SENT INTO EXILE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 5, 7 January 1899, Page 6

SENT INTO EXILE.

J:f ' (ALliR IGHTS RESERVED.)

HT. .. By C. E. CHEESEMAN, j I %M thoft of 'A Rolling Stone,' 'Had He Ml Known,' and 'On a Lee Shore.' li " k\\ .j CHAPTER I. (W #A DISPUTED QUESTION. L § Violet Hyde Dramatic Company S»**a)laying to poor houses. The Com!W had been engaged in this unproKle and dispiriting business for so S1 that its various members were finning to be seriously alarmed. %r eXpenses, their hotel bills, and yg£ unpaid salaries were running on ifcrate which, compared with the \ progress of receipts and pay- -. /s,. was as the rush of an express '"'"is to the gently gliding stream '~ dull and sluggish river, was not at all surprising that the aager, Mr Tomlins, should be sad ■countenance. For many days his fliewh'at bilious complexion had been arked by what the greatest of dra* at-ists has termed 'a green and yelw melancholy.' Yellow Mr Tomlina ways was, but during this most unrpmising opening oi. the season in rj3hey his yellowness -was something ittsual; it might have been called -finoxnenal. The manager had never :en more bilious, and, as a natural resequence, never more irascible. He ps gruff and ill-natured with his (nipany —with the Star even, that jor, patient lady who, when off the ■ st-trf., was seldom seen to smile. But jg| generally he vented his ill-humour on H^'tlie Star's husband, a person of only MjS'econdarY importance. H The actor and the manager were to- ■ gether now. At the entrance of the I- theatre they stood and smoked, and VSgWatched the roaring traffic of the f ) ' ' 1" 'Clatter,,'clatter,' said the manager, Y. looking aibout him with a jaundiced .^V^tth-^hete goes the steam tram '.jagairi, tearing along the street like j!a demon. One doesn't wonder at the Jpnumber of accidents. But of course Hf it doesn't matter; nothing matters m. now so long as people get on quickly. m What is the nineteenth century coming W to?'it* 'To its end, my dear sir,' said his If companion.. 'It's rattling on to thai j| just at the same pace all the othei %,... centuries have gone. We try to perf L Buade ourselves that it's more wonder- * ful than any of them because we happen to have been born in it. Foi L, jny part, I don't believe it's eithei better or, worse or more productiv- - of great things than those that have • gone before.' L 'Ypu must admit that the world has -4|y«me:ahead in it faster than ever beBjfjlow do you know that it has. ■gOTOse. all these inventions we boast Mffiiflfere known ages ago, were forffiHiten, and are only just now being li||j|ed up out of the ashes of the past. ■Hp.re's nothing new—a new song, a ■mfvv story, a new joke, a new idea, BEm't to be found on this wrinkled old HHanet. The world has forgotten the ■Barnes of its greatest men. The man JHpvho first, made a, "fire,, the one who SmtinrT mit the first canoe, or who was Smthe first to break in a horse' jM 'What an absurd fellow you are, Sg< Dalzell,' said the manager, with a m- laugh. ~...;"• Wh 'Well, you must acinowledge that _" the ancients surpassed us in one thing.' f 'What's that?' 1 *They could fill their theatres. Their \ shows weren't held to empty benches.' vi\- 'I daresay,' said Mr Tomlins. 'It Sftj^Sogstt't seem as if we could fill this, -P*" except by the free ticket system. And m that reminds me that I didn't want to §1; talk to you about the centuries past il". . and present, or the ancients and their h theatres, but about our own affairs. |r|§iWe're at dead low water.' • I fff 'So much the better. The tide will 1 J'Jux'n.' P*"*- 'I see no sign of it. We can't exf'f. 'pexit things to improve when we don't I 1 act.like people of common sense. It's |.jK Strange you can't get your wife to fM listen* to reason.' I 'Y°u are Loot married, or you would I know there was nothing strange in I that,' returned the actor. 'It's preposterous refusing to allow I the child to take her part. The play I I is just about as 1' popular as any I M know. You remember what a big Mr draw it was when we were in MclM bourne?' f 'Of course. But Isabel was with us then, and she made the part. She lived in , it, and' —his voice changed a little—:'she died in it.' 'Ah,' said ihe manager, in a quieter I tone, and hip eye wandered to the badge of black the other wore on his fjeeve, 'that vvas.a bad misfortune for '.- \ L . 'Misfortune? yes!' Dalzell passed his A hand across his\eyes. It was a recent sorrow of which he spoke. 'Poor . __sabel! A chiia-t-jtist ten years old, " but so clever that she seemed to know ■-Sy instinct the things we spend our lives in learning. She had such bright ideas, such a wonderful memory, such ." a passionate fondness for acting!' 'It was genius* that's what it was,' said Mr Tomlins, oracularly. 'Genius,' repeated Dalzell; and when genius is as lovely as she was it may have the world at its feet. Oh, I don't want to talk of it! We , can't talk of it, Mrs Dalzell and I. Even to one another we .seldom men- " tion her name.'

