THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN.

Lyttelton Times, Volume CXVI, Issue 14222, 19 November 1906, Page 4

THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN.

1 • (By BARONESS VOX HUTTEN.) It was exactly ten minutes past four when the train stopped at Boston and Mrs Britton descended from it—-ten minutes past four o’clock on a raw November morning. The blurred streetlights looked sleepy, *and round them was visible the fog that waa invisible in the grey darkness. Mrs Britton took a hansom and mechanically gave the address. The respite was over and she had come hack to the horrors she had escaped from. - He would bo waiting for her; probably i in the brown dressing-gown with red I facings that she so detested. His hair would be ruffled like a cockatoo's crest; hi.s eyes red with sleep. He would have milk heating for her on the spiritlamp ; in his way ho would ho kind. And she hated him. When the hansom’ stopped she was sitting with her strong, little hands clenched in an intensity of hatred of the man to whom she was returning, the man to whom she belonged. '“617, licly,” isuggested tho_ cabby. Startled, she 'jumped to the moist sidewalk, paid him, and opened the housedoor with her latch-key. _ . Strange there was no light I Pausing in surprise, she turned on the switch and looked vaguely about her. The hat-rack was empty, and no coat lay in a tumbled-heap on the chair to its left. What if he had not got her wire? , ; , ~ She went softly upstairs and into the drawing-room, which was also pnlighted. He was out, surely, and her first tliouo-lit was one of unbroken, relief Their she shivered violently with fear at the thought that something might have happened to the man whom she hated The room was curiously uninhabited. Quits evidently he had not sat there waiting for her. There had been no fire; no chair was out of place; no cigar-ashes littered the nig; no bottle and glass stood on the table. Then on the writing-desk she eaw, lying open, a telegram. Half unconsciously she picked it up and read it: “ Arrive 4.20 Wednesday with the Hendersons. Don’t meet me.” . • Well, this was Wednesday. He couldn’t have known that a young Henderson’s sudden sore throat had detained her friends, therefore he couldn’t think that she Jiad put off coming. For a moment she stood staring blankly at the message, and then she hurst out laughing. Tills was Tuesday, not Wednesday! Ho was expecting her twenty-four hours hence, and without doubt was spending bis last free night with some of his theatrical cronies. As she reached this point in her reflections she heard the sound of a fumbling key in the house-door, and switching off the light eh© stood quietly in the darkness, listening, while the door opened and heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. Breathing hard, he stumbled past, up the second flight, and when she heard a door , close over her heard she switched: on the light, again. “Ho doesn’t expect me until tomorrow,” she said, under her breath, stilf flushed with angry disgust; “ the next twenty-four hours are mine.” She had walked for quit© half an hour before she realised the folly of leaving the house. The instinct to escape- and us© the twelve hours of liberty put at her disposal so innocently by her mistake in the telegram had been too strong for reflection, for anything ’but flight. She had turned to her right, for no particular reason, and, still for no reason, had hurried on through the faintly paling darkness until she found herself to her surprise on the embankment • near Carlton House' Terrace. Then, naturally, as she camo to, herself, fear awakened in her, and she hurried blindly on past a man sleeping on a bench, her heart throbbing in terror of the night, the place, the people she might meet, the unpeopled wastes she might find. At last she paused, out- of breath, and stood leaning against the river wall, wondering what she should do. She could not go home even if she wished to, for she had left the key on. the table, it would rot bo really day for b'ffure, and- With a sudden feeling of sickness she felt in her pocket, to find that her purse, too, had been forgotten in her hurried flight. In her despair she moaned, and at the sound a low voice drawled at her out of the fog, “ Anything wrong, my dear?” She had not seen the man before, but she was brave enough, and answering shortly “ No,” she started to pass him. To her horror, howexer, lie put out his hand and touched her arm. “ Don’t- be frightened,” he said, good humouredly, “I’m the most harmless creature ” He broke off, and raising his hat finished sharply, “Oh, I beg your pardon!” The fog had lifted as he spoke, and in the electric light they stared at each other. He was evidently surprised by her aspect, as was eh© to- find herself confronted by a man in a well-cut over evening drees. “Oh, you frightened mo so!” she gasped. He laughed. “And now you are relieved by—my clothes ! Yet lam really an awful blackguard, and lots of chaps in fustian—not- that 1 have the least idea what fustian is—are infinitely more trustworthy than I.” Then lie burst out laughing, and Mrs Britton joined him, partly through nervousness, partly through a sudden appreciation of the absurdity of the situation. “I can at least trust you not to rob me,” she said, after a moment, “ and-—to let me go my way unmolested.” “ That, of course. Perhaps, however, I could be of some service to you?” .“No.” His face, pale and extraordinarily lined, was that of a man of about live and thirty, she saw. His scant hair was very pale yellow in hue, and was brushed smoothly back over his head. Mis large, nervously sensitive mouth looked vaguely familiar to her, but she could not reiriember when, if ever, she had seen it or one like it. For a moment they studied each other’s faces in silence, and then he said gayly, “ You are then, just-—out for a walk?” “ Just that.’ “ It is a fine morning.” “Exquisite,” she returned with much gaiety. Then she burst out laughing again. “ I am'\not mad, really i am not. lam a perfectly respectable householder. Do you believe it?” “Of course I do. Is thy servant a bat ?” “ Bate see at night.” “And this is morning! However, you will let me help you find a cab. It is an unpleasant hour, and this confounded fc-g makes it quite dark between the lights.” As naturally as if at a ball he had offered to take her across the room; he gave her his arm and they walked on. He was a gentleman and he had understood, and for a moment she was full -of grateful relief. Then came the thought- that she could not go home and ring up the servants at that hour. Also-, she had no money to pay for a cab. She stood still. “ You—are —very kind,” she stammered, “ but I—l do not want a carriage. I—l want to walk, and I am not at all afraid.” They had reached another circle of milky light, and lie faced her, screwing a glass into one eye, his face wrink- ‘ ling fearfully ais he did so. “You must go home,” ho said gravely. “ No- 1--thank you, but—l will go on alone u-ow„”-

