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diff --git a/old/67611-0.txt b/old/67611-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 37b2be7..0000000 --- a/old/67611-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10411 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Old Card, by Roland Pertwee - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Old Card - -Author: Roland Pertwee - -Release Date: March 12, 2022 [eBook #67611] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images - generously made available by the Internet Archive - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD CARD *** - - THE OLD CARD - - - - - - - THE OLD CARD - - - - BY - ROLAND PERTWEE - - - [Illustration] - - - - BONI AND LIVERIGHT - NEW YORK 1919 - - - - - PUBLISHED, 1919, - BY BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC. - - - _Printed in the U.S.A._ - - - - - TO - MY SON - AND HIS GODFATHER - HENRY AINLEY - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PART I - A FEW ELEMENTS - - CHAPT PAGE - ER - I. THE BIG CHANCE 1 - II. PISTOLS FOR TWO 20 - III. A CURE THAT WORKED WONDERS 40 - IV. THE ELIPHALET TOUCH 64 - V. GETTING THE BEST 96 - VI. QUICKSANDS OF TRADITION 113 - VII. GAS WORKS 135 - - - PART II - AND A ROUGH COMPOUND - - VIII. MORNICE JUNE 155 - IX. A REVERSIBLE FAVOUR 178 - X. THE DEAR DEPARTED 198 - XI. CLOUDS 227 - XII. THE LAST CURTAIN 253 - - - - - FOREWORD - - -A visit to any modern French Art Gallery will reveal a number of -canvases daubed all over with little patches of primary colours, almost -as though the picture had been painted with confetti. Assuming you are -unaccustomed to this form of application, you will declare against it -with insular promptitude. But give the picture a chance—step back and -view it from the far wall, and like as not you will find that these -chaotic colours have blended and commingled, have ceased to exist as -individual items and become merged in a single statement of meaning the -artist intended to convey. - -It is not always want of a single material that persuades the fashioning -of a patchwork quilt. Patchwork, in its way, is as complete as are the -green plush curtains that hang so soberly from the lacquered pole in -your neighbour’s parlour. - -There is a motive in this preamble; I did not leap from a canvas to a -patchwork quilt without purpose. When you have read these pages, if so -be you have the patience and inclination, you will perceive what that -motive is. Let me then forestall the inevitable criticism, “Why, this is -but a series of events strung together by a mere thread of personality,” -and say at once, “Agreed; but that was the intention.” And I would ask -you to hold out the book at arm’s length, get a fair perspective, and -admit that it was not possible to deal with the subject otherwise, and -that these disjointed clippings tumble together in a kind of united -whole. - -The life of a touring actor is as no other man’s. It is a series of -ever-changing pictures connected only by the Sunday train-journey. The -most we can do is to catch a glimpse here and there as he halts upon the -Road. - -Here, then, are a few such glimpses for your approval or contempt. - - ROLAND PERTWEE. -B.E.F., -France, 1917. - - - - - THE OLD CARD - - _PART I. A FEW ELEMENTS_ - - - - - CHAPTER I - THE BIG CHANCE - - -Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the -platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it -was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his -august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves. - -It was gratifying to observe how the station porters touched their caps. - -On the seat of the compartment he had vacated lay an open suit-case, -several brown-paper-covered plays, copies of the _Era_ and the -_Referee_, an umbrella and a travelling cap. It was part of the -dresser’s duties to clear up the débris occasioned by Mr. Cardomay. A -man who carries in his head all the emotions and all the -lines—_Hamlet_, _Richard III._, _The Silver King_, and countless other -rôles of lesser importance—could hardly be expected to give attention -to such a trifling matter as his own personal property. - -Eliphalet accepted a bundle of letters from an obsequious advance agent, -returned, with condescension, the tentative salutes of several members -of his company, and passed down the long grey platform with springing -step. The yellow smoke of the Midlands was as violets to his nostrils -and as balm to his eyes. - -With quiet satisfaction he noted how the ticket-collector at the -barrier, instead of demanding his ticket, allowed him to pass with a -polite “Good morning, Sir.” After all, it is something to be known. - -Mr. Cardomay invariably walked to his lodging, thereby giving a large -section of his future public the opportunity of studying his features at -close range, unadorned by the artifices of the make-up box or the -beneficent influences of limelight. This walk also gave him a chance of -seeing whether the effect of his billing justified the cost. - -For twenty-five years had Eliphalet Cardomay “featured on the road,” and -there was little left for him to learn about Provincial Theatrical -Management. - -The poster which preceded him to town displayed a well-proportioned man, -whose head tilted fearlessly upon broad shoulders, and whose eyes shone -as with a smouldering fire. A full growth of hair projected from under -the curving brim of a Trilby hat. He wore a flowing tie, a fur-collared -coat, and in his right hand carried an ivory-topped Malacca cane of -original design. It was a striking poster, executed many years before, -and everyone who knew it, and knew Eliphalet, marvelled how the original -still continued to realise the picture in every detail. - -The reader will have judged, and judged rightly, that our hero is one of -the Old School—the school of graceful calisthenics, and meticulous -elocution—but let him beware of anticipating too far; for, although -Eliphalet