Into the Storm (29 page)

A
fter a good night's sleep, Bridy had washed herself with cold water, then dressed in the clothing Maura had selected for her. Old though it was, the girl had never had a finer dress.

Downstairs she was treated to a breakfast of Indian bread, tea, savory sausage, and beans. Happily full, she wrapped herself in a shawl and went outside to sit on the wood front steps.

It was a bright day and, though cool, considerably warmer than the day before. The Hamlyn house, situated on the northern side of Cabot Street, was bathed in sunlight. From time to time, as Bridy sat playing with her fingers or singing snatches of tunes, people passed by. Sometimes they greeted her, sometimes not. When they did, the girl responded with a shy, friendly greeting of her own.

Bridy did think of her parents and her brothers, but already she'd begun to sense that they belonged to a life that was gone. A certain vagueness about them had crept like mist into her mind. Though still uncertain exactly where or what America was, she accepted that she was there. Maura was near, wasn't she? And Maura had become the most important person in her life, the one whom Bridy loved and trusted.

After an hour or so of sitting and dreaming, Bridy realized that someone was standing between her and the sun. She looked up.

It was Mr. Jenkins.

“Do you live here?” he asked, speaking calmly so as not to alarm the girl.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Bridy whispered.

“And are you a guest of Mr. James Hamlyn?”

Bridy was not at all sure she understood the question.

“I won't harm you, girl,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Just tell me who you are and what business you have with Mr. Hamlyn.”

Bridy hardly knew what to say.

“I had a child your age,” the man informed her. “And so I say to you, beware of James Hamlyn. Indeed, my dear, you must give him a message from me. Can you do a simple thing like that?”

Bridy nodded.

“Good girl. Tell him that Jeremiah Jenkins came to call. Tell him that I haven't forgotten. That he shouldn't forget me or my child. Can you repeat what I just told you?” he asked.

“What?” Bridy whispered tremulously.

“Give Mr. Hamlyn that message.” Mr. Jenkins attempted to smile.

“Mr. Jer —,” Bridy stammered.

“Jeremiah,” the man coached.

“Jeremiah Jenkins,” Bridy managed to say.

Word by word Mr. Jenkins led her through the complete message two more times. “Now please tell the man exactly what I said. But, my dear, because I like children, I urge you to get away from this house. It's a bad house.”

With that said, Mr. Jenkins strode off.

Bridy, upset and puzzled, watched him go. She was not at all sure what he had said, much less what the words meant. She knew Mrs. Hamlyn, of course, but also knew she'd gone off with Maura. As for Mrs. Hamlyn's husband, she had no knowledge of him at all.

It was the housemaid who found Bridy crying in the hallway.

“And what would be the matter with you, missy?” the young woman inquired kindly. “Are you fretting for your sister now?”

Bridy shook her head.

“Then what is it, pet? You can tell me, I'm sure.”

“It was a man …,” Bridy sobbed.

“What kind of man?”

“He was asking for … Mr…. Hamlyn.”

“For the master?”

Bridy nodded. “He said I should be telling him something.”

“Well then, so you can. Nothing to be afraid of at all. He's a kindly man, though he must stay in his bed with his affliction. Come now, I'll take you to him.” Giving her hand to the child, the servant led Bridy along the hallway, then knocked softly on a door.

Hearing a “Yes,” she poked her head into the room and explained who Bridy was and why they were calling.

“There! You're welcome to go on in, my dear. And don't you worry none now.” The maid led the frightened girl into the room.

Mr. Hamlyn was sitting up in his high bed. To Bridy, he looked very strange in his nightcap, jacket, and gloves.

“Here's the girl, Your Honor,” the housemaid said.

Mr. Hamlyn looked down. “Come along closer, my dear,” he called. “There's nothing to be afraid about, my girl. It's just that I can't get out of bed.”

The maid gave Bridy a gentle shove forward. Bridy took two steps but stopped.

“All right now,” Mr. Hamlyn said, “be good enough to tell me what this message was.”

Bridy closed her eyes. “Mr. Jerry Jenkins …”

“Who?” cried Mr. Hamlyn, so altering his tone that Bridy jumped.

“Jerry-myra Jenkins …,” Bridy managed to say.

“I don't believe it!” Mr. Hamlyn murmured, and he pulled off his gloves and nightcap as if they were impediments to his hearing. “Go on,” he said with barely suppressed impatience. “What did he say?”