She drew her hand from his arm, and for several seconds h© stared thoughtfully at her. Then ho said, apparently to himself: “ I can’t possibly let her go. There’s something very wrong about it, and I can’t let her go.” Mrs Britton frowned. “You must,” she answered. “And, there is really nothing wrong at all. I came back by a late train, and there had been a misunderstanding about my wire, and the ■house was,closed—that is all. Goodnight.” As she spoke a clock struck one. “Half-past five,”, cried the man, a spasm of pain, contracting his face. “Oh, my God!” ■ It was her turn to stare, Her turn to bo frightened. He had turned a ghastly white, and the lines about his mouth deepened as if accentuated by charcoal. “ You are ill,” she cried. “No. I—— You are right; I have no right to detain you, madam. Good —good-morning.” Turning on his heel, ho raised his' hat and was gone. And with a gasp of fear she followed him. When she found him he had taken off bis coat and was folding it. He turned fiercely. “ What do you want?” lie askdd. “ You—yon mustn’t do that—you I mustn’t ” “ Mustn’t what—go through my own pockets?” He had turned his coat and was making a pretense- of searching for something in its fold®. “You were going to drown yourself 1” Suddenly hi® face changed, and ho laughed, sadly enough, but it was a laugh. “ Was I?” he returned. “Ah, you see, that’s just the point. I happen to be a coward—a real bred-in-tho-bone coward. Life is too much for me, and yet ’ ’ “The man'who doe® kill himself i® the coward,” she interrupted with nervous asperity; “and you don’t look like one.” “ Looks are. deceitful. But why should I bore you? You lied to me very kindly and politely. Allow mo to lie to you and assure you that—oh, well, anything you like,” he concluded vaguely. “ Yes, I lied because I had no money to pay for a cab, and because I can’t go home until to-morrow morningWednesday morning. But —I have no money and nowhere to go.” Slowly he drew on. his ,coat. “ You must have something to ©at, first of all,” he ®aid; “and then we shall see. Ae for me—the river can wait.” Ajgain ho gave her his arm, and again she took it, but this time their position® were reversed.- She was now the protector, and Strangely enough this fact gave her perfect courage. By six o’clock the two sat in a very humble but not particularly clean loom of a small inn not far from the river, waiting for the breakfast that a very frowsy and ill-tempered' woman had been persuaded to prepare for them. “ It will be very bad,” Mrs Britton’s companion told her, with one of his humorous grimace®, “ but it will be hot, and it will do us both good. Would you like*” he went on with a quick transition, “to know my name?” “ Oh, no,” she returned hastily; “ surely that is not necessary. I should not like to tell you mine, and “ I did-not mean that.” His voice sounded hurt, and she was sorry. “Listen,” she said, “I will tell you how I came to be roaming about the streets at such an hour;” And she told him quite truthfully, he listening with compressed lips and a frown on hie white brow. He had, she saw, singularly large and gentle eyes of a pale greyish-green colour. The lids were finely-cut but nearly lashlees, and under the iris a narrow line of white was visible. In the prematurely wrinkled, wan face these eye® had a curious air of being too innocent, too childlike, as if they had got there by mistake. \ When she had finished speaking he said gently: “ I see. You dislike blip, so much that j-ou forgot everything and just—bolted.” “ Yes, I just bolted.” “ And I imagine you were going to—to do what I was going to do,” “No,” she answered quietly,- “I can stand things.” He flushed. “That was rather hard, wasn’t it ? However, you are right. I am- a coward. Now may I tell you my story? It i® short.” “ Ye®, tell mo. And—l didn’t mean to be hard.” , So in the dingy, commonplace little room she listened to liis story., ..It was as dingy, as commonplace, in its, way, as the room. For weeks, he had tried to make up his mind to die, but he was, as he said, too great a coward. _ One night he had spent on Westminster Bridge, trying to- jump over; once he had taken a pistol and managed to get shut in the park; once he had sat for hours with his legs dangling over the outside of his window-sill, trying - to jump. “I can’t do it,” he wound,up, a® the woman brought in the breakfast and slammed it down on the table; “1 just'can’t.” “It is strange,” she returned, “hew alike our stories are. He does that, too —-I mean, what she does.” “Drinks?” he asked harshly. “Yes.” “Oh, you poor child! And you can stand it?” “ Yes—in a way.” “ Yet you hate him.” “ Oh, yes.” “Do you ever,” lie asked, leaning across the table and speaking in a whisper, “ do you ever hat© him so that you —you want to kill him?” “Oh, no!” In spite of herself she shrank back from him. . “ Ah, well, I do. I—l frequently want to kill her. You have no children?” “ No ” “ Well, we had. I—was fond of him. And she got come whisky one day and lot him—crawl into the fire and be burnt to death while she slept.” Mrs Britton set down her cup of tea un tasted. ' 1 There, I shouldn’t told you! Forget it, and eat your breakfast. The butter is’fairly good ; have some.” At noon they were still -together, having driven over the river and out into the country. It had all happened, it seemed to her. quite naturally. After breakfast ho had gone back to the subject of the child ho had lost, and over which he had apparently brooded to a dangerous extent. Suddenly, as .he was trying to describe the little fellow, he had broken down and wept convulsively, his smooth, yellow head in his arms on the table. And she, quite as a matter'of conns©, had tried to comfort him. stroking his hair, patting his arm, whispering to him such words as occurred to her. . When he was himself again, the childlikeness of his, eyes curiously dominating the rest of his face, so that he seemed years younger, ho had thanked her, 'paid the bill, and they had gone out again into the' rainy morning. ' “You -won’t leave me yet, will you?' he asked piteously, his lips still shaking, and. 1 she answered that she would «lay with him as long as he wanted her. So he hailed a hansom and told the man to get them away out of the streets as soon as possible. ■ ~ , “You arc an angel of kindness,' ne said to her after lunch, as they sat by a fire in the deserted inn-parlour. “ No, I am not good at all.” “You are to me.”

