Romance of the Stage

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXI, Issue 3160, 27 April 1931, Page 2

Romance of the Stage

Complete Short Story,

A PANTOMIME FAIRY. 1 "Now, then, girls' One, two, three —slower! Third to end, watch your steps! Silence at the wings! That's it! No! Faster now, back row! That's it!—that's it! Now once more! One, two, three —one, two, three! Splendid! No, no! Ah, there we are. But. good gracious, this watch of mine says three o'clock! Ten to three! Bless me, girls! That chorus once more, then off you must go!" The company obey. "That first chorus is perfect, at last," says the stage-manager. "Now, off you go, every one of you. Let the stage be cleared in leas than five minutes. Principals back at six, the rest of you at seven-thirty. You need a rest, for there's a hard night's work before you." One of the company, however, is not to be let off so easily. A pretty girl, childishly slender in spite of her sixteen years, 1b surrounded by a noisy group, who beg to be shown first one step, then another. Violet is very willing, and her little feet keep time to her merry voice for many minutes.

"Well, I never, Violet! Violet Thornton, why will you let yourself be so imposed upon?" Then, to the others —"You are a selfish set! Don't you think the child is tired?" "No, indeed, Mr. Blake," says a sweet voice, in answer to the manager. "No, I'm not tired at all!" — and Violet laughs and runs off, singing, "Follow me, fairies!" Blake turns to the young man beside him, and says—- " That little girl reminds me of what Shakespeare calls a 'most unspotted lily'—only she's our Violet. She's the best and brightest thing among us!" The young man to whom the manager, Bpeaks has been standing quite alone, shunned almost; —for Ted Wilmot is no favorite with his companions. "He's so much of a gentleman that he can't even be civil," said the "principal boy," "and I believe he wouldn't for worlds do any one a kindness!" —and the "principal boy" was but expressing the opinion of the company generally. Back to the .theatre at seven came the chorus and ladies of the ballet. Again and again the "Grand Christmas Extravaganza" is gone through, until the orchestra is worn out with the eternal repetition. Still they sing and dance till the children become feverish and wretched, in spite of the excitement, till the ballet and chorus are too wearied to be exhilarated even by thoughts of wardrobe and treasury, till the principals are sleepy and hoarse, and the stage-manager and musical director are exhausted with shouting their instructions.

The rehearsal is still proceeding, when the low comedian, coming from the green-room, calls out- 1 - "Ladies and gentlemen, it's Christmas morning!"

"Christmas morning! . Ah, well," cries , old Blake,- !'to r , your places for the last chorus! Thank goodness, at last we have' got it something like! You~may"go!. Or suppose we have a Christmas carol first!" The suggestion is made jestingly, but the conductor turns to whisper to the orchestra. There comes the sound of a familiar air, and the clear voice of the "principal hoy" rings out with "Hark, the Herald-Angels Sing!" When the hymn is ended, the "principal girl" has forgotten all her old jealousy of the "principal boy," and, throwing her arms around her, wishes her- ._-..

"A hundred Merry Christmaaes!" The low comedian crosses to his wife, the wicked fairy, and brings a glad light to her eyes by kissing her and saying—- " There are many more happy Christmases in store for us yet, old woman, I hope!" Old Blake's eyes glisten as he thinks of the little grandchild that died a year ago, and he says to the conductor—

"That hymn has done us all more good than anything else we have heard since we were children!" His "Merry Christmas to you all!" is heartily re-echoed, and he dismisses the company. Ted Wilmot remains, leaning against the wings. He, too has felt the influence of the carol, but he has not wished happiness to- or been wished happiness by any one. His thoughts have wandered far away from London, with its poverty and misery, to the happy home, the ivy-clad Rectory in the Devon valley, where, only a year ago, he was the beloved youngest sou

He cannot but think of Christmas morning in the Rectory parlor, with the carol-singers chanting their hymns to the old Rector. He sees again the old church, -with his sister Mary at the organ, and hears his sweetheart Nellie's silvery voice ringing out from the choir. And then his reflections are suddenly interrupted fcy a soft hand laid upon his arm and Violet Thornton's sweet voice wishing him "A Merry Christmas!"

