WITHOUT TINSEL.

Otago Witness, Issue 3804, 8 February 1927, Page 80

WITHOUT TINSEL.

By

Andrew Soutar.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) The girl, joined the touring company at Dykesbridge, where the members were Testing” after a depressing week in the Oddfellows’ Hall, which had yielded little more than was sufficient to pay the rent of the place and save the scanty wardrobe and “properties” from being seized for debt. Her letter was the only one received in reply to the advertisement, suggested Roscoe, the stout, florid business manager, and paid for by a general contribution on the part of" the members of the company. * Ladies of medium height, dark, and” vivacious, and desirous of advancing themselves in the profession, had been invited to communicate immediately with Horatio Roscoe, manager of “The Lost Heirloom” company. Experience of the stage was not essential, although it might be a distinct asset; but a premium of £2O was insisted on “to guard against unforeseen contingencies”—whatever that phrase might have meant. All ti.e members of the company, save one, approved the subtle wording of the advertisement; the exception was Marston, the juvenile lead, and his silence didn’t disturb the conscience of the rest, since he was comparatively new to the intricacies of the profession. Marston himself had paid a similar premium in order to be disillusioned, but he Hadn’t complained when the deal went against him; he merely played the cards with the stoicism of the born gambler who knows there is nothing so changeable in life as the elements of luck. • » The f other members of the cast were old-timers —little stars that had long since ceased to dream Of becoming planets. Miss Martine, the leading lady - ,

had become obese and coarse in her contemplation of life and landladies; she knew the tender lines in the play to be as false as the teeth in Roscoe’s head; she was prone to pride herself on the fluency of her vernacular when it was necessary to express her opinion of those who crossed her. The lofty ideals of her girlhood days had been slightly soiled by a compulsory diet of tinned fruit and bottled vegetables—often, the fruit had to be eliminated on the score of expense. Cuttie, the low comedian, was the father of a family that subsisted on what he earned in the billiard saloons of the towns the company visited; Miska, the heavy lead, had the blood of Russian nobility in his veins (about two corpuscles) and thirsted in accordance with tradition. The others? There was the “finder,” who went ahead of the company to discover the stage-struck youth who might provide the wherewithal for drinks all round in return for being allowed “behind,” the second leads (lady and gentleman), who were always quarrelling and threatening divorce, the baggage man who could play any part in the play at a moment’s notice, and one or two others who lived on hope. The arrival of Miss Beryl Hope lifted the entire company (save Marston) out of the abyss, and revived their interest in Roscoe (after they had seen the passing of the £2O premium) She was a sweet-natured, ingenuous child of 20, with dark hair, rounded features, and glorious violet eyes that gave the low comedian a pain in his conscience when they were turned on him. They told her—all of them, save Marston—that she had only to appeal to them, and they would set her feet on the road to greatness. As Cuttie said to the obese Miss - Martine, the light of the old ancestral home glowed in the girl’s violet eyes. Another moth come to the flame. She thanked them, severally, for their whole-hearted interest in her future. When she came to Marston she faltered, and appeared to be ashamed of her ambitions. Marston said, in a cultured tone of voice: “If I can help you in any way you have only to command me,” but she knew instinctively that in his mind fie was saying: “Poor moth! Poor moth!’’ That was why she loved him. Instinct told her that of all that crowd he was the one to whom she should cling in a war against frailty. In the proud throw of his head and the sternness of his countenance as he surveyed her, there was the promise of sanctuary. He might be saying in his mind: “If you think your money will carry you to greatness in this profession you are mistaken.” The £2O wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did if the thoughtful Marston hadn’t taken Roscoe aside and warned him that they owed a duty to the girl. He . wasn’t squeamish, he said, scarcely parting his lips as he spoke; he had no sympathy for crazy femininity that ran away from a comfortable home at the urging of vanity. “But there is something different about this little lady,” he said, and his cheeks flushed, for a cynical smile was on Roscoe's lips. “She still believes in romance,” he added, and sighed. “I thought the world had become wiser.” “She’ll soon be disillusioned,” said Roscoe. “I was wondering how much her people might be good for. We might redress the show and get some decent dates.” “Where do we go next?” asked Marston. “The Lord only knows,” said Roscoe, “and the weather is awful. I’ve called a rehearsal in a club room for to-morrow; that’s something for her money.” “Why don’t you tell the truth? She may have talent and might get a small part with a decent crowd.” Roscoe said: “You put years on me—talking like that. It’s easy to see you haven’t had much experience. The little lady’s the luckiest thing that’s come our •way since we left town.” “We’ll talk it over again, after the rehearsal,” said Marston. “By the way, how much remains of the £20?” “Sufficient to get us to the next town,” said Roscoe resentfully. “I’m quite capable of managing this outfit, Mr Marston. I’ve had 35 years on the road; you’ve had less than 12 months.” The rehearsal was a pitiable travesty to all save the girl. To her it was the opening of a magical door through which she could see herself enthroned a Bernhardt, while an ardent admiring public bowed in homage. In the cheap lodgings where she stayed with Martine, the leading lady, she had applied herself to the “reading up” of her part; Martine snored vulgarly while the girl read by candle light. At the rehearsal she had one short scene with Marston, and the earnestness with which she essayed the part filled him with indignation against Roscoe. Somebody must tell. the girl that it was all humbug, that not only was the company without engagements, but when it cleared out of that dog-eared town it would be on its shoe leather. She found herself by his side as they trudged through the mud and the sleet from the club room to their lodgings. Timidly, almost fearfully, she inquired of him: “Do you think I showed any promise? I’m certain I shall do better to-morrow. Felt so nervous to-day.” “There’s always promise in to-mpr-row,” he said, evasivgly. “It’s a hard profession.” She wiped the rain from her face and smiled up at him. “I think it’s a glorious profession,” she said, ecstatically ; “and I don’t care what hardships I may have to suffer so long as the ideals are attained. Isn’t tlit how you felt when you became ah actor?”

