarcely three yards. I could not see them, but I could almost feel the underbrush crackling beneath their feet. They evidently, though, had no knowledge of my presence, and I, not daring to stir, fairly held my breath. They seemed to be removing something from the ground and transferring it to their boat which, as I supposed, lay upon the other side. I could hear them lift and carry, what, I did not know. It sounded sometimes like stones falling with a partially muffled thud when they put them down. One of the men in a rough voice said, with a loud, harsh laugh, evidently resting for a moment,—

“This repays for lots o’ trouble! That was a neat slip we gave ’em all to-night. By —— I’m glad to be quit o’ the place! Its ——”

“Be quiet can’t you!”

My heart, at a single bound, leaped into my mouth. In these few words, spoken low and stern, I instantly recognized the voice. It was father’s. The other man did not reply, but muttered a half intelligible curse. They were both in the boat now, for I heard the plash of their oars. Presently father said, in a sharp, quick tone,—

“Take care! Sit down, sit down I tell you!”

Again the man muttered something between his shut teeth. The next moment they came round into the light and passed me, pulling hard. Then I recognized the thick-set, burly figure that I had seen last night. He was in the stern of the boat, and I saw his face again, the same repulsive face, but with a sullen scowl upon the brutish features.

They were heavily loaded and rowed slowly. They had got well past me when I heard father say something; what, I did not understand; but the man, dropping his oars, turned his head and replied, savagely,—

“Look’e yer! You’ve did nothin’ but boss, an’ boss, an’ I’m tired o’ it! This yer’s as much mine as yourn, and by —— I’d jes as lief make it all mine!”

Quick as the movement of a cat he changed his position, facing round to father. Quicker still, he stooped and caught up something in his hand that by the glint of the moonlight explained their heavy load, and all the mystery which had been hanging over father’s actions. It was a rough, jagged piece of silver ore. He raised his powerful arm and struck father with it on the head. He struck him two or three times. I screamed. There was a dreadful struggle, and at the same second that I saw the gleam of father’s pistol I heard its report. The man raised up his huge figure for an instant, wavered, and fell back heavily with a cry like a wounded tiger. The boat, without capsizing, tilted beneath the shock, filled with water, and went down like a stone.

I absolutely do not know how I pushed out from my hiding-place, but with two or three swift strokes I was on the spot. For an instant there was most frightful silence. I can see the waves widening their circle yet. Then, right at my boat’s head, father came to the surface. I was made strong by the energy of desperation.

With a wild, straining reach I leaned over and caught him by the arm, and with the other hand I rowed backward towards the knoll. I would have capsized and gone down rather than have let go my grasp. I was within a skiff’s length of the little island when just at my side I saw the huge form of the miner come up. He struggled and made one mighty effort to catch hold of my boat. No more terrible can the faces of the damned look than this face that glared up at me from the water. It has haunted me waking and sleeping. God forgive me, I could do nothing else! I struck him with the flat side of my oar. Evidently weakened by loss of blood, exhausted and nearly gone, he fell back and sank almost instantly from sight.

I worked round to a place where there was only grass growing, and catching by it drew close to its border. I could never have lifted father up but that he was sensible and could help himself somewhat. I got him on the ground, and from the ground into my boat. Then he fainted.

His head was terribly wounded. I knew I had no time to waste. I was afraid he would die in the coming hours before I could reach assistance. I rubbed his hands. I loosened and took off some of his wet clothing. I folded my cloak over him carefully and seized the oars. Inspired by my strange burden with a strength superhuman, my boat shot swiftly almost as if it had been propelled by steam. But the east was already brightening again with Indian colors when I reached the wharf at last, at last!

They raised him softly and carried him up to the house. I paid no attention to their thousand questions. I do not know what I said—I said it was an accident.

In the weeks of his long fever and delirium, I watched over him day and night. He did not die. He came back to life. How many times I had wondered would he be kind, would he be gentle to me now? Ah, poor father! He was never harsh to any one after that.

When the people came and spoke to him, he would laugh a gentle, meaningless laugh, and sometimes, holding to me tight, he would point to a button or color on their dress and say,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

He grew well and strong again, but it had shattered his mind forever.