“ You wore good to me.” “ Oil. good! 1 am kind-hearted always. I am even kind to hoi'. 1 can t be unkind.” ’ “I cun,” she remarked grimly. ‘1

am always unkind to—to him.” "Are you?” Ho looked at her with a curious kind of admiration. " What do you do to him?” “ Well, I ignore him as much as possible, and refuse to have his friends come to the house. It is really my house, so that makes it all the meaner of me. And I don’t pay his debts until I absolutely must—bo that he won’t get to taking it- as a matter of course.” “You have money, then?”

“Yes, I have throe thousand pounds a year. And when he has been—you know —I refuse to listen to his apologies and look disgusted. Oh,” brightening, “I am very horrid to him!” “Does he dislike you too?” “ No, oh no, he rather likes me. He is proud of me—of my money and my looks,” sho added indifferently. The man looked up from the fire. “ Yes, you are pretty,” he said, as if noticing the fact for the first time. “How old are you?” “Twenty-eight. And you?” “ Thirty-three; hut I look older, of course; I make so many faces. That makes wrinkles —and then the makeOh!” she dropped the poker with a clatter. “You are an actor?” “ Of course I am. Didn’t you know?” “How should I know?” “ Of course. Oh, yes, I am an actor. I do—low comedy at the Jocundity.” “ You! Low comedy !”■ “Yes. It is rather a joke, isn’t it? But you must have seen ‘ The Telephone Girl ’ ?” “Of course! Of course I did, and you were the dancing master, ‘ Foljambe* ! Oh, I knew I had seen you before. How I laughed! You were—wonderful.” • . He smiled. “Yes, it was funny. A good role, you know; but it suited me. I ought to have been a great actor,” ho added with a sort of simple regret, “for I certainly had talent; but ” She was silent for a moment, remembering some remarks of her husband’s about’ the role in question. Her husband had been a dramatic critic for years, and though he had of late years lost caste, he was still discriminating enough when quite himself. “ I heard—someone who knew, say that you were too good for such plays,” she began at length ; “ that you ought to play Shakespeare. I suppose you have thought of that?” He shook his head with a frown. “ No. Low comedy is my style—or was. Even that is too good for a man in my condition. I—l have begun to forget my lines.” She was painfully sorry for him. “Why don’t you—get rid of her and begin over?” “ I can’t.” “But why? Why he, that critic, said that your very voice was remarkable. He spoke of Touchstone, and other Shakespearian characters. Arid you are so young. You have no right to give up, I tell you.” He laughed. “ As if I didn’t know all that! But it’s no use thinking about it. I’m so—-so miserably unhappy. Oh, it’s weak, I know, but 1 can’t help letting it make me miserably unhappy. I .can’t do good work, or have any ambition, when I’m—like this.” “Of course; I understand that. That’s why you ought to get rid of her —divorce her, I, mean.” , He, stared at her curiously for a moment, his big, light eyes filling with tears. “I can’t,” he said; “ the poor thing is fond of me.” There was a long silence. “• How —strange! How—awful! Th at is what is so awful about—us. He is, too, in his way.” After another pause; she went on, “I suppose it ought to make us care for them, too, only it doesn’t.” “ But even as it is you