The Smart Set/Volume 19/Issue 4/The Hero's Crown

ARMY played the white-haired father in “The Whirlwind of Sin.” Marmy's people were scarcely in the “legitimate”; Marmy referred to them as being in the “All Frisky” line, or, as less untrammeled spirits termed it, the “Al Fresco.” They had pitches out of doors in the Summer, and gave modest entertainments in which the whole family appeared, so Marmy was rather looked down on by those who came of true “professional” stock. Still, he was wonderfully enthusiastic, and threw himself into his part with refreshing simplicity and heartiness. Indeed, if it had not been for the loose, untidy nature of his build, he might have been drawing his two pound ten a week as hero, instead of being doomed to white-haired fathers, where a shambling walk is permissible, and even popular; and if it seem hard that people should be blessed with heroes' hearts and cursed with bony hands, let me assure you that Marmy was perfectly contented, and had never had an ambition in the world, except perhaps on one occasion; and then, if Marmy had been handsome and a gentleman—but there! Romances aren't as simple in real life as they are upon the stage; and so Marmy's romance was hardly a romance at all. What little there was took place at Hayfields.

“The Whirlwind of Sin” had had the good luck to get a three nights' bill at the theatre there, because “The Sorrows of Satan” had proved a disappointment, and it was a choice of “The Whirlwind” or closing the house.

How a theatre had ever come to be at Hayfields no one knew, for it was the sleepiest little town imaginable; all the tradespeople were in bed at ten, and the country people had no taste for the drama, though, as Marmy pathetically put it, “You'd have thought they'd have been glad to go to anything in such a quiet place!” Still, any theatre gives distinction to a fit-up tour which roams from hall to hall, and the company saved up their correspondence carefully, till they could use the theatre address, as a heading, carelessly.

“The Whirlwind of Sin” had not proved a very lucrative investment, and the advance agent had been left behind several towns before, so that the company had to find rooms as best they could; and they patrolled the deserted streets on Sunday evening for some time before they could find an anchorage. Now, Marmy never spent his money with undue recklessness; he had Scotch blood in his veins which he had to thank for other things than boniness, and at last he found a landlady who agreed to take him and the baggageman for sixpence each per night, sitting-room and bedroom inclusive.

They were standing at the door, haggling for terms—and Marmy says he's pretty sure he should have got her down to sixpence for the two—when Marmy's romance began.

Down the High street came a dashing pair of horses, and behind them sat a young woman, whom Marmy described as a sort of queen. It wasn't her beauty so much as her air of breeding that conquered Marmy. Her face was very pale, but without a suspicion of powder, and her hair was a natural brown, and she was dressed very quietly, so that Marmy could recollect no detail of her attire; but the way in which she held her head made every other woman Marmy had ever spoken to seem low-born to him. This beautiful young creature looked Marmy straight in the eyes as her carriage passed, and Marmy believes she smiled at him, though I'm not sure but that Marmy is a little fanciful here; for though Marmy was fully satisfied with the frock-coat which he had picked up in one of the towns on tour for eighteen-pence, still his Panama hat and large bow tie detracted from the air of smartness that one could wish for in a gentleman on Sunday.

However, whatever passed between the young woman and Marmy caused him such agitation that he closed with the landlady on the spot, and by the end of the evening Marmy had made himself a byword in the town, through the way in which he wandered up and down the High street, watching out, though vainly, for her carriage. He displayed the same persistency through the following day, and the sight of his back as he stood on the stage with his eyes at a hole in the curtain made even the baggageman feel sorry for him.

What with the state of the business, which was shocking, and the continual suspense and disappointment, Marmy's temper became somewhat soured, and when, on the third and last day of his visit, he found the landlady had had the impudence to make up a bed for a perfect stranger in the sitting-room, that he and the baggageman were paying for, and actually met the stranger coming out as they went down to breakfast, words ran high.

Words ran so very high that it came to a question of going on the spot, and then the landlady tried to charge them a shilling extra for the use of gas and firing, which Marmy rightly considered an extortion. In fact, Marmy's passionate disposition and hatred of injustice caused him to leave the house that moment in a most awful state of excitement, without paying a penny; the only thing which comforted him being that he had had the best of the argument, which, by the bye, I noticed Marmy generally had. But there was some conversation about police stations which was rather personal than pleasant, and as the landlady was an old and well-known resident, Marmy was distinctly doubtful as to his reception on the stage that night.

The baggageman went off to seek a lodging, and Marmy hung about the High street till the landlady's little boy returned from school, and, unfortunately, recognized him. It is never easy to discourage children, especially when clad in garments which are, to say the least, theatrical in cut; and when the child became emboldened by the advent of sundry little friends, Marmy soon found himself making for the quiet of the country lanes surrounding Hayfields, and it was only by dint of walking very fast and continually doubling, that he managed at last to shake off his pursuers.