“No,” he said. “I thought it was an easier lite than the one I had been living. Perhaps the war spoilt my outlook.” “You were a soldier?” “An office'r,” he replied, without the slightest touch of conceit. “I was promoted on the field, and perhaps I absorbed false ideas of what a grateful country should do for me later on.” _ “But you are a great actor,” she persisted. “Miss Martine says so; Mr Ros“You mustn’t believe all that you hear in this profession, little lady,” he said gently. “An artist’s praise of another is generally more sinister than his contempt.” “But Mr Roscoe said that when we got to Harrogate he intended to increase your salary and ” “Do we go to Harrogate?” he inquired cautiously. “Yes, and Scarborough and Darlington and Leeds and ” “Roscoe’s optimism cheers me,” he said.* They reached a street crossing. “Will you take my arm, little lady?’’ he said, with all the courtliness of a knight. She slipped an arm under his and pressed closely to him because of a great pride that thrilled her. " << • w ’ ar) t to get on,” she confessed. “I’ll work day and night and never complain so long as the promise of fame is just there —just ahead. Will you tell Mr Roscoe? I’m so anxious to please him. Don’t say that I asked you to tell him: he’d think it was just foolish conceit.” << Promise,” said Marston solemnly. “Fame!” he echoed a moment later as though he had forgotten her presence. “I’m not thinking only of myself,” she whispered. “There’s someone else.” “Ah!” Her confession crushed a little of his solicitude. ‘My mother,” said the girl, reading Ins thoughts. “She would be so proud.” He nodded, and didn’t speak again till her lodgings were reached. Then he said, without apparent embarrassment: “I was going to leave the company to-morrow, but I’ve changed my mind.” He was looking straight into the violet eyes; in his own there was an expression, not of desire, but of intense longing to protect. It recalled to her the words of a bachelor uncle—her mother’s youngest brother who ended a life of wandering and dissipation: “If I’d been given someone like you to protect it would have made all the difference.’ Roscoe, the florid rascal, decamped with the balance of the twenty pounds. Miss Martine informed Mansto’n of the defection, a J it was she, not he, who said: “We’ve got to do something for that kid. We can’t let her down.” . Marston, divining that a woman’s instition had been surer than his own,- said : You and I have never been very friendly, Miss Martine. I would like to apologise for anything hurtful I may have said. What do you know about the girl?” Miss Martnie r faded, jaded, hennaed, sat on the edge of the bed in the dreary lodgingroom, and looked through the window at the leaden sky and the sleet and rain. “What a life!” she sighed, and her painted lips twitched. “And they call'it Art! You begin with notions of a London production, and having your picture in all the papers, and diamonds trailing from your neck like spaghetti from a dago’s mouth, and it ends in lodgings—like these. All tramping and trusting, and being done down by your pals. Art! uh, my Gawd!” And with that she covered her pathetic-ally-lined face with her hands, and sobbed as though her heat were breaking. Marston remained silent for a moment, his face turned to the window. When the woman’s emotion had spent itself he said: “You were going to tell me something about the little lady.” “Hasn’t got another bean in the world,” said Miss Martine. “She told m e this morning. The twenty pounds represented her mother’s savings—the mother who believed in her.” Marston caught at his breath, but made no comment. “Where’s Cuttie?” he asked sharply. ‘‘Gone. He cleared out with the others this morning.” “They’ve all gone?” “Save you and me and the kid.” “Where is she?” “Gone to have her photograph taken in her ‘props’ so’s to send one to her mother. Oh, Gawd! Isn’t it a life?” “And you Miss Martine?” " - “If I could get back to town I’d be all right. I can always get a job as a waitress.” “All right,” he said. “Stay here and keep the little ladv amused till I come back. Don’t tell her the brutal truth; I’ll do it.” He walked to the door. Miss Martine watched him from her position on the edge of the bed“Boy,” she said. He turned and looked back at her. “You’re fond of the kid—aren’t you?” “Very fond of her,” said Marston, softly. , . “And she’s fond of vou,” said Miss Martine, with a break in her voice. . “She told me so, last night. Knelt down at my feet, she did, like a kiddy saying her prayers, and—Oh, for the love of Mike, go out, Marston, and get me a bottle of stout or I’ll get that maudlin you’ll think I’m crazy. And—-and I’d rather Rse anybody’s good opinion than yours; vou’re so sane.” Marston went out. For the gold watch presented to him by his fellow-officers in ’l7 he obtained three pounds; a signet ring fetched half a guinea. He sent Miss Martine back to London, and was sitting alone in her room when the little lady returned. The instant he set eyes on her he realised that his task was not going to be as difficult as he had feared. She had met Miss Martine, who was on her way to the station, and the older woman had dusted a little of the dreaming from the mind of the younger sister. Her cheeks were rather colourless as she came into the room. (Marston would have said they were cold and pinched.)