ought not to let it ruin your career. Have you any people? What do they say?” “ My father is dead, and my mother married again—beneath her. My father wae only a bookseller, but this man is—well, ho keeps a pub out Earl’s Court way.” “I see. But really, Mr Power—l remember your name, he, that critic, talked of you so much—what are you going to do?” He rose and went to the window. “Look! the sun is coining out! Let us drive on. Shall we? This one day is ours, let’s bo happy!” “Happy! Yes. What time is it?” “ Twenty past three. I must he at the theatre at seven.” “And I—l can ‘come by an earlier train’; there is on© at 7,15. 1 can invent some reason.” “Then—shall we go?” At'five they had come part way back to town, and- were drinking tea in another inn parlour. A quaint, tidy room, tills, with a bright fire, pictures of the royal family-on the walls, and humble, well-tended plants in the window. “ This isn’t so bad, is it?” laske-d Power, watching her hands as she poured the tea into the thick cups. “ It seems—homelike, somehow. Not like my home, God knows.” , “Yes. Have seme bread and butter.” They ate and drank silently, for the last minutes- had come. In a quarter of an hour they must set out for the life they seemed to have ©scaped from, and horror to both lay in the thought. Suddenly ho said: “ look here; I am going to leave you here, and go back by train. The station is only ten minutes’ walk from here.” “But why?” . “ Because I. want to say good-bye to you here, and not at some street corner. You have been very good to me.” , “ I- have liked being with you. Some more tea?” “No. Look here; will you tell me your name?. You needn’t be afraid; I’ll never—try to see you or anything, but—l want to know.” “ My name is Minnie Britton—Mrs Oscar Britton.” “ Oscar Britton! Is he your—oh, my God, you poor little thing! you poor little tiling ! Why, I’ve known all about him for years.” “So have I. Let’s not talk about it. I am of no particular consequence —I mean to anyone but myself. But you have a talent that you ought to develop. I can’t ask you W come to see me, but—l want to hay© been of some little use "to you. Will you promise, me riot to—not to do that? Yon know.” Again the bitter expression cam© to his face, and he laughed with scorn of himself as he promised. “It’s hardly necessary, for when it comes to the point I funk it, hut—l will do as you want mo to. Ycsj 1 promise you,” / They had both risen, and she gave him her hand. “ I shall never forget you,” he went on clumsily." And —T wish I could do something for you, but I can’t.” “ No, you can’t. And—you will try not to let it ruin your life? I mean, you will work bard and try to do things worth your while. Oscar knows, even yet, and has said so much about your possibilities.” “ Oh, yes, he knows. A few years ago no one could touch Oscar Britton for dramatic criticism, and even yet Well, I must go. Good-bye.” “ Good-bye.” His luminous eyes were wet r? he looked at her. “ I feel as if you VC re my sister, and I was losing y,. /,' he stammered. “I hate to lose oa.” “ Listen. I’ll talk to him about -rou. Oh, I’ll not tell about to-day, Tn f i’ll manage in some way. And r laps he’ll say a word for you to Sir Buckley. Ho comes to us sometimes still, and ho values Oscar’s opinion, I know.” Power frowned. “ Oh, Buckley would^