The road on which he stood ran along the hillside; then it twisted, and came back into the valley underneath. He raised his eyes and looked dejectedly along the road twisting up among the bracken-fern and gorse bushes to the distant sky-line. Then, as he watched, mournful, despondent, the sharp sound of wheels came to him, and over the crest of the hill bowled a dog-cart, with the young woman he had seen in the High street seated in it. The horse was dashing along so quickly that Marmy had only time to grasp the bewildering fact that it was really she, before she had borne down on him and passed him. She was sitting up very proudly and holding the reins with perfect confidence, though Marmy observed at the time there was no groom behind; but she flew by so quickly that he was conscious only of a passionate desire to see her again, and in some way to attract her notice. The whole thing occurred so suddenly that before he knew what he was doing he found himself racing down, across the meadow, to the lower road along which the cart would have to pass in the next few minutes. He had some idea of asking the way to the nearest station, and even of hinting at a sprained ankle; but he owns this plan was vague.

Anyway, he had tumbled down the hill, and was over the fence and standing by the roadside when the cart came tearing round the bend, and then, even Marmy, for all his amazing foolishness, saw that the horse was out of hand, and was running away. When the young woman saw Marmy standing there, she thought he had seen her danger from the first, and had dashed down the hill to save her; and according to Marmy, the most beautiful look of rapture came over her face, and if she didn't call out to him to help her, it was only because she had such complete confidence that he would do it.

Marmy has owned since that if he had had time to think, he never could have brought himself to touch that horse, for it was snorting and biting the air till it seemed more like a raging lion than a domestic animal; but the young woman sat so confident and calm, and looked at him in such a trustful way, that he could no more stop himself from throwing himself upon the horse's head than he could have stopped himself from shouting in the theatre the impassioned climax of his great speech about his daughter's shame! He says it felt for all the world as if the orchestra were playing and the whole house hanging on his accents, and the only touch of reality about the situation was a distinct feeling of annoyance that there were no people in sight to witness his heroic deed!

But such is the surprisingness of life, that Marmy caught on to the horse's head, and what is more surprising still—for horses were as much a mystery to Marmy as unborn babes—the horse was actually impressed by Marmy's bluff, and stopped. It was such a wonderful moment that, Marmy says, even before he released the panting steed—and you may be sure he got away from the animal as soon as he possibly could—he found himself pinching himself to see if it was really real. Then, as he stepped back, the hedgerows wavered, and the skies descended, and he felt the ground slip quietly from his feet, and he fell down on the grass right under the nose of the young woman. The heavenly providentialness of this amazes Marmy to this day; for if it had not happened, nothing could have saved him from having to drive the lady home, which, Marmy says, he does not see how he could have done, having had a mortal fear of driving ever since his best friend was run away with and the trap smashed to pieces, and the friend was rushed for a sovereign to pay for the damage, to Marmy's own knowledge, his friend having borrowed from him for the purpose.

When Marmy recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on the grass, with a sharp piece of flint in the middle of his back, and the lovely young woman bending over him.

“How can I thank you, most noble and brave of all the men I ever see?” said the young woman, according to Marmy.

“Don't mention it,” said Marmy feebly, and trying to wriggle off the flint.

“You are killed,” said the young woman. “Speak! Tell me you are not seriously injured!”

“Only a slight faintness,” said Marmy, even in that agitating moment remembering to seem to be battling against fearful pangs.

However, the young woman, who was not versed in the ways of heroes, took his word for it, and from what I can make out, for Marmy slurs over this part as being tedious, mounted the cart and said, “May I ask the name of my brave preserver?”

“Marmaduke Paget,” said Marmy, giving his stage name, as is the custom.

“Paget!” said the young woman. “Not one of the Tranby Pagets?”

“Cousins!” said Marmy, still dizzy, so he says, with the shock; “my father's cousins,” said Marmy, going on lying, now he'd started. “I've had reverses!”

“Poor, poor fellow!” said the young woman, and, to poor, foolish Marmy's rapture, asked if she might have the pleasure of driving him to her home to luncheon, as she would like her aunt to meet him and thank him.

And then Marmy's troubles began. The groom came running along the road at this moment, and touched his hat as he came up; and what with Marmy's fearing to touch his hat back, as being too familiar, and not liking to offend the man by taking no notice of him, his state of nervousness was pitiable. In the end he bowed coldly and smiled warmly as a compromise, which, of course, turned out to be wrong, as he saw by the young woman's look of surprise and the funny pink color that came over the face of the groom.