Again, he brushed the tears away. There seemed to be something maudlin in his grief, sincere and unfeigned as it evidently was. His face was an intelligent one. It had been very handsome, bnt dissipation and intemperate living had dulled, the eyes, had thickened and coarsened the features. He was clever, but his cleverness bad been of little avail. After years of hard work he was still poor and un--3___oW__. No one who knew the reckless "and unthrifty habits of the man could have wondered at this. It waa only Dalzell who was astonished and indignant at his own poverty and obscurity. It was only he who forgot that he had ruined not himself alone, hut his wife; that he had squandered

her savings and dragged her down from the position she had won. By her marriage she had sacrificed her , career. She had married for love, it was said; she had been determined to have her own way, and had taken it, agaiust the advice and entreaties of her friends. And truly the love which had prompted this rash step must needs have been great, to blind her to the faults of the one whom she had chosen, and to outweigh the misfortunes and distresses of her wedded life. 'Well, well,' said the manager, with a rough sympathy, 'you have still a daughter left, and she promises to be as clever as the one you have lost. You must try to convince Mrs Dalzell that it would be very foolish not to j allow her to go on the stage.' j T convince Mrs Dalzell! You had I better talk with .her yourself. The I fact is, she won't bear of Hilda taking her sister's place. The doctor who attended Isabel had some ridiculous idea that the poor child died of overwork, that she Avas too young and too delicate to stand the strain of the life. And Mrs Dalzell believes it!' 'Nonsense, sheer nonsense!' said Mr Tomlins irritably. 'She'd been used to it ever since she could toddle on the stage. She liked it; the children always do. They can't begin too young.' 'It may surprise you; but Mrs Dalzell has taken a great dislike.to her profession. She says that if she had to begin life again she would be anything- rather than an actress. If she could prevent it, I don't think she would allow Hilda to act at all.' 'Mrs Dalzell doesn't show the sense I should have expected from her. Taken a dislike to her profession! I can't believe any such thing. She's been troubled lately, out of health and low-spirited, that's what it means. We heard nothing of that sort of talk when we were in Melbourne, playing the same piece that we have on the bills now. What made the success? The child's part. Cut that out of the play, and what have you left? a hash up of old stuff that you and I have seen on the boards a hundred times. But the child's part, with a i clever child to play it, is worth a good _ deal. It's pretty to look at; it's nat- , ural; it makes the people laugh, and ', it makes them cry. It filled the house ; in Melbourne, and it will fill it here, s We can't withdraw the piece now, without a loss. The child must take r her part. We have no one else. She is fully equal to it, young as she is. 3 'Fully equal,' said Dalzell. S1""

