And oh, dear dear grandfather, don’t doubt your little Annie; and don’t doubt I will be back as I say, bringing something to make you forgive me for going away without your leave. We shall be so happy again, if you will only wait the three days! He — you know who — goes with me, to take care of me. Think, dear grandfather, of the blessed Christmas time that will bring us all together again, happier than ever! I can’t write any more, but that I pray God to bless and keep you, till we meet again! — ANNIE WRAY.’
He had not read the letter more than half through, when he dropped it, uttering the one word, ‘gone’, in a shrill scream, that it made them shudder to hear. Then, it seemed as if a shadow, an awful, indescribable shadow, were stealing over his face. His fingers worked and fidgeted with an end of the tablecloth close by him; and he began to speak in faint whispering tones.
‘I’m afraid I’m going mad; I’m afraid something’s frightened me out of my wits,’ he murmured, under his breath. ‘Stop! let me try if I know anything. There now! there! That’s the breakfast table: I know that. There’s her cup and saucer; and there’s mine. Yes! and that third place, on the other side, whose is that? — whose, whose, whose? Ah! my God! my God! I am mad! I’ve forgotten that third place!’ He stopped, shivering all over. Then, the moment after, he shrieked out — ’Gone! who says she’s gone? It’s a lie; no, no, it’s a cruel joke put upon me. Annie! I won’t be joked with. Come down, Annie! Call her, some of you! Annie! they’ve broken it all to pieces — the plaster won’t stick together again! You can’t leave me, now they’ve broken it all to pieces! Annie! Annie! come and mend it! Annie! little Annie!’
He called on her name for the last time, in tones of entreaty unutterably plaintive; then sank down on a chair, moaning; then became silent — doggedly silent — and fiercely suspicious of everything. In that mood he remained, till his strength began to fail him; and then he let them lead him to the sofa. When he lay down, he fell off quickly into a heavy, feverish slumber.
Ah, Annie! Annie! carefully as you watched him, you knew but little of his illness; you never foreboded such a result of your absence as this; or, brave and loving as your purpose was in leaving him, you would have shrunk from the fatal necessity of quitting his bedside for three days together!
Mr Colebatch came in shortly after the old man had fallen asleep, accompanied by a new doctor — a medical man of great renown, who had stolen a little time from his London practice, partly to visit some relations who lived at Tidbury, and partly to recruit his own health, which had suffered in repairing other people’s. The good Squire, the moment he heard that such assistance as this was accidentally available in the town, secured it for poor old Reuben, without a moment’s delay.
‘Oh, sir!’ said the landlady, meeting them down stairs; ‘he’s been going on in such a dreadful way! What we are to do, I really don’t know.’
‘It’s lucky somebody else does,’ interrupted the Squire, peevishly.
‘But you don’t know, sir, that Miss Annie’s gone — gone without saying where!’
‘Yes, I happen to know that too!’ said Mr Colebatch; ‘I’ve got a letter from her, asking me to take care of her grandfather, while she’s away; and here I am to do what she tells me. First of all, ma’am, let us get into some room, where this gentleman and I can have five minutes’ talk in private.’
‘Now, sir’ — said the Squire, when he and the doctor were closeted together in the back parlour — ’the long and the short of the case is this: — A week ago, two infernal housebreakers broke into this house, and found old Mr Wray sitting up alone in the drawing-room. Of course, they frightened him out of his wits; and they stole some trifles too — but that’s nothing. They managed somehow to break a plaster cast of his. There’s a mystery about this cast, that the family won’t explain, and that nobody can find out; but the fact appears to be, that the old man was as fond of his cast as if it was one of his children — a queer thing, you’ll say; but true, sir; true as my name’s Colebatch! Well: ever since, he’s been weak in his mind; always striving to mend this wretched cast, and taking no notice of anything else. This sort of thing has lasted for six or seven days. — And now, another mystery! I get a letter from his granddaughter — the kindest, dearest little thing! — begging me to look after him — you never saw such a lovely, tender-hearted letter! — to look after him, I say, while she’s gone for three days, to come back with a surprise for him that she says will work miracles. She don’t say what surprise — or, where she’s going — but she promises to come back in three days; and she’ll do it! I’d stake my existence on little Annie sticking to her word! Now the question is — till we see her again, and all this precious mystery’s cleared up — what are we to do for the poor old man? — what? — eh?’
‘Perhaps’ — said the doctor, smiling at the conclusion of this characteristic harangue — ’perhaps, I had better see the patient, before we say any more.’
‘By George! what a fool I am!’ — cried the Squire — ’Of course! — see him directly — this way, doctor: this way!’
They went into the drawing-room. The sufferer was still on the sofa, moving and talking in his sleep. The doctor signed to Mr Colebatch to keep silence; and they sat down and listened.
The old man’s dreams seemed to be connected with some of the later scenes in his life, which had been passed at country towns, in teaching country actors. He was laughing just at this moment.
‘Ho! Ho! young gentlemen’ — they heard him say — ’do you call that acting? Ah, dear! dear! we professional people don’t bump against each other on the stage, in that way — it’s lucky you called me in, before your friends came to see you! — Stop, sir! that won’t do! you mustn’t die in that way — fall on your knee first; then sink down — then — Oh, dear! how hard it is to get people to have a proper delivery, and not go dropping their voices, at the end of every sentence. I shall never — never — ’
Here the wild words stopped; then altered, and grew sad.
‘Hush! Hush!’ — he murmured, in husky, wandering tones — ’Silence there, behind the scenes! Don’t you hear Mr Kemble speaking now? listen, and get a lesson, as I do. Ah! laugh away, fools, who don’t know good acting when you see it! — Let me alone! What are you pushing me for? I’m doing you no harm! I’m only looking at Mr Kemble — Don’t touch that book! — it’s my Shakespeare — yes! mine. I suppose I may read Shakespeare if I like, though I am only an actor at a shilling a night! — A shilling a night; — starving wages — Ha! Ha! Ha! — starving wages!’
Again the sad strain altered to a still wilder and more plaintive key.
‘Ah!’ he cried now, ‘don’t be hard with me! Don’t for God’s sake! My wife, my poor dear wife, died only a week ago! Oh, I’m cold! starved with cold here, in this draughty place. I can’t help crying, sir; she was so good to me! But I’ll take care and go on the stage when I’m called to go, if you’ll please not take any notice of me now; and not let them laugh at me. Oh, Mary! Mary! Why has God taken you from me? Ah! why! why! why!’
Here, the murmurs died away; then began again, but more confusedly. Sometimes his wandering speech was all about Annie; sometimes it changed to lamentations over the broken mask; sometimes it went back again to the old days behind the scenes at Drury Lane.
‘Oh, Annie! Annie!’ cried the Squire, with his eyes full of tears; ‘why did you ever go away?’
‘I am not sure,’ said the doctor, ‘that her going may not do good in the end. It has evidently brought matters to a climax with him; I can see that. Her coming back will be a shock to his mind