Wilmot answers her so listlessly that she asks—her sweet, brown eyes full of sympathy, her face aglow with blushes —if he is quite well. He tells her that he is, then, moved by a sudden impulse—he was once kind and generous enough—he says—- " Have you anyone to see you home?" "No," she replies shyly. "Then I will escort you." "But I have a long distance to go."

"So much the more reason for my accompanying you, especially so late on such a night as Christmas Eve." She accepts his offer gratefully, for she is afraid to go through London streets at such an hour alone. "I used to live with granny," she says. "But she is dead now, and I lodge with the people next door. They

are so kind that I don't care to move from them nearer to the theatre." "Then this is your first year as a

:airy?"

"No," she returns, "I have performed in pantomimes since I was, oh, such a little, little thing! Granny had a shop, and I helped her in it. But 1 always liked the theatre at Christmas. It was so nice to have the pretty dresses and to be a fairy for a little while!"

"And what do you do now?" Ted asks, pitying the girl for the hardships which constitute her joys. "I sew or knit for shops, and I am often at the theatre besides." "What a hard life you must have, you poor child!" "I? Oh, no! lam very happy! But you—forgive me, Mr. Wilmot —I don't think that you like the theatre —at least, that yo" are accustomed to such a life.'"

"I am nof. You asked me just now if I was quite well. Tam not, for I am sick at heart. You don't know what that means. The carol they sang sent my thoughts back to my father's Rectory. I was the youngest son, with two sisters and two brothers. One of my brothers is my father's curate, the other is a doctor. I am here. I, too, had a college education."

"But," says Violet, raising her clear brown eyes to his, "if you want to go home, why don't you go?" "You don't understand," replies the young fellow hopelessly. "My father has ordered me never to return home. My mother has begged for me in vain. I played at a charity entertainment, and my father asked me the next week to lecture on the immorality of the stage, so that I might undo any evil impression I had. created. I refused, and we quarrelled. I had to leave home. I had a sweetheart in those days, but she, too, gave me up. I don't know why I make you my confidant, but I am glad to have some one to speak to. I have not a single friend."

Violet'B hands are clasped upon his arm as she cries prettily yet shyly—- " Don't say that! I like you, Mr. Ted, and is it not your fault if the others don't? Why should you be so cold and stiff?" She speaks more and more hesitatingly. "Have you sought for friends V "I have not," he. is forced to confess.

"And what about the theatre?" says Violet.

"I am fond of it," he answers quickly. "Ah, yes, but " She looks at him, then pauses. *

"Go on! Don't be afraid!" "I fear you are too selfish to succeed."

"What do you mean?" he asks in surprise. "I can scarcely explain, but I think —I mean you cannot forget yourself, and you are not perserving enough to work on from the very beginning." "The stage ia my only hope," Ted replies. "I don't seek for more than mediocrity. I will be content with that," "Ah, I wouldn't!" Violet says gravely. "You know, lam only a fairy, but I'm going Xo be a great actress —not a dancer, you know, but an actress. I have learned a great deal of Shakespeare already." Ted Wilmot thinks bitterly of the gulf that lies between the fairy and the great actress, but he cannot be the first to tell her that she will never bridge it. He would not for worlds dispel the day-dream of which she has told him so honestly.

In her artless fashion Violet talks on of her hopes and aims, her hands on Ted Wilmot's arm, until they reach her humble lodging. At the door he stoops to kiss her, hut she slips from him with a little cry. "Forgive me!" says Ted, and then he raises her hand to his lips. "Good night, my little friend!" The friendship begun on Christmas Eve is lasting. Ted constitutes himself Violet's champion, and protects her from the too obtrusive attentions of her companions. Wild as he at first thought the child's ambition, he begins, as the season goes on, to have some faith in the realisation of it — her ideas of Shakespeare's characters are so thoughtful and original, she is so earnest a student. He discovers that she attends classes when she is not otherwise employed and has some spare money. He provides her with a "German for Beginners" and "French Made Easy," and offers to help her with the terrible declensions and verbs, and, all unconsciously, to construe lieben and aimer. And he finds in Violet an apt and industrious pupil. Jn return for his help, she does much for him in reconciling him to his fellows, in bringing him out of his selfish gloom, in teaching him charity to his neighbors. If not a favorite with the company, Ted, in time at least, gets liked. When the pantomime has run a month, Violet becomes "second fairy," with an increase in her salary of some shillings a week. It is a great deal more than she has ever had hitherto, and stands her in good stead before the season closes. One night, in the middle of March, Ted Wilmot goes home with her, as usual. They are the best of friends now. He has even told her that his real name is Edward Clare, and that his father is the Rev, Charles Clare, of Brayleigh. She has heard all about his loving mother, his sisters, his brothers, even his sweetheart, Nell. To-night he has something to say to her, and he asks her to walk a little farther than usual. He is strangely silent, however, until, glancing down at her in a deserted street, he catches the brown eyes looking curiously at him.