Cardomay’s histrionics might savour of the obsolete, he will -not find in the man himself those traits usually allied to actors of -this calibre. - -In all his long career no one had ever heard Eliphalet address a -fellow-performer as “laddie,” nor a theatrical landlady as “Ma.” Neither -did he borrow half-crowns at the Bodega, nor absorb tankards of -Guinness’s stout in the wings. In fact, Eliphalet Cardomay was a very -estimable fellow, hedged about and wing-clipped by stale conventions of -his calling, which, in spite of his bitterly-learnt knowledge of their -existence, he was never able to supersede by modern methods. - -The almost impertinent disregard for old stage processes and old -accepted technique which brings notoriety and admiration to the actor of -to-day was as unattainable to Eliphalet as the peak of Mount Parnassus. - -Twenty-five years before, a London newspaper had prophesied that he -would mature and become big. He did mature, but on the lines of his -beginning, and when at last he returned to London—the Mecca of his -dreams—he was driven by laughter back to the provinces whence he had -come. - -In the hearts of provincial playgoers there were still warm places for -Eliphalet Cardomay, and the rich cadences of his voice never failed to -arouse strange emotions and irrepressible yearnings in the bosoms of -impressionable young ladies, who wrote and confided their admiration -with surpassing regularity and singular lack of reserve. - -To his own company he was always courteous and considerate, but a trifle -remote. He wrapped himself about in mystery, and as no one knew exactly -how to take him very few made the attempt. - -“The public man should always be an enigma.” - -He addressed this statement to a very voluble young member of his -company, who frequented bars and lavished cigarettes upon total -strangers. - -“Be mysterious if you wish to succeed,” he continued, developing the -theme. “Your never-ceasing ‘Have a spot,’ and your ever-open -cigarette-case, are the most obvious things that ever happened.” - -Naturally Eliphalet Cardomay was looked upon as something of a joke. A -man with a name like that could hardly expect anything else. Yet to him -the name Eliphalet, which his sire, a once-distinguished tragedian, had -borne before him, was one of his most cherished possessions. Like a -blare of trumpets it rang out from a hundred hoardings. It was -electric—original—arresting. A title to juggle with; and yet, so -strange is the human mind, so averse to aught but the copper coinage of -the language, that his few intimate friends and the inner circles of all -provincial Green Rooms knew, spoke and thought of him by no other -appellation than “The Old Card.” - -Let it be clearly understood that no one called him the Old Card to his -face; for, although regarded as a joke, Eliphalet was clearly loved by -his fellows, and if at times they indulged in the gentlest of -leg-pulling there was not one amongst them who would willingly have -caused him the slightest pain or distress. - -But to return to our hero, striding briskly over the cobble streets on -the particular Sunday morning on which our narrative opens. Every -feature of the ugly midland town was familiar to him and every feature -good. Taking a turning to the right, he pursued his way through a narrow -and deserted alley between two factories. There was an acute angle a -little further down, and here on a wall facing him a full-length -prototype of himself had been posted. - -Eliphalet stopped and saluted his printed image. - -“Old boy,” he said, “we are back—back home again. I deserted you for a -while—a little while—but I’ve learnt my lesson, old friend, and we -will see the rest of the show out together.” - -There was a tremor in his voice as he spoke the words and an unnatural -mist before his eyes. It was this same mist, perhaps, that delayed his -noticing that the billsticker had applied the last sheet of the poster -at least ten inches too high, with the result that the feet were -practically attached to the knees. Mr. Cardomay made a note of the fact -in a small book he carried for the purpose and continued his walk. - -Two factory girls nudged each other as he passed them by. - -“See who it was? Mister What-you-call Cardomay.” - -“Oh, I like ’im. ’E’s good! When’ll we go?” - -The rest of their remarks drifted out of earshot, but Eliphalet Cardomay -felt a tinge of pride warming his bosom. He was back again—back home. - -The excellent Mrs. Booker, best of landladies, greeted him with every -indication of respectful devotion. - -“It’s a treat to see you again, sir, it is indeed,” she said, opening -the door of the comfortable little parlour, where a jolly fire was -burning in the grate and reflecting its rays on many framed and -autographed photographs of the celebrated artists the room at one time -or another had accommodated. - -“When I heard you’d gorn to London, I said to Booker, ‘There! we’ve -lorst ’im,’ and ’e says, ‘I believe we ’ave,’ and I says, ‘That’s what -we ’ave done; for, depend on it, if London gets hold of ’im, it’ll claim -’im as their own and never let ’im go.’” - -Eliphalet’s lips tightened a little. He drew off his gloves and cast -them on the embossed green plush sofa, and quoted: - - “The clinging magic runs, - They will return as strangers, - They will remain as sons.” - -“I returned as a son—and could not remain as a stranger.” Then, -observing that his remarks were entirely lost upon his audience, he -concluded: - -“Did you get me a small leg of lamb, Mrs. Booker?” - -She nodded gravely. - -“A beautiful leg,” she replied; “with a black-currant tart to follow. I -’aven’t forgotten your little likes, sir.” - -Eliphalet smiled beatifically. - -“You are an excellent good woman,” he said. Then, stretching himself -luxuriously, “Yes, there is no doubt at all—it is very good to be back -again.” - -He cast a loving and possessive eye over the homely surroundings, shook -out his table napkin, and drew up a