Slowly, awkwardly, and with much coaching, Bridy repeated the message. When she'd done, Mr. Hamlyn lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes. He looked grim.

“Will that be all, master?” the maid asked.

Mr. Hamlyn opened his eyes. “You may go, Kate. Let the girl stay.”

After whispering words of encouragement into Bridy's ear, the maid slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

For a long time Mr. Hamlyn — lips pursed, brow furrowed — remained silent, lost in thought. Bridy, most uncomfortable, scratched a leg. At last the man looked down at her and smiled. “What's your name?” he asked kindly.

“Bridy.”

“Bridy, I'd like you to do something for me.”

“Yes, please,” Bridy whispered.

“You'll know the man — the one who gave you the message — if you see him again, won't you?”

Bridy nodded.

“He's an evil man, Bridy. A man who intends me harm. I want you to watch for him. If you see him again, you're to tell me right away. Do you understand? At once. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mind, you mustn't fail. I'm counting on you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

As soon as Bridy left the room, Mr. Hamlyn set about writing a note to Mr. Tolliver.

I
t was midday when Laurence, Mr. Grout, and Mr. Drabble trudged into Lowell. Having walked fifteen miles on each of two days — sleeping one night in a warm barn with the permission of a farmer — they were tired, chilled, but in reasonable spirits.

“It's all very well to be here,” Mr. Drabble observed. “But now what do we do?”

Mr. Grout said, “We 'ead for a place I know, that's wot. The Spindle City 'Otel and Oyster Bar.”

“And how, sir, do you know about this establishment?”

“That's where that Mr. Jenkins — the one 'oo promised me a quick job — told me to go.”

Mr. Drabble shook his head. “Without telling you what the job is.”

“See 'ere, Drabble, as long as it means money, we can't be too particular, can we? Yer the one who said we should walk 'ere, and yer right. We don't 'ave much.”

“Sometimes, my friend,” said Mr. Drabble, “I think you are too trusting.”

“It's me new nature,” Mr. Grout returned agreeably. “But if we're goin' to find Clemspool and get that money back, risk is wot we 'ave to take. Ain't that so, laddie?” He clasped
Laurence's shoulder by way of showing him that their partnership was very much in effect.

“I think so,” agreed Laurence, who wanted only to get to a warm room.

“I knew yer would,” said Mr. Grout. With that understanding, he approached a working man and asked for and received information regarding the location of the hotel. Calling on his companions to follow, he started off.

Their way took them along busy Merrimack Street. Suddenly Mr. Drabble stopped.

“Great heavens!” he cried. “Look!” Across the way, among some business buildings, was a structure that had the distinct look of a church, though its steeple had been lopped off. A large sign stretched across its facade.

“They do have theaters in America!” Mr. Drabble exclaimed with delight. “There may be a place for me after all!”

Mr. Grout studied the sign. “I can't make it all out,” he confessed. “Yer have to read it to me.”

Mr. Drabble obliged, explaining that
Hamlet
was a play by Shakespeare.

Mr. Grout whooped with excitement. “Mr. Drabble,” he said, “as soon as they know yer 'ere in town, they'll be desperate to 'ave yer. I congratulate yer on yer success.”

Mr. Drabble paled. Thin as he was, he seemed to dwindle further before Mr. Grout's and Laurence's eyes. “Well … I do have to meet them first,” he managed to say, his low voice becoming almost childlike in its meekness. “But, yes, of course, I can hope for the best.”

“Never mind 'ope,” Mr. Grout urged. “Yer need to go to them right away.”

“
Now?
” Mr. Drabble cried with alarm.

“Yer want the work, don't yer? And yer know 'ow fine yer are. Why, they'll be beggin' yer to take part soon as they clap eyes on yer, won't they? Besides, it'll pay for some food and lodgin' while we're 'ere.”

“Well, yes,” the actor felt obliged to agree. “I suppose.”

“Mr. Drabble,” Mr. Grout enthused, “a man doesn't 'ave much in the way of time except the right now, does 'e? Take 'old of yer chance. Don't yer worry about the laddie and me. We'll take us a room at the 'otel to get out of this weather. Yer can join us as soon as they shake yer 'and.”

“But … but I'm not sure I'm … prepared.”