"Little woman," he says—and then, unhindered, he passes his arm around her—"little one" —and now he has drawn her round until she is leaning against his breast, on which her crimson face is hidden—"may I say 'my little woman'? Violet, my own sweet darling, I want you to be mine.

mine always—my own true, loving, little wife! Will you?" He can scarcely hear her frightened whisper. "I never thought you cared for me like that —and I am very young." "Not too young to be loved, pet. Give mc your answer! I know it will be 'Yea.'"

I lis bold wooing conquers the timid child, who suffers him to kiss her burning lips, and the next moment they are in the glare of a busy street. Ted has found his tongue now, and talks loving nothings to his sweetheart for the rest of the walk, never noticing that she has not given him one word of love. To her objections he makes but one answer —they must be married soon —he will not be happy until he has secured her. She asks him one question—" Are you as fond of me as of Nellie?" — and he replies, "I love you a thousand times better, my own darling!" At the door of her lodging he kisses her again, and then, to his surprise, she stands on tip-toe to put her arm round his neck, and says—"l want to tell you something."

"What is it, pet?/' "That I love you—you cannot tell how dearly! You have cared for some one else, but, my own Ted, I love you better than I have ever loved any one in the wide world!"

Violet's first great trouble follows swiftly on her first real happiness. Only three days have elapsed since Ted told her of his love for her, when a short paragraph appears in the newspapers, headed "Brave Conduct of an Actor." It is a simple story of a child running into danger and being rescued by Ted Wilmot. Ted snatched the child from before the wheels of a car, but in doing so he himself was run over. He was carried home unconscious, and Violet undertakes to wait upon him, tending him night and day, so far as her work at the theatre permits. For a long time he lies in bed, his manager continuing his salary and paying the doctor, his comrades and Violet providing him with numerous delicacies when he is able to take them. He has been much weakened by the accident, and fever ensues. In his ravings one name —"Nellie, Nellie!" —is ever on his lips. Violet does not know that in delirium the mind wanders in the past more frequently than in the present, and each cry rends her tender little heart. N At last, Ted is able to get up and go to show his thankfulness to his pretty nurse in ever-increasing, grateful love. But the name "Nellie" has brought a shadow between them, and Violet is strangely quiet and shrinking. Ted talks so often of the old hyme that his "little one" forms a sudden resolution. One day she leaves him with an unusually tender farewell, and at night, after her work at the theatre is done, she hurries to the station, and before morning is at Brayleigh.

Proceeding to the Rectory, the trembling girl is ushered into the presence of the Rector, his wife and their eldest son, the curate. With eloquence born of love, she pleads for the prodigal, and the mother is moved to tears. Ted Wilmot, br rather Edward Clare, has been mistaken as to his father. Absence has softened the Rector, and he is ready to forgive. He is gentle even to the pretty ballet-.girl. That evening Violet Thornton leads Mr. and Mrs. Clare to their son's lodgings. The mother enters first, the father staying to say to Violet — "Will you come with us?" "I? Oh, no! He has no need for me now he has found his friends. I —I am only one to whom he has been very kind." In the sick-room explanations are soon over, and Edward Clare asks for Violet. His father has a question to put in return. "What is she to you?" "My promised wife," Ted answers simply. "What about Nellie?" is the young man's next question. "Married, to old Sir Thomas Clements," is the reply, and Edward Clare blissfully compares his two sweethearts —the frailty of the country lady, the tenderness of the London fairy. Violet does not return to her lover, nor is she seen again at the theatre. She suddenly disappears, and Ted Wilmot, to his grief, fails to trace her. Her misery, following on her toil and anxiety at the sick-bed, brings on an illness, through Which she is nursed by some good and kind, though almost penniless, people. With returned strength—for she is young, and does not wish for, but rather struggles against, death —Violet enters into the battle of life with the few pounds her increased salary enabled her to save, and her one treasure-—a simple ring with a pink pearl, her lover's gift. She writes to Ted—