chair to the table, as a king might -sit at a banquet. - - * * * * * - -Probably the reader is wondering what this story is all about, and -certainly it might have been a distinct advantage to have begun at the -beginning rather than the end. Having committed ourselves so far, -however, there is no option but to retrace our steps to a period some -three months prior to the foregoing incident. - -It was at the conclusion of a long tour that Eliphalet Cardomay received -a startling proposal from London that he should appear in the title-part -in Oscar Raven’s dramatisation of the Autobiography of Benvenuto -Cellini. - -For weeks past the production had been boomed in all the dramatic -columns, and the advertised cast practically made a corner in the -biggest stage stars of the day. - -Sir Owen Frazer, Actor-Manager and Knight (with danger of becoming a -baronet), was to have appeared as Cellini, and had favoured several -reporters with extensive interviews in which he sought to convey to the -public mind the depths of his research into Cellini’s character. He had -even gone to the length of growing a real beard for the part, rather -than relying on the good offices of Mr. Clarkson. Therefore, when at the -eleventh hour his voice entirely forsook him, and Harley Street -unanimously declared that it would forsake him altogether unless he gave -it a rest for a month, consternation in dramatic circles ran very high -indeed. - -Eight days existed before the much-advertised first night, and the -finding of a fitting successor was at once the most baffling and the -most urgent affair. - -After an all-night sitting, in which the name of every prominent male -member of the profession was suggested, and in which Mr. Oscar Raven and -his part collaborator, Julian Franks, nearly came to blows with every -member of the Syndicate, each other included, the producer, a young man -whose youth was only exceeded by his brilliance, rose and standing, -flamingo-like, on one leg, addressed the meeting. - -“For God’s sake, get to bed,” he said. “You are talking bilge, the whole -lot of you. I’ll find someone—in fact, I have already. You will say I -am mad,” he continued, in response to a chorus of inquiries which -greeted his statement, “but even at so great a risk I will tell you his -name. It is Eliphalet Cardomay.” - -Raymond Wakefield was quite right when saying they would accuse him of -madness. Sir Owen Frazer wrote on a piece of paper the opinion that he -was probably dangerous as well. But Wakefield only laughed. - -“Commend me to authors for stupidity and to syndicates for lack of -intelligence,” he observed. “It is evident none of you have the smallest -acquaintance with the character of Cellini or the art of Eliphalet.” - -“But the man can’t act.” - -“My dear Raven!” expostulated Wakefield. “The man never ceases to act.” - -“But not the kind we want,” from Franks. - -“It will be my duty to stop him acting.” - -“He has no brains,” contributed Sir Owen, more by gesture than sound. - -“I, on the other hand, have plenty,” the producer modestly remarked. -“Just consider the character of Cellini, and what do we find? Conceit, -bombast. Probably he had a beautiful voice, certainly a chivalrous -manner, unquestionably an incapacity to realise his own ineffability. -Turn to Eliphalet and you find the exact prototype. _Compris?_” - -“By George, yes!” said Julian Franks. - -But Oscar Raven stretched out a silencing hand. - -“Does this man Cardomay strike you as the kind of personality that could -ever have achieved the masterpieces which came from the hand of -Cellini?” - -“Well, of course, that is pure rot,” returned Wakefield. “That was where -Frazer was all over the place in the part. Trying to convey an -undercurrent of massive brain-power. Believe me, the work of great -artists is entirely spontaneous—they carry no stamp of genius. Look at -Raven, for instance! He has written quite a remarkably good play. Does -his exterior suggest it? No. Anyone’d mistake him for a haberdasher’s -assistant. But I’m off to bed. Fix it up amongst yourselves.” - -And that was how Eliphalet Cardomay was dragged from the provinces and -hurled into the forefront of the London stage, with a great part and -eight days in which to study it. - -As the train bore him towards the Metropolis, he repeated over and over -to himself: - -“It has come at last. They want me.” - -His mind flew back to the old press-cutting of twenty-five years ago. -“One day this young man will mature and become big.” - -“We’ll show ’em, old boy!” he said. Yet behind it all was a strange -fear—a queer, nervous doubt—the same doubt which had ever stood -between him and his cherished dreams of appearing in the West End with a -production of his own. He had never taken the plunge—he had never swum -across the Thames from the Surrey side, and it is probable he never -would have done. But now the great ones had stretched out their hands -and said, “Come over.” - -London is a chilling place to the stranger, and Eliphalet felt the chill -almost before his foot touched the platform. There was no genial -cap-touching from the porters—no polite salutation from the official at -the ticket-barrier. He took a cab. There was no particular point in -walking—he could scarcely expect to be recognised. - -Fur-coated and Trilby-hatted, Eliphalet Cardomay entered the stage-door -of the Duke of Connaught’s and mixed with the company. It was curious -what little notice was taken of him. He might have been nobody. -Presently a business-manager came and asked if he were Mr. Cardomay, -and, learning this was the case, carried him off to an office near the -roof to sign contracts and discuss details. - -“I shall require my own poster to be used,” said Eliphalet. - -The business manager shook his head. “Sorry,” was all he said. Then -added, “Reiter is doing the posters, you see.” It was said so -conclusively that argument was out of the question. - -Eliphalet fell back on his second line of defences. - -“I