This disconcerted Marmy at the start and the young woman's kindness did not in the least improve the position, for she talked about millions of relations of whom Marmy had never heard, and asked why he hadn't made himself known to this uncle or to that aunt, to all of which Marmy could only keep on saying he had been too proud. Her tone became so pitying at last, that Marmy had to tell her things were not quite so bad with him as she imagined; and let her know that he had played parts at His Majesty's Theatre, not mentioning that the “parts” consisted of the hind legs of an elephant.

“And, after all, one has the satisfaction of mixing with ladies and gentlemen when one goes on the stage,” said Marmy rather haughtily, for, as he says, the way she had been talking, he might have been a sandwich man. But to Marmy's never-solved wonder, this remark had the most extraordinary effect on her, and she never spoke another word all the way home, and though that was a short distance, Marmy says the silence was appalling.

But if he had known what was in store for him at the Hall, uncomfortable as were his feelings in the dog-cart, he would have remained in it till the crack of doom! He says the sight of the place was enough to turn you sick as you drove up to it. Tall marble pillars, from what I can make out, for Marmy varies this, formed a colonnade in front, and a long flight of steps led up into a lofty hall which Marmy describes as being in the style of the hall at the British Museum, only colder. Marmy seems to recollect serried rows of equerries and footmen standing about the hall, and a stern old gentleman in black, who approached effusively, and whom Marmy took for the young woman's uncle.

“This gentleman has saved my life,” said the young woman quickly, as the old gentleman drew back, rather stiffly; “I have brought him home to luncheon.” And I have no doubt she knew by that time she had done a foolish thing.

“Yes, miss,” said the butler. You can imagine Marmy's feelings when the person to whom he had offered his hand so affably turned out to be a servant.

“Housekeeper's room, miss?” said the butler, looking at Marmy rather doubtfully, as if wondering if he were quite up to the housekeeper's standard.

Then came the most awful moment of all. Marmy says the young woman distinctly hesitated. Marmy stood there, feeling more hot and uncomfortable—and yet at the same time raging—than he can describe; and, judging from what I know of Marmy, I should say he looked it, for he was never easy at the best of times. Perhaps the young woman saw his unhappiness; she looked at him for another moment, and then said very proudly to the butler, “This gentleman will dine with us!” and they went off to the dining-room, followed by the butler and a glassy stare.

The meal that followed was, in Marmy's own words, “a record breaker in the anguish line.” They had every single delicacy of the season that was difficult to eat. There were green peas so small and soft that it was absolutely impossible to place them on a fork in sufficient quantities to enjoy them. There was asparagus which, Marmy says, they ate with clippers. He battled with them for some time, trying to fix a piece between them, but whenever he had raised it halfway to his mouth the piece fell out; and after he had kept the aunt—a stately lady—and the young woman sitting toying with their bread, for over ten minutes, he gave it up and told the footman it always gave him indigestion, which, considering it was the first asparagus he had seen that season, he himself thought sounded feeble.

Of course they had every sort of meat and fish that had the most awkward bones in, but the extraordinarily puzzling nature of the morsels that were brought to him, he could only put down to malice on the part of a red-headed young footman with whom he had had a few words at the beginning.

It seems that Marmy had begun by serving himself when the dishes were first handed to him, till he suddenly found this was not the course the aunt and the young woman were pursuing. Then he followed their example and sat still when the next dish was offered him, and the malicious young footman pretended to think that this meant Marmy wanted nothing. When it came to green peas, Marmy told the footman what he thought of him, and passed a remark or two to the aunt and the young woman as to what servants were coming to. To which, he said, the aunt shammed deaf!

They ended with cherry tart, and that finished Marmy; he didn't attempt it.

Long and luxurious as was the meal, he never had a really hearty mouthful of anything, and it was fortunate that fright and nervousness had taken his appetite away. He daren't even take a sip of wine to cheer him up, he was so afraid of its getting into his head and making him act foolishly.

Toward the end of luncheon, no one seems to have talked much. The young woman and her aunt sat looking at their plates, for which Marmy was thankful, as it gave him more time for mastering the awkward joints the footman put before him. They dropped the topic of his relations at a very early stage; though whether this was due to suspicion or natural dullness, Marmy could not say. Beautiful and highborn as the ladies undoubtedly were, Marmy was forced to own he had never met worse conversationalists. After luncheon they gave Marmy an excellent cigar, and asked him if he'd like a stroll around the grounds, but he said he must get off home, he was afraid; and so they ordered the dog-cart.