learnt it with Isabel. We used to call her Isabel's understudy.' 'Your wife must give way,' the manager said abruptly. 'Must!' said Dalzell with a laugh. 'That is a word you can't use with Mrs Dalzell.' 'Good gracious, man!' said Mr Tomlins, 'why do you ask her consent? You ought to have some authority over your own child.' 'One would think so.' 'Well then, assert it. Say that this is too important to be shirked, that it must be, and that it shall be. Stick to that, and we shall have no more trouble about it.' It seemed as if the manager were correct in these assumptions. The play of which he had been speaking was performed, and Hilda Dalzell appeared in the child's part. Nor was Mr Tomlins deceived by his sanguine expectations. Success once more showed her smiling face to him and his company. It was- something of a triumph every night when Hilda and her mother stood before the audience, flushed, happy, victorious—when the house rang with loud applause, and bouquets were showered upon the stage. The elder actress had seen many such triumphs, and knew the exact value of popular enthusiasm. But for the excitable, imaginative child, it had a dangerous fascination. It was an enchantment that possessed her, a brilliant dream which she would never forget. This was the first time she had acted with her mother; it would be the last; but to the end of her days that dazzling scene of the large theatre filled with glittering lights, wi.h bright colouring, with rows of eager faces all turned towards the stage on which she stood, would again and again return to her memory. It was Sunday, and the manager was driving out with Mr and Mrs Dalzell and their daughter. The day was firight and fine, with that clearness of atmosphere, that deep blue heaven, and dazzling sunlight which often makes a winter's day at the Antipodes seem more brilliant than the glowing midsummer's noon. Mr Tomlins and his friends had driven through the prettiest of the suburbs. When the shadows began to lengthen, they turned back again to the city over which in the distance a roseate flush seemed to hang. The long drive in the fresh air had made Hilda feel drowsy, and she leaned her head aga.iw\ rd hs__^mother's shoulder. The _. ■_ -^^..^TYLI-rß'&T^rand lojam^and '■■j-j-Q. out Brett*s§"'' "■?"■■*..•. .\

'She slept badly last night,' Mrs ! Dalzell said, drawing the little girl J closer to her. 'It is often so when she ! has been acting. It excites her too j much; she is carried out of herself; she can't rest when she ought. Look what a thin pale little face! Bemember, this must be the last time. After this season she shall never act again.' | 'Why, now, Mrs Dalzell,' said Mr j Tomlins, bending forward from the opposite seat of the carriage, T think you are too anxious^ about your daughter. It seems to me that she's as well as most children. And if you mean what you say, that she is never to act again, you mean to do her a great injury.' 'Just what I am always telling Mrs Dalzell.' Dalzell interposed. 'Hilda really isn't delicate. She is pale and thin, but so are many children who have nothing amiss with them. She gets excited, does she?—the part takes hold of her—she lies awake thinking of it. I should say that was a good sign. Whoever acted well without an enthusiasm for the work? I never can do anything unless I'm in a fever of excitement.' 'She is too young to act,' Mrs Dalzell said. 'Eight years old— a mere baby! People have been saying that it is a shame such a child should be on the sta__e night after night.' 'A mere "baby do you call her?' Mr Tomlins queried. 'A very clever baby, I think. She has a splendid career before her.' 'They prophesied that for me,' said Mrs Dalzell, with a bitter smile. T began almost as young- as Hilda, and for a time I was like her. The life, the work, had a great charm for me. I was dazzled with visions of some brilliant future that has never come. I know what it means to be a popular actress, and I know, too, what it means to fail; to be elbowed out of the way by some new favourite, and to be forgotten. Oh, I know the life through and through! I do not wish my child to follow in my steps. I want her to have a home, not to be a wanderer all her life. I want her to be free from the vulgar publicity that haunts all our class. We are always posing—on the stage and off. People know" all about us—all and a great deal more. If we have a trouble, a misfortune, a failing, it is common ■ property; it is published in the newspapers, cried in the streets. Tf we are slandered, the slander spreads so wide - and so fast that thousands are sure ! to believe it, ho matter how false it may be. We are supposed to have no -—l'se of propriety, no religion, and no