take it that my name will come first on the bills.” - -“No. Characters in order of their appearance is the way we are working -it. Shall we get back to the stage?” - -He was led down through countless corridors until they arrived at their -destination. Here Oscar Raven came forward and introduced him to several -of his fellow-players. - -“Let’s get at it,” came a voice from the stalls. “How de do, Mr. -Cardomay. You’ve read the part, I suppose?” - -“I have not only read the part,” he replied, “I have studied the first -act.” - -“Sorry to hear that,” Wakefield cheerfully replied. “You may have got -hold of the wrong end of the stick. Here, wait a bit. I’ll come up.” - -Eliphalet turned in surprise to the author. - -“Who is that very young man?” he demanded. - -“Raymond Wakefield—our producer,” replied Raven, as one who spoke of -the gods. - -“Indeed?” with raised eyebrows. - -Just then Wakefield appeared through the iron door and skated on to the -stage. - -“I meant to read it to you first,” he said, without any preamble. “But -never mind. Now, what’s your idea of the part?” - -Mr. Cardomay had never been cross-examined before, and didn’t like it; -but he replied, politely enough: - -“It’s a very good part.” - -“Yes, yes; but I mean, how are you taking it? Comedy, tragedy, farce?” - -“There can scarcely exist two opinions, Mr. Wakefield, Cellini is a -great thinker—a poet—a philosopher.” - -“Lord, no! Light comedy is what we want; light comedy to the verge of -farce.” - -“Mr. Wakefield, I do not appreciate jokes in regard to my work.” - -Here Raven intervened with, “You are so extreme, my dear Raymond. After -all, Cellini was a great artist, and in my conception——” - -“Look here, Raven,” said Wakefield, running his fingers through his -pinky-yellow hair, “you’ll have to stop away from rehearsals if you -can’t shake those absurd ideas from your brain. The Cellini I want, and -mean to have, is the man who had _liaisons_ with his models, committed -murders, and yet was an artist _malgré lui_. You see what I mean?” He -fired the query at Eliphalet. “You’ve read the biography, of course?” - -“I have little leisure for reading,” replied the actor, feeling a trifle -dazed. - -“You must do so at once, then. Come on, and I’ll go over some passages -with you now at the Savage. Reynolds, take the crowd scenes—we’ll be -back by two.” And he gripped Eliphalet to whisk him away. - -But Eliphalet Cardomay would not allow himself to be hustled. - -“Mr. Wakefield,” he said, “I have eight days in which to study a long -and important role. I do not choose to squander any of these precious -hours in profitless discussion. Let us proceed to rehearse at once.” - -This was mutiny—rank mutiny. It is doubtful whether the great Sir Owen -Frazer, at present seated at the back of the stalls, would have presumed -to say as much. - -Raymond Wakefield’s cherubic face went into a series of straight lines. -He had never before been openly defied and his sense of humour deserted -him. It deserted him for eight consecutive days, during which time he -gave Eliphalet Cardomay every kind of hell. Unmindful of the very -characteristics which had prompted him to make the engagement, he caught -up every stereotyped inflexion, each elaborate gesture, and subjected it -to the most rigorous criticism, analysis and correction. In justice it -should be admitted that, according to modern standards, there was a very -sound reason for all his suggestions. Raymond Wakefield was never at a -loss for reasons. He kept up a running fire of interrogation as to what -Eliphalet was driving at, and Eliphalet never could answer. - -“Why chant that passage as though it were a hymn, when the whole -intention of the line is—Ouch! You speak the stuff like the ancients -spoke blank verse. There! When you are telling Pietro to bring you ‘raw -gold’—you say ‘raw gold’ as though it were something sacred and divine. -My dear fellow, it’s the stuff you’re working in every day of the week. -Try and imagine yourself a plumber saying to his mate, ‘Get us a lump of -putty, Jack.’” - -At first Eliphalet resented this treatment hotly, but he was no match -for this electric young man. On the third day of rehearsals he had been -so ill-advised as to retort. - -“You forget that I was acting many years before you were thought of.” He -regretted the words almost before he had spoken them. - -That night he sat down on his bed and reviewed the whole affair. His -belief in himself was shattered. He realised that all the painful years -of acquired technique were valueless. His entire stock-in-trade had been -exploded and held up to ridicule by a young man who could scarcely need -to shave more than twice a week. And the worst of it was that his -resentment for that young man had died, and in his heart he confessed -that all and everything he had been told was good and true and right, -and that his own methods were bad and false and wrong. - -Next morning he did a very gracious act. He apologised to Raymond -Wakefield and promised to do his best in the future. Unhappily, the -apology came at an inopportune moment. Both authors had been reviling -Wakefield for letting them down, and had declared that the play would be -ruined as a result of his casting. They insisted that Cardomay must be -got rid of and the production postponed. Wakefield never admitted -himself at fault, and a stormy scene resulted. Eventually Sir Owen -Frazer was appealed to, and, to the general astonishment, he wrote on a -sheet of paper, his voice being inoperative, that if either or both of -the suggestions were carried out he would institute proceedings against -everyone concerned. Being lessee of the theatre, nothing more could be -said at the time, but subsequently Messrs. Raven and Franks foregathered -and spoke hard words anent Sir Owen—who, they declared, being unable to -play the part himself, desired nothing better than to see it mutilated. - -One can understand, therefore, why Eliphalet’s apology was not so well -received as it deserved. In fact, all that Raymond Wakefield said was: - -“Glad to hear it, for we’ve any amount of lost ground to make up.” - -The hours and days that followed were pitiful to the point of tragedy. -The Old Card worked like a dray horse at the new art of being natural, -which, despite his utmost effort, further and further eluded him. At the -last dress-rehearsal there was not a line nor a movement, from start to -finish, which fitted him anywhere. - -Both authors left the theatre in a state of speechless fury at the end -of the second act, and when the curtain fell on the final scene of the -play, Raymond Wakefield just looked at him, shook his head, and followed -their example. - -Eliphalet Cardomay, a perfect picture in his Florentine robes, stood -like a statue in the middle of the deserted stage. An overmastering -desire possessed him to hide his head and cry like a child in some dark -recess. He moved unsteadily toward the prompt corner. The iron door -beside it was open, and there, in the brightly-lit corridor leading to -the Royal Box, stood Sir Owen Frazer, and he was laughing—laughing, it -seemed, as a man had never laughed before. - -Until that moment his feelings had been entirely of self-reproach. He -had acquired the bitter knowledge that a great chance had been given -him—the chance for which he had waited all his life—and he—he -couldn’t deal with it. To-morrow evening the public would witness an -exhibition so execrable, so vile, that the veriest tyro might be ashamed -of giving it. But the sight of Sir Owen Frazer’s mirth brought about an -instant metamorphosis. The self-reproach vanished, to be supplanted by a -dull and smouldering rage. - -With compressed lips he made as if to approach the Knight; then, turning -about, he swept superbly from the stage. - -Back at his hotel he came to a great decision. Failure on the morrow was -certain. Well, fail he might, but not on the lines of Raymond -Wakefield’s laying. London should see Eliphalet Cardomay play Cellini on -his own methods—play it, in fact, just as he had played “The Silver -King,” and a hundred other creations. - -A rehearsal was called for his especial benefit next day, but he -telephoned to say that he had no intention of being present. - -Raymond Wakefield got into a cab and set forth to see what it was all -about. He found his quarry, arrayed in a gorgeous kimono, discussing a -late breakfast. - -“Look, here, Mr. Cardomay,” he began, “do you consider this is fair?” - -Eliphalet motioned him to a chair and placed cigarettes within easy -reach. - -“My dear young Mr. Raymond Wakefield,” he said, choosing his words with -slow deliberation, “I have no intention to rehearse again, because it -would be useless. You, with unexampled brilliance—and, believe me, no -one is more sensible of your admirable gifts than I am—have devoted an -entire week in a fruitless endeavour to teach your grandmother to suck -eggs. Doubtless grandmothers should know how to perform this delicate -ritual, doubtless it is expedient and is expected of them; but many are -too old to learn, and, right or wrong, prefer to decapitate the ova with -a table knife and assimilate its albuminous contents with the aid of a -teaspoon. I have done my best, and have failed—confessedly, I have -proved an inept pupil, and, to complete the metaphor, have dribbled the -yolk and the white all over my waistcoat like a child that knows no -better.” - -“My dear chap,” exclaimed Raymond Wakefield, striking one hand against -the other, “if only you would play Cellini as you are talking now, I’d -turn into a door-mat for you to wipe your feet on. Now, let’s run over -it just once more.” - -But Eliphalet Cardomay was adamant. - -The Duke of Connaught’s Theatre was packed to overflowing for the -opening performance of “Benvenuto Cellini.” Incidentally, every member -of the dramatic profession, not otherwise engaged, made it a duty to be -present, some even going to the extremity of paying for their seats. - -The news that something unusual in the way of acting was likely to occur -had spread with the rapidity of a fire. Be it said that most of his -fellow-players were heartily sympathetic with Eliphalet for the failure -they were confident he would make, but their sympathy did not take the -form of staying away. - -Before the curtain rose, each member of the company came forward to wish -him luck, and he, with old-world courtesy, thanked them all and waited, -apparently unmoved, for his cue. - -The first scene in which he was to appear was a very Rabelaisian -interlude wherein he made love, of a base kind, to his model. At -rehearsals he had been worse in this than in any other part of the play. -His efforts to acquire a light touch had been little short of -bricklayer’s pastry, and the poor girl with whom the scene took place -was in an agony of dread at the coming ordeal. What was her amazement, -then, when Eliphalet Cardomay acted the whole racy interlude as though -he were reading a lesson from the Bible. - -At first the audience did not know what to make of it, the reading was -so utterly at variance with the lines. Then, like a wave, it struck them -that here was originality at its highest. Here in these full-throated -accents, these absurd parsonic gestures, was a brilliant satirical -reading—a fragment of exquisite characterisation. - -There was an ovation when Eliphalet left the stage. - -In the author’s box Sir Owen Frazer was heard to say, with extraordinary -force, considering he had lost his voice, “I’m damned! Damn it!” - -Oscar Raven plucked Wakefield by the sleeve. “What on earth do you make -of it?” he said. - -“It will make the play,” came the reply. - -“But I can’t understand. Does he know what he’s doing?” - -“’Course not. Our friend Eliphalet is shirking. He couldn’t do what we -wanted, so he’s just turning on the old stuff, the old provincial tap.” - -“Then please Heaven,” came from Franks, “he keeps up the flow till the -end.” - -And he did. All