The nightmare feeling quickened into realistic agony in one more anguished moment before he left; they came on to the steps to see him off, and it flashed upon him that they were contemplating a reward of money. He threw as much dignity as he could into his voice and general manner, and just managed to keep them off; but the sting remained. The young woman made some very charming remarks about owing her life to him, and if she ever could do anything at any time, would he let her know?—to which Marmy begged her very politely not to mention it. He thought afterward of several clever speeches that he might have made.

Marmy says he drew his first natural breath when he had ascended to the front seat of the dog-cart, and was driving off beside the groom who had been thrown out in the morning. Marmy asked after his injuries and that gave a good opening for conversation, which then flowed on unbrokenly until they reached the town. The groom proved a most intelligent young man, and said the whole town should have been there to witness Marmy's heroism. To which Marmy answered, as was proper, that he had only done his duty as an English gentleman.

When they arrived at Hayfields, Marmy directed the groom to drive up to the principal hotel, as he thought he could stand about in the porch in a careless manner till the dog-cart had driven off; but he had scarcely descended when the Boots came out to ask if he wanted anything, and though Marmy asked him haughtily not to give him any cheek, he had the humiliation of seeing the groom listening, open-mouthed. As Marmy strode off down the street he saw the groom was getting down, and he knew the Boots would enlighten him fully as to the extent of Marmy's patronage of the hotel.

I don't think there could have been a more dejected creature than Marmy when he came into the theatre that night. He sat on the edge of his basket in the wings, and listened to the overture in a dreamy stupor. The memory of that awful luncheon, and the uncertainty as to how many of the landlady's friends would turn up that evening, had caused his spirits to ebb to zero. I do not think all actors would have had the pluck to deliberately face a guying, but Marmy was an honest, conscientious person, and it would never have entered his head to leave the manager in a hole; besides which he sent half his money home to his people every week, and a night's stoppage was a serious affair. Yet it needs pluck to face an unfriendly audience, and I am not sure but that Marmy was something of a hero, after all.

It was an extraordinary evening. I have seen plays fall flat, but I have never seen one fall so flat as that first act did. Marmy did not appear until the second act; and the hero's lofty sentiments passed absolutely unnoticed. The villain wasn't hooted, or even jeered at; the funny man was utterly ignored. The company had played to silence, and very painful that is; but they had never played to such ghastly silence as they did that night.

After the first act, the hero-manager turned round on the stage to ask what in thunder was the matter.

“It's a riot,” said Marmy, sitting on his basket, very white and sickly. “I think they're going to lynch me.”

“You!” said the manager, staring at him loftily.

“It's a stout, red-faced woman as is the leader,” said Marmy. “She came in with a small boy and a large party on orders.”

“There's not an order in the house,” said the manager. “We've turned money away!”

This left the company in such a gasping condition that even Marmy could not answer for a moment, and as the orchestra piano was tinkling out the last melancholy bars, Marmy had to take up his cane and handkerchief and make ready to appear. He was disclosed sitting in the garden of his parsonage, and directly the curtain drew up there rose such a shout from the audience that it made poor Marmy think he must be dreaming. He sat blinking his eyes at them for a moment, scarcely understanding what it meant. Then he caught sight of the groom sitting in the front row of the circle hurrahing like one mad; and there came over Marmy's face a look of rapture and surprise that was one of the most pitiful things I have ever seen. And he then broke down altogether, and stood there like a great, awkward baby, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and bowing with as much dignity as possible. That made the audience even more enthusiastic, and they cheered and waved and shouted like people possessed; for the groom had told the story at the hotel, and spread it through the town, just as he had heard it from Marmy's own lips; and as the young woman was the lady of the manor and absolutely idolized, the townspeople could not make enough of Marmy's heroism.

I have never seen Marmy act as he did that night. Every word he uttered was cheered to the echo, and he had an encore of the anguished speech about his daughter's shame; while the scene at the fall of the curtain was enough to make the company delirious with envy. The audience was not content with hooting back everyone who came in front, and calling vociferously for Marmy, but when at last Marmy did appear—and the delay was through no fault of his own but entirely that of the hero-manager—the mayor stood up and made a speech on Marmy's daring, and handed him a purse containing eight pounds ten, as a token of the townspeople's gratitude.

I don't think Marmy quite enjoyed the purse, though the mayor alluded to it very tactfully, as part of the “hero's crown.” He said he was simply longing to throw it back into the audience for the poor of the town; but he had to think of his mother and people, the All Frisky business being none too lively at the best of times, and so he took the purse, but very awkwardly he did it.

“The Whirlwind of Sin” departed from Hayfields on the morrow, and he never heard of the young woman again, except that she prevented the full account of the accident from appearing in the Hayfields paper, which the mayor had promised should be done. Still, Marmy had had his hero's crown.