Garrick's Pupil Part 12

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, a.s.sisted 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 n.o.bleman 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 cla.s.sic 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 _a 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 pa.s.sed 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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d's pardon for indulging in such frivolous thoughts.

This was the reason why, on this particular evening, she had scarcely noticed Mr. Fisher's subst.i.tute, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 antic.i.p.ates 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 n.o.bleman 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 a.s.suredly 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 elegantes_ 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 _role_, 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 ma.s.ses 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 cla.s.sical 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."