the bad provincial fake was reeled off—mere -vocalisation and attitudinising, utterly misplaced, fitting the part -nowhere, and for that very reason accepted by the high-browed Press and -the novelty-seeking public as one of the finest dramatic conceptions of -the day. - -The Press raved about it. They went into ecstasies over the Art of -Eliphalet and his “epic cynicism.” “Why had this marvellous depictor -been denied to London?” they cried. “Doubtless,” said one, “much praise -is due to the intellect of Mr. Wakefield, the brilliant producer, but -for the actor himself no adulation could be too strong.” - -And the “brilliant young producer” kicked himself heartily in that the -praise should have been due to him for casting Eliphalet as Cellini, but -that he had forfeited all claim thereunto by losing sight of his -original intention out of pique. - -The wonderful notices were brought to Eliphalet on the following morning -as he lay in bed, and very gravely he read them through—and understood. -There was no triumph in his eyes—the meaning of those cuttings was too -clear. To Eliphalet they spelt failure, not fame. The words “epic -cynicism” rang through his brain. Epic cynicism?—Yes, it was just that. -And instead of rising, as for years he had dreamed he would do, and -saying to his image in the glass, “Eliphalet, old boy, we’ve knocked -’em—knocked ’em hard,” he pulled the coverlet over his head and buried -his face in the pillow. - -“Benvenuto Cellini” ran ten weeks, during which time the secret of -Eliphalet’s success was well preserved. - -Oddly enough, Sir Owen Frazer, whose voice by this time was restored to -him, was singularly free from enthusiasm with regard to the hit his -_confrère_ had made. People even went so far as to say that, had he been -a lesser man, they would have suspected him of jealousy. Thus there was -a good deal of astonishment when it became known that he had offered -Eliphalet Cardomay the second lead in his new production. - -Eliphalet received the part in company with an invitation to supper. He -went over it very carefully and very suspiciously. Then he put it in his -pocket and went forth to seek Raymond Wakefield. - -“Read this,” he begged, “and open up your wonderful brain as to its -potentialities.” - -Raymond did so, and explained with fluency and clarity the thousand -subtle intricacies with which the part abounded. - -Eliphalet Cardomay nodded gravely. - -“Sir Owen Frazer is a very clever man,” he remarked. - -On his way back he returned the part, with a polite refusal to sup. In a -postscript he added: - -“I am returning to the provinces for good. One should never destroy an -illusion. You have had your laugh. It was generous of you to wish to -share it with the masses.” - - * * * * * - -Eliphalet Cardomay stepped from his first-class compartment to the -platform. Potter, his dresser, having descended from the train while it -was still in motion, respectfully held open the carriage door lest his -august master should soil his beautiful wash-leather gloves. - -Dear me! this sounds strangely familiar. Why, of course! That’s the -worst of starting a story at the wrong end. - - - - - CHAPTER II - PISTOLS FOR TWO - - -Let us avoid repetition, and return to Eliphalet Cardomay where we left -him at the dining-table, to march backwards to a past episode. - -Lack of concentration and cohesion are among the chief snares lying in -wait for him who chronicles character rather than plot. One might, of -course, hazard, by way of excuse, that the recently recounted -reminiscence was of greater interest than a detailed account of a roast -leg of lamb followed by black-currant tart would prove. But -justifications are always dull. To Eliphalet Cardomay the London episode -was a grief unspeakable, whereas the homely repast, consumed in such -familiar and well-loved surroundings, was the very reverse. - -He finished that black-currant tart unto the final morsel, till naught -but the permanganate-coloured stains upon the plate remained in token of -its recent being. There was something almost boyish in the liberality of -his appetite. In using the term boyish the period of his own youth is -not implied, for Eliphalet displayed no youthful traits until his hair -was silvered, his brow furrowed, and his eyes deep-set. - -There are certain men whose mental condition bears little or no relation -to their years, and he was one of them. They are born with grown-up -minds, sage and mature convictions, unsuited to youth and only really -serviceable when they have reached that time of life with which such -gravity accords. - -Eliphalet Cardomay, even when a boy, was oppressed with a middle-aged -manner and a professional mien. It might truthfully be said that his -brain and body did not synchronise until he had passed the forty-year -high-water mark. His body, or, to put it more gracefully, his externals, -were prepossessing. His broad forehead, swept-back hair, bold eyebrows -and dilated nostrils, gave suggestion of virility and power. To a maiden -they were productive of second glances, an added colour and a quickening -of heart-beats against the ramparts of her corsets. In this well-knit -yet æsthetic youth she might be pardoned for presuming there lurked -wells of high romance, tempered with humour and a knavish disposition. -It was said of him in the company, where he played juvenile leads at two -pounds two shillings a week, that he was “deep.” Furthermore, since it -was never his custom to boast about deeds of love, the young men with -whom his lot was cast credited him with the proclivities of a Lothario -and laid to his account many charming indiscretions in the glades of -Eros. The older members of the company were wiser, or deemed themselves -to be, and decided, not without a certain rough justice, that he was a -bit of a prig. For this reason, Harrington May, who specialised in -villains of the heavier kind, gave him the title of “Mother’s Boy” and -named him as such to his face. - -Eliphalet