Aristocracy (Social class) -- England -- Juvenile fiction; Great Britain -- History -- Anne, 1702-1714 -- Juvenile fiction
It was a very different sort of fame from anything Grey had pictured for
himself, and for a moment he hesitated; for he realized that were this
dramatic sketch to take hold of the imagination of the town, and draw
fashionable audiences, he could scarcely avoid recognition, disguise
himself as he might. But as against this there was the pressing need of
the moment. He was well-nigh penniless; his romance seemed likely to be
but so much waste paper. He was hiding now even from Dick, who
periodically visited London to see him, lest the honest fellow should
insist upon maintaining him from his own small hoard. Here was an
opening, as it seemed, to something like prosperity; and the alternative
of being drafted into the army as a pauper recruit was scarcely
sufficiently attractive to weigh in the balance. Moreover, there was
something so earnest and pathetic in the glance bent upon him by the Old
Lion that he had not the heart to say him nay, and he held out his hand
with a smile.
"I will be your helper; and as for the gains, let them be yours, and you
shall give me what wage I merit. The play is yours, the thought is
yours: it is for you to reap the harvest. I am but the labourer—worthy
of his hire, and no more."
The compact was sealed, and the old man then insisted that Grey should
take his bed for the night, as he must sit up and remodel his play upon
lines indicated by the young man, who had seen the field of Ramillies
and the disposition of troops. Grey furnished him with sundry diagrams
and notes, and left him perfectly happy at his task, which would
doubtless occupy him during the night, whilst the weary guest slumbered
peacefully upon the humble bed in the little alcove beyond the larger
room.
When Grey awoke next morning, the sun was shining; a frugal but
sufficient meal was spread upon the table; a fire was blazing cheerily
upon the hearth; and there was the Old Lion, with his manuscript before
him, muttering beneath his breath, and throwing out his hand in telling
gesture, making so fine a picture with his leonine face and shaggy mane
of hair that Grey watched him awhile in silence before advancing.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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