AFTER THE PLAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2258, 10 June 1897, Page 39

AFTER THE PLAY.

By Philip Beaufoy.

The curtain fell on the last act of the naw play Galled " Dust and Ashes." It had gone splendidly throughout, and now that it was over «h9 audience resolved to give the play a " e«nd-off " worthy of its .merits. When a British audience makes up ita mind to be enthusiastic no audience in the world cau beat it, and to-night the people at the Regency Theatre seemed to go mad with enthusiasm. The piece had hit home, it had gone straight to the heart of every staliite, pittifce, and boxite, and th^rc was not one dissentient voice to mar th« harmony o£ the general rejoicing. AU the actors and actresses engaged in the representation received vociferous calle, bnt the greatest enthusiasm of the evening was reserved for the au'hor, who had to take no fewer than seven diatinct calls. Walter Conyera, the author in question, was well nigh beside himself with excitement. Success such as this he had never dreamed of ; he hari scarcely eveu darod fco hope for bo gcaat a measure of the world's praise. And he knew, moreover, that the eulogies .of to-night were but the forerunners of a thousand more praises in the weeks to come in the pages of the newspapers throughout the land. Happy ? Ah, he was happy, with the joy of first success, the joy that comes once in this poor theufcre of life, and never, never again. In years to come Conyers might beat his to-night's record ; he might stand on the highest pinnacle of fame, but never more would he know the keen delight of the first — the very first— success whioh was with him on this wonderful night. But far above the sounds of the many voices in the theatre there sounded in bis ears one other voice — blotting out tho mighty tea of faces which looked from every corner of the mighty house, there was another face — the voice and the face of her whom he loved more than hia life, more than his success, more than his soul, the voice and face of Mildred, his young wife. He had been married two years, and they had been for him two years of radiant happiness. She was marvellously beautiful, and to the artistic soul of this man physical Deauty was a thing divine ; all other things went down before it. He worshipped her as on the day when he had first seen her. And what was her feeling towards him ? Cold, in all truth — cold to the point of indifferenct. But, with the blindness of a happy lover, he did not; porceiva the true state of her emotions, and he fancied; poor fellow, that her devotion to him was even as his devotion to her. -- To-night she had begged to be excused from attending the first production of his play iv consequence of a violent headache. Most husbands would have considered such an excuse somewhat extraordinary on such a night ; not so Conyers. Whatever Mildred did was right. Wrong itself became right when Mildred was the wronger. It was of this woman that he was thinking as he passed through the stage door, amid the congratulations of the byctanders, and so out into the Strand. A crowd of loungers at the corner recognised | him, and gave him a cheer. He hardly noticed j it, for he was thinking of his wife. Cheers meant little to him ; what would 6he say ? One of the most famous actors in England, a man with a European reputation, caught bis hand a3 he went by, and cried : " A million coagrntulations, my dear boy ; I was in front to-night as it was an off-night, and it's a long time since I have had such a charming evening. Come to the Garrick and bava some supper, if you're not already booked." "Thanks, many thanks," returned Conyers, "bub I must harry home. You see my wife

will be wanting to know how the play has gone. She couldn't come herself, as she was ill." " Ah, of course," laughed the distinguished actor ; "I mustn't keep you from you* wife. Good-bye, and a thouaand more congratulations." Conyers smiled. It was very sweat to taste Buoh sucoess as this, to hear the congratulations of his fellow-mou, to feel the warm clasp of their hands as thoy met hia, and to know that he had made a success in the city where perhaps success is the most difficult thiDg to obtain — London. : But no kind words from friends must keep : him from his wife. To her side he must 1 betake himself and whisper the glad news at onoe. j , Outside the Garriok Club, as he was looking for a hansom, a well-known novelist recognised him and also came up smiling. He held out his hand' just as the actor had done. More congratulations followed. Then with a bright " good-night" the novelist bade him adieu, and five minutes later the author of "Dust and Ashes "was driving along as fast as a oab could take him in the direction of home and — Mildred. All the way in the cab he was puzzling himself as to how he should convey the joyful tidings. Should he announce it immediately at one stroke, or should it oome gradually bit by bit ? Ah, well, it did not much matter how he told her, so long as he told her somehow. He oould imagine ho saw her ohoaka redden with delight as the words fell on her ears ; he could see her bosom heaving with joy as the words which proclaimed his success sank into her brain. The happiness of telling her the news, he thought, would be almost greater than the happiness of his triumph itself. From the waistcoat pocket of his evening clothes he took out the things which he had to show her. First of all there was the programme of the piece, then there was the harried note in pencil from Golding, the American manager who had made him then and there an enormous offer for the United States right of production, and last, though perhaps best, a tiny note of congratulation from H , the foremost dramatist of the day, who had sat in a box, and applauded with all his wellknown generosity the work of his youthful brother in art. All these treasures he must pour into Mildred's lap when he reached home, and receive from her, what was better than all of them, a smile and a kiss. He whistled, he clapped his hands, he laughed as the cab sped on. Liff) jast then seemed too happy — a feverish joy sent the blood to his cheeks — it seemed that the gods had nothing more to give him now. Success, fame, and a lovely wife — what more could mortal desire P He asked no more. He was content to remain thus, thanking God with all his heart for his happiness. His heart bsat fiercely as he put his key in the door, and silently lot himself into the house. A light was burning in the hall, and without taking the time to divest himself of his hat and coat he rushed into tho dining room to tell Millie the news. I Hallo ! she was not there. The room was I empty. On tho table sapper wns prepared for | him, and b&side his plate there was a note. I A note, and the writing was Millie's. Wibh j » curioua feeling shivering through his frame, ! with eye» that seopaed to burn and pain him, he tore opsn the envelope. This is what be road as he came home on the night of his triumph. This la what he read — eywy word sawing his soul, and sinking into j his hesrb 'tith icy pain : — i *• Dfak Waltbk, | "i leave thia isfefcer to toll yon that you an«.l i I will meet no more. I have been tempted, ! aud I have given way. I ought to have roI sisted, but I couldn't I "I am sure you will h£ very successful j to-night, and perhaps your sucoess will make J up to you for my leaving you. | " I cannot ask you to forgive ms. Forgeb I me as soon aa possible — that is my prt&yei". | " Good-bye. j "Millie." The letter fell from his hands, aud for a long time he stood motionless, trying to realise what! had occurred. As he stooped to pick up the farewell letter something tell out of his own pocket. It was i the programme of hie play — the programme which he had brought to show to her. Yes, there it was--" To-night, for the iirsb time, the new play, ' Dust and Ashes.' " A strange smile came over his face,— a smile more awful than he who writes can describe. He said, half speaking to himself and half thinking aloud : •* ' Dusfc 'and Ashes!' My play wa> weil named indeed. Earthly success and earthly triumphs mean nothing to rao now. Onoe I longed for them to lay them at her feet — and now— dust and ashes— dust and ashes— dusfc and ashes." And throughout the night he sab in the dim room, saying the same words over and over again. And that was what happened after the play. I —The Theatre.