"Dear Mr. Clare, —You have returned to your old position, and I must stay in mine. You are a gentleman, and I will not cause you disgrace. Don't quite forget your fairy! lam well, and shall soon be at work —not in London, though. Good-bye, and Heaven bless you a thousand times! May you find your old love! Your heart will return to her, but she can never be more loving than your humble friend, "VIOLET THORNTON." "Nonsense, TaVbot," laughs the handsome author. "I don't believe you! I don't believe in 'nothing new under the sun.'" "Most sceptical of men, what would you have done had the critics said the same about your plays and novels?" "They did say it pretty frequently, I think. But this Margaret Helen Morne — she hails from America, doesn't she? I don't believe in Yankee geniuses."

"Very well, you will judge for yourself. She is spending the evening with its. Come down with me now,

and Mrs. Talbot will be delighted." "I shall be equally glad to see her."

The last speaker is Edward Clare, grown stalwart and robust in the ten years that have elapsed since he was last seen. His circumstances are much changed, too, for he has risen to be, if but a very second-rate actor, a dramatist of the day, as well as a celebrated novelist. In his characteristic fashion, he is discussing Margaret Morne, the most celebrated of American actresses, and newly arrived in England. Edward's companion is well known, for Jack Talbot has been a most successful manager. Millie, his wife, is delighted to welcome Edward, and seems as devoted to Miss Morne as her husband is. Slight in build, of only medium height, and with a pale intellectual face, the actress is a disappointment to the author. She is so quiet that one remark seems unusually long for her. "I adore your books," Mrs. Talbot has said, "perfectly adore them, but your last was so sad!" It was the story of his own love. "That Violet of yours is impossible, too, I fear." '•I do not think so," says Miss Morne. "But the story is very sad. Mr. Clare, I think I have read every word you have written, so you will pardon what I say. I did not like that last book, though Maurice Rlvers's .friendliness with his old sweetheart ,on her husband's death was very natural, I have no doubt." In spite of himself, Edward winces. This, too, is part of his own story. "I have a contempt for a man so cynical as your hero. You write in the the first person, but I cannot reconcile it with you as you are in your other works. Maurice would learn, like others, to wait, though perhaps with an aching heart. But all find peace at last."

Talbot follows Edward Clare from the room. "Well, what do you think of her?" "Nothing. She is too grave, too quiet, and she has no style." "I grant that she is only middle height, but there is no more graceful woman. But you will see her play Adrienne Lecouvreur?" "I will drop in about the end." "No —you will come before the curtain rises on the first night!" "I will, Talbot—to see you as De Saxe, however, and your wife as the Princess."

"Come to see what you will, you will stay to hear Adrienne, you incorrigible man! Whatever we are, Adrienne will be superb!" In spite of his words, Edward Clare really had some desire to see the performance of the actress who has won her laurels in New York, and is still only twenty-seven. He is at the theatre before the curtain goes up on the first night, and, moreover, he does not rise as usual at the end of the first act to seek his numerous friends throughout the theatre, but remains quietly seated till the curtain is rung up again and rises upon the green-room of the Theatre Francais. He recognises Margaret Morne at once as she slowly advances, book in hand, giving no heed to the loud acclamations, but, when she speaks, an indefinable change comes over her. Her slight form becomes proudly erect, her face brightens with a wonderful beauty, her rich voice rings through the breathless silence. Her pretty love-making is full of suppressed passion, which does not prepare her audience for the scenes in which the actress protects her rival, the princess, and denounces her in her own crowded salon. But the last act, with its hurried passions of despair, love, frenzy and madness, culminating in death, calls forth such enthusiasm as is rarely seen. "I have seen the greatest actress in the world, and her name is Margaret Morne!" says Clare, as he shakes the actress's hand that night when the play is over. "Thank you!" she says simply. "Such praise from you is praise indeed, even if exaggerated. I have admired you in your works so long that I am proud indeed of it." "Ah, that reminds me! My new drama, 'Pharisees and Publicans' — may I send it to you? I have determined that it is to be my greatest success. A woman is the principal character, and I wish you to take it. I know no one else to whom I could entrust it."