But the big eyes were full of that wonder and expectancy that may come to the eyes of a child when it is brought face to face with a happening which it cannot assimilate, yet of which it is not wholly afraid. Marston went slowly towards he/r, holding out his hand so that he might lead her to the rickety armchair near the empty fireplace. ' “Miss Martine told me,” she said, and smiled bravely. “Is it true?” “It hurts to have to disillusion you,” he said gently. “We’re stranded.” Her eyes lit up as she gloried In the promise of a new adventure. “And your money’s gone,” he added. She nodded dreamily. He sat ’down near her, and impulsively she stretched out her hands so that he might hold them. “How cold they are,” he said, and - smoothed them with his own. The rain beat a dismal tattoo on the window pane; from somewhere in the apartment house came the raucous voice of the irate landlady raised in bitter vituperation of her “blinkin’ perfessionals.” Yet the girl heard nothing save a music that came from her heart. “I don’t feel the cold—now,” said the girl, and smiled hopefully. “All your money’s gone,” he said, sadly. “It wasn’t mine,” she told him. “I’ve gathered that,” he said. “Thank God, I shall ,be able to let you have the train fare back home.” She shook her head, and tears sparkled in her eyes. “Fancy going back—a failure,” she said. “It ■would hurt you if you had to do it—eh ?” “You’re not a failure,” he said. “You haven’t been with us more than a week. If I go back it will be after six months! Six months in which to prove what I set out to prove; that I knew more than those who had chosen a groove for me.” ■ He tightened his grasp on her hands. Little lady,” he said, “I’ve learned & great deal of life during the last six months, so that I don’t feel embittered towards the Roscoes and others. It was ■ vanity that sent me into this profession, of. which I knew less than you when you. joined us. Vanity and, perhaps, a foolish • idea of what constitutes romance.” , Her lips moved tremulously. “Romance,” she said; “that’s, it.. Ordinary life is so dull.” “So I used to think,” he said, shaking . his head like an old philosopher, “but it has taken me only six months to discover > that the true romance—the romance that makes all the difference—lies in the ordinary life if you know how to look for it. Tell me”—he averted his head—could you be happy in—in an ordinarywalk of life if there was a hope of discovering romance in it?” She didn’t speak, but there was - eloquence enough for him in the wav her fingers tightened on his. “I’m going back to the starting point,” he said. “I’m going to swallow mv pride and forget my dreams about the* stage. ‘ And I’m going to take you with me.” “I’d go anywhere with you,” she said, ’. but there was a note of timidity in her’ voice. : He stooped and kissed her cold cheek causing it to flame and burn. '“To-morrow at ten,” he said, “I’ll settle with the landlady here, and I’ve enough to take us where we’re going. And when we ve been there, we’ll journey ’ your mother, and I’ll tell her—l’ll tell' her, little lady.” He was gone before she could find the. ’ courage to stifle the last spark of pride ; and she didn’t find the courage until the afternoon of the following day,-when> they were walking up the drive* of the big Georgian house in the near distance.Then she clutched at his arm. “No, no,” she said, tearfully. “I don’t want this sort of romance. It isn’t real, and anyhow I couldn’t take it without telling you the truth. I’m not what you appear to think I am. I’m not a lady, and my mother—my mother she s in the village—keeps a shop—a little shop.” Marston said tenderly: “To me vou are a lady—my little lady. Come, * I’d like you to meet Sir Gerald; I remember ’ his fear that I’d marry some actress who’d be no more than a millstone around my neck.” ’ ■ ' ■ . The footman, when he answered the • r i n g> gave him a smiling welcome, but looked askance at the girl who nervously obeyed Marston’s whispered injunction to be seated in the hall until he had seen Sir Gerald. He followed the footman to the library door," and as he disappeared she was seized with an impulse ’ to escape. Five minutes and he reap- ’ peared, by his side an elderly, whitehaired man of military bearing. She rose to her feet as they approached. She. braced herself for the parental outburst that didn’t come. Sir Gerald smiled kindly at her. “So this is the little lady who’s to be your wife,” he said. “Splendid, my boy! Splendid! ” Then to her: “Mar-, ston was one of the best officers I had in France,” he said, “and even if he was only a chauffeur before he went out there, I’ll wager he was a good chauffeur.” He turned to Marston and rested a hand on his shoulder. “My boy,” he said, “I told you six months ago that your place ■■ here would be waiting for you when you were tired of the tinsel and the make-.: believe. There are four cars to look A after now, and the prospect of a steward- 1 ship. Take the little lady around ‘to Lovers’ Walk and show her the new cot-. tage I’m having erected. It may be yours.”

And as they passed down Lovers’ Walk, far behind the Georgian house, he asked in an undertone: "Is it another disillusionment, little Jady ?” Her eyes were wet, but the tears were ■ fTx>rn of joy. .•«$; “This is romance,” she sard, “because it’s real.”