“Yes,—the only one left,” and the voice fell as he stooped and kissed her uplifted face.
“You were saying that the manager raised your salary after the little fracas about your wife?”
“Ah! yes, he did, and we went on very well for some time. I began to find I was not a star. Once or twice I went up to London and heard some of the best men, and found that I could not equal them. I don’t know a more painful sensation, sir, than that attendant on the discovery of the limit of your powers. Every man not blinded by conceit, who is over thirty, must have felt this. There is a limit to our powers; other men have more—some less, but still it is very painful to feel conscious that the eminence that man has attained to whom you are listening, is beyond you. Young men—very young men—feel that what man has done man can do. It does not last. Most men at thirty know their pace well enough to tell them that they will be in the ruck of the race of life.
“Well, some few years after I was married, this conviction came to me—I knew I could never be a star—a great actor. It was not in me. I was simply a respectable one. I could take any part, and do that part so that I was not laughed at; but there I was stopped. I could go no further. I never could raise the enthusiasm of my audience. They listened and did not disapprove; but when I played a leading part, the boxes did not let and the pit was not full. I could not help it, you know. I can safely say I never went on without knowing every word of the part. I was always correct, and in the second and third parts did well. Stars liked me. They used to come down for the benefits occasionally, and used to say, ‘Let me have Gowling with me; he’s a safe man, never too forward,—no clap-trap with him—he’s not showy, but he’s safe.’ Now, you see, praise is a good thing, but when a man has dreamed for ten years or so that he is to be the star of the theatrical world, it is rather hard to wake up and find a star of no very great magnitude telling him he’s a very good background to show that star’s light. Ah me! those hopes of youth,—how the large bud brings forth but the little flower!”
“Still, Mr. Gowling, it was something not to have failed utterly. There must be backgrounds, you know, and there must be second parts as well as first.”
“True, sir, true; and human nature soon adapts itself to circumstances. Three months after I knew I was no genius, the ambition to be one left me. I was content to do my part and enjoy life. I had four children—three boys and one girl. That’s her child—poor little thing.” And he stroked the head of little Alice caressingly while she played with the buttons on his coat.
“The boys, of course, we tried to make useful in the profession. Christmas was a family harvest,—all were busy then—all making money. You know that the profession is not favourable to health. The excitement—particularly to children—soon wears them out. I know, often and often, I’ve seen my boys as imps and that kind of thing, and felt the life was too fast for them. Late at night, to go from the hot theatre into the cold night air, was a sad trial to the constitution, and children are not old men. You cannot persuade boys of twelve and fourteen that they ought to wrap their throats, and not run out into the cold at night. We could not, and we lost two of the three boys within a year of each other. Lung-disease, the doctor said. It carries off a good many of those children, you see, in the Christmas pantomimes. I often wonder whether the house thinks of those kind of things.”
“And the other children?”
“The boy left our company when he was about eighteen, and joined another as second gentleman. He was as good an actor as his father, and no better. He thought he was a genius, poor boy, as his father had thought before him. He had no experience to teach him; so he thought he was ill-used, and left us.”
“And what became of him?”
“At first we used to hear from him now and then, then there was a long silence, and his mother worried herself dreadfully about him. One night I had been playing a country gentleman in a screaming farce, as the bills called it, for in a small company you are a king, a warrior, and a fool—all in one evening; so my wife had gone home, and when I arrived came to the door to let me in.
“‘Don’t be frightened, dear, here’s Alfred come back.’
“I went up, and there he was; but, my God! what a wreck. His eyes blood-shot, his hands trembling, and a hot red spot on his cheeks.
“‘Well, father, how are you?’
“I did not answer, I sat down, and cried. He tried hard to keep from it, but he couldn’t; he came and knelt down in front of me, covered his face with his hands, and cried like a child. His mother, poor soul, clung round his neck, and kissed him, and cried till I was beside myself. He told his story. He had made a mistake. He thought himself a great actor. Managers did not; the public backed the managers, and were right too. He could not stand the disappointment; had no wife as his father had had to console him, and he took to the actor’s curse—drink. He sank lower and lower, became ill, could do nothing, and just crawled home to die.
“One night, I had just come off, when I was told some one wanted me at the stage-door. I went, and found the girl of the house where we lodged. She wanted me to come home directly; I was wanted at once. Mr. Alfred was very ill. Our manager had his benefit that night, and we had one of the first-rate London men down as Hamlet. I was dressed as the Ghost. I forgot all about dress then, and rushed home: it was too late, poor Alfred was gone! He lay, his head in his mother’s arms; she was dressed as the Queen, and was weeping hot, silent tears that fell on my dead boy’s face, one by one. His sister was sunk down on her knees by the bed-side, as I entered, and the people of the house were standing looking on. I shall never forget it—never.
“I was roused by a touch on the shoulder. A message from the theatre.
“‘Manager says he should be glad if you could come back.’
