But it was not in her nature to look back and she must not do so now. Her excuse was that she had been young and inexperienced; and she had paid dearly for that inexperience.
The company was to play in York and when they arrived in that town a message awaited Grace from her sister Mary.
‘I trust, dear sister,’ wrote Mary, ‘that you will come in time. I long to see Dorothy. I have heard reports of her acting and she is going to be a credit to us.’
Grace and Dorothy and Hester went to Mary’s lodgings and when they arrived there were horrified to find that she was on her death bed.
Grace embraced her sister and wept, thinking of that day long ago when they had run away from their father’s parsonage, of all their ambitious dreams which had come to nothing… or very little.
Mary understood her thoughts. She grimaced. ‘Well, Grace, this is the end of me,’ she said. ‘But it was a good life and I’ve no regrets.’
Her eyes were on Dorothy. She held out a trembling hand to her. ‘See,’ she said. ‘It’s the drink. Don’t let it get the better of you, dear, I’ve heard of your performances. They’re shaking up some of the dear ladies, I can tell you. Never mind, my dear. You go in and beat the lot of them. She’s going to make it worthwhile, Grace. One day you’ll say you were glad you ran away because if you hadn’t there wouldn’t have been a Dorothy Jordan.’
‘You’re tiring yourself,’ said Grace.
‘What does it matter? I haven’t much longer in any case.’
Mary talked rapidly and excitedly of past triumphs, failures and her love of what she called the bottle which had been her downfall. ‘We all have our weaknesses. Don’t let yours interfere with your career, Dorothy. I ought to have worked harder. I might have done it then. But you’ll do it, Dorothy, I know it.’
She was like a grim prophetess lying back on her pillows, her feverish eyes fixed on her niece.
She died a few days after; but it was said that she seemed contented after she had seen Grace and her daughter. She left all she possessed to her niece Dorothy Jordan. It was mostly clothes and many of these were in pawn; but she had some fine costumes.
They were getting better off now. Dorothy had her fixed salary which Wilkinson had raised to twenty-three shillings. This was not riches, of course, but Dorothy was careful; and with the little Aunt Mary had left her she felt that she would be ready to give the coming child a good start in the world.
Cornelius Swan had followed the company to York because he was eager to see all of Dorothy’s performances. When Dorothy was feeling ill, which she was more and more frequently now, he would come to see her and sit by her bed going over some of her parts with her.
This passed the hours of enforced rest pleasantly enough; and they were a delight to the old man.
He said that she was like his adopted daughter and he had great plans for her future.
With her aunt’s prophecies and Cornelius’ interest Dorothy felt more and more ready to face the ordeal ahead. Mrs Smith’s unpleasantness could be borne, even when she tried to wreck Dorothy’s benefit.
All appeared to be going well but it seemed impossible to have too much good fortune; and it was her very success which was proving her downfall.
Daly’s letter reached her in York.
He had heard of her recent successes and knew where she was playing. She had deserted his company and so broken her contract and for this he demanded the immediate payment of £250. There was also a matter of an outstanding debt. He offered her three courses of action: she must return to Dublin and complete her contract with him; she must pay up what she owed; or she would be arrested at once and committed to a debtors’ prison.
Grace found her staring at the letter and taking it up read its contents with horror.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is the end of everything. We cannot fight this. We are trapped.’
Cornelius called at the lodgings. He was excited.
‘I have persuaded Wilkinson to revive Zara so that you can have the title role. You’ll need some coaching but I am prepared… But what’s wrong?’
Dorothy held out Daly’s letter. ‘I don’t think I shall be playing Zara or anything else,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought of running away. But where to? If I go on acting and make any sort of name he will find me. If I don’t, how can I live?’
‘Well, what are you planning to do?’ he asked.
‘I’m trying to make some plan.’
‘And didn’t it occur to you to consult me?’
Dorothy shook her head. ‘There is nothing to be done. I see it all clearly. From the day I set eyes on that man there was no hope for me.’
Cornelius laughed. ‘You forget, my dear, that I am not a poor man. You forget too my interest in you as my adopted daughter and one of our finest actresses. Daly shall have his money at once and that will be an end of the villain as far as you are concerned. I will send off the money without delay then we can continue with the serious business of rehearsing for Zara.’
It was like a great weight which had burdened her for a long time suddenly dropping from her. She was free. She need never wake in the night from a dream of a dark attic, and lecherous tentacles stretching out for her across the sea.
Her dear friend Cornelius Swan had severed the chains which bound her to that evil man.
She was free… almost, but not entirely.
She still had to bear his child.
One night when Dorothy was playing Priscilla Tomboy there was great excitement in the theatre because an actor from London had arrived in York to see the play.
It was stimulating to know he was there and Dorothy, free from menace for the first time for more than a year, gave a sparkling performance, after which Mr Smith – who was no relation to the envious actress of the same name – came back-stage to congratulate the performers and in particular Dorothy.
‘You have a genius for comedy, Mrs Jordan,’ he said. ‘By Gad, I never saw Tomboy better played.’
This was great praise indeed coming from an actor who played in Drury Lane and had won the approval of London audiences.
Mr Smith was known as ‘The Gentleman’ because of his exquisite manners – he followed the Prince of Wales in his dress, they said; and he certainly had an exquisite way of taking his snuff. He bowed with elegance and flattered most of the players, but Dorothy sensed that there was a certain sincerity in his praise for her. Why else should he be in the theatre every night she played? She was excited to know he was there, and was fully aware that when he was she played her best.
There were rumours throughout the theatre. Mr Sheridan had sent him up to look for talent. There was a chance that some of them would be invited to play in London. Covent Garden and Drury Lane were not an impossibility.
Wilkinson was a little dismayed. He did not want his big draws lured to London; he was particularly afraid of losing Mrs Jordan, for he had seen how interested The Gentleman was in her.
He raised Dorothy’s salary and said she should have another Benefit. Dorothy was delighted, but when Gentleman Smith returned to London and no offers came, he was forgotten.
While Mrs Smith was obliged to leave the theatre temporarily to give birth to her child, her parts fell to Dorothy who played them with a special verve and won great applause. She could not repress a certain malicious delight in picturing the incapacitated actress grinding her teeth wondering how much progress the Jordan was making during her absence. ‘Hers will come,’ declared Mrs Smith delightedly.