was very grave (he had accomplished the forty-five manner -twenty years before he was entitled to it), and replied: - -“In so far as I was born of woman your accusation is correct. My mother -died, however, when I was a year old. I presume, from your smile, you -believe you have said something offensive, but since it is nothing but -the truth I cannot allow myself to take umbrage, even though the truth -is usually a stranger to your lips.” - -For one so young the speech was painfully pedantic, but it succeeded in -putting Mr. Harrington May temporarily out of action, and established -for Eliphalet a reputation for caustic repartee. He was frequently asked -to repeat his words, but this he politely declined to do, thus giving -further proof of age before accession to age. - -Miss Blanche Cannon, a depictor of adventuresses on the stage and a -great Bohemian off, had been present at the contretemps, and was greatly -delighted by the young man’s urbanity and calm. It is no infrequent -occurrence for opposites to be attracted by each other, and she, with -her scatter-brained, love-a-lark disposition, scented in Eliphalet a -suitor of possible quality. - -He, poor fellow, was quite unaware of this, for his thoughts were -centred in Art and a desire to make a mark in dramatic history. Hitherto -he had had no dealings with love, and many a maid had languished in vain -on that account. - -But Blanche was not of the languishing brand. Having decided to ensnare -his affections, she set about making inquiries, and was greatly -intrigued to learn, from several misinformed, but talkative, young -actors, that he was “no end of a dog on the Q.T.” One of them, with an -imagination that would have thriven in Fleet Street, went to the length -of describing a _liaison_ with a certain titled lady, who had become -enamoured of Eliphalet from the stalls and had lured him away to a -castle, beside which Haddon Hall paled into insignificance. Charmed by -these accounts, Blanche Cannon’s desire developed exceedingly, and -forthwith she began a tentative archery upon the heart of Eliphalet. It -is always your student who proves the easiest prey to the wiles of love, -and one day, when she had successfully manœuvred a tête-à-tête tea-party -in her own rooms, Eliphalet succumbed, and Blanche, picking up her cue -with professional skill, dropped into his arms under a smother of -kisses. - -Eliphalet was entirely proficient in the art of love-making. It was part -of his equipment as an actor. He knew the moment to fold to his bosom -the form of an adored one, and how to brush the hair back from her -forehead with just sufficient pressure to elevate the chin to the ideal -angle for imprinting a kiss. He knew how to drop his voice to a quality -of whispering and passionate vibration. All of these services he most -faithfully rendered, with one or two minor improvements suggested by a -productive mind. Repetition, however, if pursued beyond a given margin, -is apt to weary the soul, and after a while Blanche began to yearn for -variety, and to doubt if he were indeed the ideal lover. Certain -misgivings also arose in his own mind. At first he was enveloped in the -wonder of love new-born, but as time went on he was able to detect -certain faults in the poetic composition of his destined bride. For -instance, she did not respond very rapidly to the Shakespearian -atmosphere he diligently sought to produce by passionately-delivered -quotations from _Romeo and Juliet_. She showed a marked lack of interest -in the story of Abélard and Héloise, and a greater enthusiasm at the -prospect of a donkey-ride on the New Brighton sands than a lovers’ -wander in leafy solitudes. She became sick of holding hands, and more -than once told him stories the humour of which would have been better -suited to the court of Bluff King Hal. - -To a sensitive mind these passages of wit were distasteful, but -nevertheless Eliphalet Cardomay remained in love with praiseworthy -constancy. He built palaces, masoned and mortared of their united -talents, and spoke of the future that should be theirs—a future which -would be spoken of in retrospect by posterity. With love and guidance he -convinced himself that Blanche would in time come to a fuller -understanding of the vast responsibility they jointly held for the -furtherance of art. He pictured her as blossoming into a great emotional -actress, and to that end tried to dissuade her from over-hilarity in -public places, and to attach less importance to such trivial pleasures -as ice-creams consumed in small Italian cafés. He spoke of the glory of -mutual understanding, reciprocity, and many other long-worded matters, -tedious to a person of light-hearted habit. - -For her part, Blanche was heartily disappointed that none of the alleged -characteristics displayed in the affair of the titled lady had been -revealed to her. His behaviour had been of a scrupulous purity, and -high-standing little short of ridiculous. It has been said that Blanche -was a Bohemian, which implies a taste for the savoury diet. She enjoyed -risky friendships—she liked to see the eyes of her lover catch fire and -to quell the fire by some cold drench of inconsequent nonsense. That was -caviare! There was a relish in such intimacy—but with Eliphalet, and -his erotic quotations, there was none. Wherefore, partly to stimulate -more vivid emotions, and partly for her own entertainment, she adopted -other methods, and in Mr. Harrington May and his natural villainies she -found the desired means. - -May was a heavily-built man with a hearty laugh and a bullying manner. -He bullied his juniors and his lovers alike, and by so doing achieved -something of a reputation for manhood. His principle in life was to take -his fun where he found it, so, accordingly, when Blanche yearned towards -him, he threw an arm around her with a strong man’s zeal. - -“Can’t see what you found to amuse you in that young spring poet,” he -observed, after the first