How he had avoided the officers at the tower in carrying away the precious metal which he had secreted from time to time, I do not know, but they suspected nothing. I held utter silence about the incident, and if the people did connect the missing miner with his mysterious “accident,” what was there to do? They pitied me that he was simple. Shall I say it? Perhaps it was better so. A strange, new joy came to me, as every day I saw the pale eyes, innocent now as those of a child, follow me about with a grateful look. He was easily managed, and he seemed to cling to me with an affection that would atone for the long blank in the past.

I waited until the bitter Winter had gone by, and the first steamer came in the Summer.

What would become of us in the big, untried city? I had my youth, I had my health.

I stood upon the deck of the great vessel and saw this mere speck of land recede in the distance. Father, standing by my side, touched my arm, and holding out his open hand, said,—

“Pretty, pretty!”

There was a shell in it clean and white, and he looked up at me and smiled.

Yes, better so, it was better so!

He had gone there a man, strong and wicked. By the strange mysteries of Providence, he came from it a child, weak and innocent, with a soul white as the shell which for the moment he cherished in his simple delight.

When next I raised my eyes, only the cold waters of Lake Superior washed the horizon, and Silver Islet had vanished from my sight forever.

BOYDELL, THE STROLLER.

He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a “first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position.

Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision.

I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.

Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.

But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and his fine address added to the impression he created of eminent respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left with a dignified bow.

Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear us _en route_ for the West.

In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage, and told him I would send for it immediately.

“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my baggage.”

While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find something which might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over.

But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct the _soubrette_, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house, _Madame_, _la mere_, came out and informed me that her daughter could not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without a _soubrette_? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars.

Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling expenses, and got into pretty good working order.

When we arrived at St. Joseph we gathered up all our strength, and came out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we were all greatly delighted.

Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to tell of the particular _rôles_ in which he or she had, in days gone by, electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection. It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man” was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet _rôle_, and at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh flame.

“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has never been to my mind rightly given.”

Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed.

The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar. In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable.

Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in breathless expectation.

He started out with dramatic gesture,—

“‘The man who sets his heart upon a woman Is a chameleon, and doth feed on air— On air—air—’”

Suddenly his voice grew fainter, and his sentences incoherent. Those few moments he had spent in “steadying his nerves” had taken every line of the text from his memory. He could barely keep upon his feet and blunder through his part with thick voice and uncertain step. He was fully aware of his powerless condition, and came off with a moody, crestfallen countenance.

When the curtain finally dropped, as it was Monday night, they all assembled to receive their salary. Boydell stood a little apart from the others, leaning against a flat. One of the boys came forward and delivering a long, elaborate speech in the name of all the members, presented Boydell with a tin snuff-box to hold his wardrobe—“As a token of their appreciation of the great ‘hit’ he had made, and the glory it would reflect upon the troupe.”

That night Boydell, from some unknown source, had scraped up two shillings.

He could take twice the quantity of liquor that would intoxicate any other man, and beyond a redness of the nose and a flushed glistening appearance about the “gills,” he manifested no symptom of intemperance. He had a trick of using his hand as a shield around the glass and pouring in whisky to the very brim, so he always got a double drink for one price. When the boys asked him why he held the tumbler in that peculiar manner, “It was habit,” he said, “merely habit.” I remember at Lawrence, Kansas, they had unusually small glasses, and he went into a logical discussion with the bar-keeper to show the evil of the thing. It was wrong; it looked mean; it would ruin his custom. Not that he (Boydell) cared; it was nothing to him, it was only the _principle_ he objected to; it appeared penurious.

Boxing, I found, was the one thing—aside from his acting—upon which Boydell prided himself. If he heard of a person about the neighborhood who made any pretentions in this respect, he would walk miles through rain or mud to vanquish the “presumptuous fool.” I could not keep from feeling interested in this singular man. Reared in the English colleges, with the polish of the classics upon him, destined and trained for the British army, he had given it all up for this worthless, roving, vagabond life. And yet—although degraded, intemperate, and often profane—there was still a natural reserve about Boydell that commanded respect.

Our expenses had been steadily increasing, and our finances did not prove equal to the demand; at least they would not justify a longer run. We played two weeks at Leavenworth City, and disbanded, scattering in all directions.