“'Ere now, Mr. Drabble, yer the best in the world.”

The actor turned red behind his curtain of hair. “But … I've never been on a real stage before,” he blurted out. “Oh, I've tried,” he fairly wept, “and I do know the words well — perfectly, in fact — but that has never been enough. I think it's because I don't look tragic. I look the fool. But believe me, friends, inside I
am
tragic!” He hid his face with his hands.

“Now see 'ere, Drabble,” Mr. Grout said with gentle gruffness, “don't go blowin' yerself down. What might be foolin' in England is more than likely tragic 'ere in America.”

Mr. Drabble, clutching his volume of Shakespeare, took a deep breath and stared across at the theater. He swallowed hard. “But …”

“Yer 'ave to,” Mr. Grout insisted. “It's yer fate.”

“Well then,” replied the actor meekly, “who am I to contradict my most loyal audience?” He bowed low, straightened up, then commenced a painfully slow crossing of the street.

Nervous to the point of trembling, the actor approached the theater building. He tried the front door but — to his
great relief — found it locked. He turned about. Mr. Grout and Laurence were watching.

“There's another door by the side!” Mr. Grout bellowed.

Feeling he had no choice, Mr. Drabble walked to the right where he saw an open door. Mr. Grout, nodding by way of encouragement, waved him on.

Heart knocking against his thin chest, Mr. Drabble entered a shadowy hallway hung with forests, oceans, castles, cliffs, and raging rivers — all painted on canvas. At the far end he heard the sound of voices. Struggling to control his anxiety, Mr. Drabble crept forward.

The room he entered was large and bare, striped by multi-colored light streaming through a stained-glass window high above. On an ill-swept floor six men and two women, blank faces expressing boredom, shuffling feet and twitching fingers suggesting irritation, were listening to a man.

This man was short, fat, and toothless, his bulk made even more voluminous by the velvet cape that reached from his thick shoulders to his buckled shoes. “It is art we serve, dear friends,
art
,” the man was saying. “Not money. For you to ask for more is —” He paused, becoming aware that someone had come into the room. Instead of simply turning, he gathered up his cape and spun about so that the velvet swirled around him.

“Sir?” he inquired. “Do you have business with me?”

Mr. Drabble threw himself into the deepest of bows, so low his long fingers scraped the floor. Then he righted himself and threw back the hair from his face. “Sir,” he began tentatively, “my name is Horatio Drabble, late of the Liverpool stage, just arrived from England.”

“Roderick Wyman at your service,” the American returned in a voice that boomed like a cannon. “But what, sir, might I do for you?”

“I've … I've only just come … to this fair city,” Mr. Drabble stammered, “and … seeing the sign before your theater, I thought … perhaps that … I might make application to be part of your … illustrious company.”

“What roles, sir, are you familiar with?”

“I know
Hamlet
in its entirety. But I am … best suited to play the … noble prince himself.”

“Are you, indeed!” Mr. Wyman cried. “Let us observe act three, scene one,” he said.

Mr. Drabble braced himself, looked heavenward, and extended one arm high. “To be, or not to be: that is the question: whether —”

“I'm terribly sorry, sir,” Mr. Wyman interrupted, “that's not our style. It may do for the Old World but not the New. In any case,
I
am to play the role of Hamlet. I thank you for your interest and encourage you to become a member of the noble audience.”

So saying, the manager swirled about and once again began to harangue his company.

Mr. Drabble was too stunned to do anything but stand where he was. But as Mr. Wyman continued to ignore him, the English actor turned and made his way sadly out of the theater. Oh, why, he kept repeating to himself, did I ever leave Liverpool!

He glanced across the street. To his relief Laurence and Mr. Grout had moved on.

Utterly dejected, Mr. Drabble trudged along the city streets, heading where he cared not. As far as he was concerned, his acting career was over. He would have to find something else to do with his life, a life that had become a tragedy without an audience.

“Everyone,” Mr. Drabble moaned, “has a place in life but me.”

Indeed, he would have to forget about Maura O'Connell. Oh, if only he could see her again. If only he could render her some service! If only he could find some way to prove his love for her….

When he reached a canal, Mr. Drabble stared into its flowing waters for a long time. Tenderly, as though laying a flower on a grave, he set his volume of Shakespeare on the bank, cried, wiped at his tears, and slowly walked away.