principle. We rouse a little enthusiasm, have a few flowers flung at us, a few columns of print filled with exaggerated and fulsome praise. And this is what you call a "grand career!' It may be satisfactory enough to people who are .veil hardened and brazened by "__ie world; but I am sure i that for a young girl, innocent and unsuspicious, it is about the worst thing that could befall her.' 'Well, you have explained your views at some length,' said Dalzell. 'You are always telling me I have no reasons to give,' his wife answered; 'so I thought-it best that you should he^r them to the end.' 'But Mrs Dalzell,' said the manager, 'you 10/)k at the dark side only. Of course there's a good deal about the profession that one doesn't admire— a good deal that I, for one, would like to see altered —but I say again, as I've said before, it offers a grand career for a clever man or woman. Why, just run over the names of a few who have distinguished themselves in the profession.' 'Oh, don't overpower me,' interrupted Mrs Dalzell, with a laugh. 'I am not going to deny the existence of all those celebrated actors and actresses you were about to mention.' 'But do you call it a vulgar publicity that attaches itself to them?' said Dalzell. 'Yes; there now!' cried Mr Tomlins, his prominent eyeballs seeming to protrude with his eagerness. 'Vulgar, do you call it? My dear lady, when any one has become famous people naturally want to know all about him or her, and the newspapers are bound to supply them with the information. I can't see that anyone is injured by that. And then, you know, the Drama'—Mr Tomlins always pronounced this with an emphasis that may best be represented by a capital letter—'the Drama is beginning to be recognised as an influence —as a force, I might say. What an immense deal of good may be done by a fine play! I mean one written with a high moral purpose. Actually, I was talking with a clergyman only yesterday, the Rev. Mr Flutter. He declared to me—and, by the bye, he wishes to be introduced to you—that he regularly attends the theatre, and he considers that the moral teaching of the play you_ and your little girl are now acting in is sublime! It surpasses any sermon he ever preached.' 'What's the quality of his sermons?' inquired Dalzell. 'Never heard one. But that shows the sort of people that patronise the pjrfrara-w—nowadays. It's developing, TJJ-_iP a^e ~J— it's developing into one morajsagents of the

time. "Mark my words," Mr Flutter said to me, "the pulpit of tlie future will be on the stage." ' 'And a very good place for it, too," said Dalzell, 'if one could be sure of an audience. Even the drama doesn't always g-et that.' 'So that I don't see much force in your objection to the stage as a profession,' Mr Tomlins continued. 'Yon can't- say it isn't respectable; that idea's antiquated—out of date long ng'o. I don't see why an actress shouldn't be as comfortable and as happy as any one. If she has talent and sticks to her work she can't help rising. Talent is recognised sooner on the stage than anywhere else.' 'We need not discuss the qaiestion. said Mrs Dalzell. 'We all believe that a great deal of good may be done by the drama, and that numbers of men and women engaged in the profession lead noble and useful lives. No one doubts that. I was not finding- fault with the profession because I considered it disreputable. But I think that it does not offer so great a chance of happiness as the more ordinary ways of life. Say what you will, we stand apart from other people, and are exit off from some of L.te best of their privileges.' 'Well, Mrs Dalzell, we won't debate any longer,' said the manager, laughing-. 'I can't hope to convince you against your will.' 'A woman never is convinced,' said Dalzell. 'I hope Hilda is well wrapped up. Asleep yet?' 'Fast asleep,' said Mrs Dalzell. The little girl was still sleeping when they arrived at the hotel. 'Give her to me, I'll not wake her,' said Mr Tomlins, kindly. He took Hilda from her mother, and-lifting her in his arm carried her into the hotel. 'I daresay now,' he observed, 'I may live to boast of this some day when she's a celebrated actress, and I am an old, old man.' (To be continued daily.)