Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 3).djvu/192

 ness—overdoing it," he cried; "a drink of water—brandy—will set me right. Where's the bell-rope? Ah! there it is," and crawling towards the cord, across the room, he just managed to reach it when he fell to the ground.

When he awoke he lay in bed, the doctor standing by. He lifted his eyes towards those of the doctor.

"Why—why am I here? How long have I been here? Is this—is this the first night?" he asked.

"You have been here a few hours, that is all," was the doctor's reply. "Lie quite still—keep your hands in bed, now."

"Thank God! Thank God!" the man said, "I was afraid it was the first night. What's the matter with me? What's the matter with me? Why don't you answer? Don't look at me like that; answer me!"

"You have been doing too much lately—you are not strong."

"Not strong!"

"And nothing but perfect rest will bring you round again," the doctor said. "You have"

"What? what? Tell me quickly!"

"You have broken a blood-vessel."

The man looked at the doctor for a moment. Then he rose in his bed. His voice was scarcely discernible; it was cold and harsh: it was not the voice of the man whose tone had fascinated all its hearers. He looked the medical man wildly in the face. He asked, quietly at-first:

"Do you know what to-morrow night is? No; of course you don't. But I do. It is the first night of 'Hamlet,' and I shall be there—there, with the house before me, hanging on every word I utter. Do you think this bed will hold me from my triumph, do you think you, or the warning of any man, will prevent me from welcoming the hour of my success? Not strong! You don't know me. You are a stranger to my strength. Don't speak a word. I shall only ridicule your warning. I tell you, you don't know me. Take your hand away—take it away. What do you say? Rest—rest here, or I must—what! Die? Die! You talk madly. No, no, I shall live! Live in myself for years, live in the memory of all for ever. After to-morrow night! After to-morrow night! Give me a drink of water!"

With trembling hands the man refused the aid of the doctor, but lifted the glass to his lips and gulped down the contents. Hour after hour passed; the night had gone, and with the first signs of the approaching day the doctor—who had remained a faithful watcher all through the night—drew aside the window-curtains, and the light streamed in upon the man as he lay in his bed. It lit up the face of a man whose life was fast going. He looked almost pitifully towards the doctor.

"I shall be there to-night, eh?" he asked. "I mustn't disappoint them, doctor. Let me run through my lines with you. Do! There is my Shakespeare—there, on that table by the window. It was my mother's gift. Bring it to me carefully."

The doctor silently did as he was bid. He knew that he was obeying the wishes of one for whom he could not do much more. When he turned his head he saw