I went home to M—— with a feeling of unutterable relief. My theatrical experience had brought me to the determination of letting the stage alone for the present, or trying it in a different capacity. Devoting my whole time to a more lucrative business, I heard nothing about any of the old troupe, and I did not care to see one of them again, unless it was Boydell. I had little hope of ever meeting him; it would be mere chance if I did, and I knew he might just as likely now be in Europe or Australia as in this country. But we were destined once more to come in contact.

M—— was a flat, muddy, thriving little town in Western Illinois. It had built a theater, and was a focus for strolling actors and adventurers—a kind of center, where the remnant of theatrical troupes that had come to grief straggled in to recruit. The citizens did not consider this a very distinguishing characteristic to boast of, but in reality it was what raised the place out of oblivion; otherwise its few thousand inhabitants might, like their neighbors, have lived for ever in obscurity.

Early last Summer a business engagement took me to the suburbs of this town. The atmosphere was clear as crystal and glittering with sunshine. The cherries hung dead-ripe upon the trees; the blackbirds chattered about them to each other with red-stained bills, and the cats, stretched lazily in the sunshine, watched the winged robbers with no charitable feelings. The leaves, if they were thirsty, complained but gently, and in the dry and pleasant fields the grasshoppers, without flagging, held a jubilee, and from the level pastures farther off came the sound of distant bells, and sometimes, close by the roadside, the farmers whetted their scythes.

Coming towards me a man upon the turnpike was approaching the town on foot. As we neared each other, old recollections came back upon me. Yes, that tall erect figure seemed familiar—it was Boydell coming into M—— from parts unknown.

The same coat I had seen do such good service, only a little shinier now, was buttoned over the same—no, it was likely another piece of paper muslin. On his feet were a pair of shoes, a present undoubtedly, which lacked a size or more in length; but this trouble had been remedied by cutting out the counters, and strapping down his pantaloons to cover his naked heels. The fact that I knew his high silk hat, the one of olden times, had lost its crown, was owing entirely to the elevation I gained by being on horseback. Under other circumstances it would never have been discovered, for the edges were trimmed smoothly round, and Boydell, as I said, was tall.

And so I met him again, the same courtly vagabond, the same Boydell of former days. His bearing was majestic, almost regal; his dress was—a respectable shell. But there seemed to be a change, too. He did not look any older, although I noticed a little silver had sprinkled itself through his thick waving hair since we had parted, but there was something about his eyes that did not appear natural, and a tired, a weary expression sat upon his face—an expression I had never seen there before. Perhaps he had walked many miles.

I looked after him as he went on towards the town, thinking what an unsettled, wild, worthless life he led, this man with the divine gift of genius, this vagrant with the clinging air of gentility. Maybe fate was against him; maybe he really had higher aspirations; but without friends, without home, the cold, unsympathetic world had crushed them; and still watching, it suddenly entered my head how easily I could guess the contents of his coat-tail pocket!

Some little time after this meeting, when Boydell had almost passed out of my mind, a gentleman called at my office, and during our conversation told me about a case of destitution that had accidentally come to his knowledge. At first I listened with well-bred indifference, for the experience I had acquired thoroughly cured all my philanthropic symptoms with which I had once been afflicted, but when he related the circumstances my interest awakened.

A man, a stranger, had stopped at the tavern on the suburbs of the town and fallen sick. He had no money, no friends, indeed he had not even a shirt to his back, and the landlord threatened to turn him out, utterly helpless as he was. I suddenly thought of Boydell, and inquired the man’s name. My friend could not recall it, but said he represented himself as an actor; though the landlord did not place much reliance on this statement, for the fellow had no wardrobe of any description, and the only thing in his possession was a scratch wig, which a black-leg would be as likely to own as an actor. This dispelled what little doubt had remained in my mind. It was Boydell, and something must be done at once for his relief.

Generosity does not prevail in any profession to a greater extent, especially among the lower members, than it does in the dramatic. As it was the hour for rehearsal, we went up to the theater. We told of Boydell’s condition, and I related what I knew of his history. One appeal was sufficient; the contribution they made up would at least relieve his present wants.

There, at the tavern, we found him in a stupor. Neglected, without the barest necessities, he had had no medical attendance of any kind. In a room high up under the roof he was lying across a broken bedstead, on a worn-out husk mattress, with nothing to shade him from the fierce, blazing sun or the crawling flies that kept up a loud, incessant buzz. And he had been sick eight days. On the floor old Mounse had crammed himself into the one shady corner.