trust mo with a role if—if he oould see me act as I used to, but the trouble is, I—l’m retrograding, and I know it. It—it is so sickening.” "Then—then it is no use, and wd must just give up?” Her eyes were wet, too, now. “ Yes. Nothing is any use. She will cry and promise to—to he good, arid then—it will all begin over _ again. Don’t bother about me, Mrs Britton.”

He took up his coat,aii<3, put it on, “It is'rather tragic, all this, Isn’t/itr I mean, our.meeting this way. It would make a good curtain-raiser. Only it would have to be changed little—. we’d have to fall in love with each other. I wonder,” he went on, screwing his glass into his eye and taking up his hat, “why. we haven’t! I mean, why I haven’t' fallen in love with you. You are—well, you know, and the— < the contrast is certainly , sufficiently groat, and you saved my life.” . ■ She gave him her hand. " Gocd-bye. You must go now, arid—God -' bless you!”

Six months later she sat hack in- the shadow of a box at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, her eyes fixed on the stage. The play, a curtain-raiser, was one of •the - hits of the season, and its author played the title role—that of the " Tragic Comedian.” “ He is amazing,” Briton murmured thickly, beside her. i One of the women of the party turned “ And isn’t he fascinating! Such a wonderful make-up! They say Buckley is keenly interested in him, and is going to give a long play of his next winter.” ' Britton looked at her with a blurred smile. "He's my discovery, isn’t he, Minnie? I saw him a year ago m soma fool thing ajb the Jocundity, and you can’t fool me about a chap s Talent I I spoke to Buckley about him, trio. Didn’t I, Min?” • : Mrs Britton, leaning forward, was listening to the last of th© play. "Yes, Oscar,” she returned coldly, he ia your discovery.” • . The man on the stage stood facing her as he said good-by© to th© heroine. His eyes met here, and he started nervously. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “ why, I haven’t fallen in love with you. You are—well, you know— — He paused, ard the heroine spoke. “Good-bye,” 'she said, “ and—Go J bless you!” , , ' ~ Mrs Britton drew a long breath, ana then, as the man in a sudden frenzy of overmastering feeling/knelt at tno heroine’s feet and buret into th© :nervous soha which, in their perfection, had caused so much admiring comment, Mrs Britton drew back out of sight from the stage. „ - “ Wonderful,’? cried Britton hazily, as the curtain went down on the solitary figure of the heroine; “nne act* ing’s I ever saw!” . - The pretty woman whom he admireq passed him and put on her cloak. ‘_ It is such a pity,” -she remarked thoughtlessly, to Mrs Britton; “they say ho, Power, has the most awful wife. A confirmed- ” She was young, and ir her confusion accented her, blunder bj breaking off suddenly. _ ■ Mrs Britton smiled. "Yes, ..so I have heard—a confirmed drunkard. Poor man!’ ’