"This is, indeed, more substantial flattery than words. I think I may say I accept the part." Talbot produces the play, under the superintendence of the author. Thus Clare is thrown into daily contact with Miss Morne, and, as he learns to know her, he finds that she is not silent and listless, as he at first thought, but a woman as charming and vivacious in conversation as she is great on the stage. He finds, too, how tender, how truly generous she is. He sees her loved by all, from the highest to the lowest in the theatre, and, in return, giving her friendship to all. She is the one woman in the world who could replace his childlove, his "most unspotted lily." The new play soon becomes the talk of London. It is full of tragic interest, ending with the death of the woman who sinned through love. In this character Miss Morne excels herself, and is full of pride and pleasuve because of Clare's success. Actress and author are very often together now, and Miss Morne's expressive face brightens at Clare's approach as it has never done previously for any man but him. On Christmas Eve the Talbots gave a party, to which Clare goes, his heart full of memories of a Christmas ten years ago, and of hopes he cannot express as yet. Miss Morne is there, too. She is wearing an evening-dress of soft, lustrous silk of pearly whiteness, trimmed with white and pink roses. Her bracelets and necklace are of pink-tinted pearls, and in her hair, coiled high upon her head, is a pearl star. She is standing beside Clare as the clock chimes twelve, unheard in the chatter of

the rest. She has heard it, though, and, quickly undoing her gloves, she sits down and, without any prelude, begins to play "Hark, the HeraldAngels Sing!" Her voice is, at least, clear and sweet, and the reverent notes hush the noisy company into silence. A spasm passes over Clare's face, and a cry comes unconsciously from his lips as he looks at her white hand, on which there is but one simple ring—a plain gold band with a pink pearl. When she has finished, Miss Morne rises and says—"No matter where I am on Christmas Eve, I play that hymn. Would you believe it, ladies and gentlemen —I like to remember that ten years ago I was only a pantomime fairy? It is almost a romance, Mr. Clare — a veritable fairy-tale." "For heaven's sake," he whispers, "let me see you alone for a few moments."

"Go to the library. I w'Jl follow." He obeys. His heart is beating wildly as she enters. With a sudden movement he takes her in his arms and clasps her to his breast. "Violet; You are my Violet, are jou not?" "I am Margaret Helen Morne," she answers with a bright smile. "Come, Margaret, explain!" She makes him sit down, and kneels by his side. "My name is that by which I am now known. I once called myself Violet Thornton. When you were Ted Wilmot, I never thought of changing it but for Violet Wilmot. I was very ill when I left you, and afterwards I went to a small provincial town, where my dear friends, Jack and Millie, found me. I knew you again at once, but I am not surprised that you did not recognise me. I' grew much taller after my illness. My face has changed and my hair is much darker. My name also mystified you." "But now, my love, I have found you! Oh, Violet, why did you leave me?" "You would have tired of me. I should have disgraced you in those days." "Never, my own! But now you are peerless." "In yours eyes, Edward," she says gently. "As for me, X have always loved you. I have never wavered as you "

"Why how could you know?" "Because I love srou,5 r ou, and I knew that your last novel was the story of your own life. I guessed that your Lady Claremont was Lady Clements, and that, like your hero, you would have married her but that you found a stain on her past." "I must confess that you are right. But have you never wavered?" "Never, Edward! Still, do not give me too much praise. I fear that, even if I had known you as my Ted, I should have loved you all the same." "Darling!"

And then Margaret lays her head upon his breast in perfect trust and love.