elaborately-resisted embrace had been -achieved. - -“Anyway,” returned Blanche, who was a firm believer in tantalising -methods, “he scored off you all right.” - -Harrington May did not deny the charge, but “I’m scoring off him pretty -heavily at the moment,” he said. - -When, that night, Eliphalet suggested to Blanche they should take -sandwiches and aerated waters and have a picnic in the pleasaunces of -Jesmond Dene the following day, she shook her head and declined. - -“But my dearest, there will be no rehearsal, and you and I could——” - -“I’ve something else to do, I tell you.” - -She was very mysterious and roguishly declined to tell him what. -Eliphalet, unlike most youths, was not in the least suspicious, but he -thought it a strange violation of true love’s laws to harbour secrets. -When he observed as much, she put him off with a coquettish toss of the -head. - -For the next couple of days each proposed meeting met with the same -answer, and at last he began to feel angry and injured. - -Being of a philosophical mind, this sense of injury found expression in -more practical ways than upbraiding his _fiancée_. He reflected that, if -after so short a time she was able willingly to forego the charms of his -company, it was reasonable to expect that serious breaches would arise -should they engage upon more enduring relations. This reasoning led to -the natural conclusion that Blanche Cannon was not the right woman to -fill the post of his wife and helpmeet. It would be better, perhaps, to -tell her so at once, rather than increase the embarrassment by untimely -delay. - -These thoughts were occupying his mind when Blanche herself pushed open -his dressing-room door, and, violently rubbing her cheek, stepped -inside. - -“You are a nice lover, aren’t you?” she began. - -“I have tried to be,” he replied evenly. - -“Well, you haven’t succeeded. My idea of a lover is a knight in armour -who protects his fair lady, not you. You sit down and shut your eyes to -what’s going on in front of your nose.” - -“I don’t understand, my dear. You had some secrets, and I did not like -to intrude on them without your permission.” - -“No, and I suppose you’d wait for my permission before going for a man -who tried to kiss me.” - -Eliphalet rose and compressed his lips. - -“No one would dare with the knowledge that we are engaged.” - -“Wouldn’t they, just! Well, they just have—at least one has, the vile -brute!” - -“A member of this company kissed you against your will?” - -“Of course.” - -“Who?” - -“You’d do nothing if I told you.” - -“Who?” repeated Eliphalet, very white and calm. - -“Harrington May.” - -“Thank you. I shall know what to do, my dear. Your honour is quite safe -with me; and mine—mine has been outraged.” - -He threw open the door and closed it crisply behind him, leaving Blanche -looking a little scared. She had not counted on producing the quality of -dull anger his face had worn, but thought rather he would fly into a -boy’s rage—caress her with a savage intensity and curse the man who had -sought to steal her favours. Then she would have told him that the whole -thing was a joke, devised to buck him up and make him amusing. -Afterwards, they would have gone out and had a jolly good beano. But -somehow his looks did not give encouragement for such a recital, and, -moreover, she felt a stirring of admiration for the manner in which he -had strode to confront his rival. - -Eliphalet went straight to Harrington May’s room and entered uninvited. - -The leading-man was removing his make-up, and he looked up over the brim -of a very dirty towel. - -“What d’you want?” he demanded. - -And Eliphalet answered coldly enough: - -“You are a blackguard—a low, thieving blackguard. A man to whom honour -is a thing unknown.” - -“That’s very pretty,” said May. “Did you write it?” - -“You dared to kiss my future wife.” - -Harrington May rubbed his face thoughtfully. - -“Oh, and who would that be?” - -“I refer to Miss Cannon.” - -“Oh, ah! I see. And I’m supposed to have kissed her, am I?” - -“Do you deny having done so?” - -“Well, I must make quite sure before answering. There’s a note-book in -the pocket of that jacket, if you’d pass it over.” - -But Eliphalet picked up a pair of gloves and flung them into the -leading-man’s face. - -“Hey! Go easy! What’s that for?” - -“It is a challenge.” - -“A challenge, eh? To what?” - -“To a duel.” - -Harrington May threw back his head and laughed aloud, but for all that -he scrutinised Eliphalet shrewdly from the corner of his eye. - -“As the challenged party, it is your right to choose the weapons.” - -“Ah, yes, so it is. I haven’t fought a duel for a week or two, so I’d -forgotten. What do you say to crossbows?—or, if they don’t suit, I’m a -pretty good hand with the lasso.” - -“The choice lies between pistols and swords.” - -May flashed another quick glance. Certainly the young man appeared to be -in earnest—but the whole thing was absurd. He was on the point of -selecting swords, as the first word to come to hand, but decided -hurriedly against doing so. It was conceivable Eliphalet, in the heat of -his anger, might snatch up a sword and make a dig at him. In the course -of one or two previous productions they had fought a few stage-fights, -and Eliphalet Cardomay had rather a pretty knack with a blade. Pistols -and the thought of speeding lead would very soon destroy the foolish -ideas that were possessing him, thought May; so with a world of dignity -he said: - -“I choose the trusty old bundook.” - -“We will meet at midnight by the ruined mill in Jesmond Dene,” said -Eliphalet, and walked sedately from the room. - -Harrington May sat motionless awhile, regarding his own image in the -glass. He felt oddly cold, and his jaw showed a disposition to tremble. - -“Whew!” he said, squaring his shoulders. “This is silly! That young -upstart is trying to bounce me. Well, we must come back on him heavily, -that’s all.” - -He rose and finished dressing. - -At the stage-door a few members of the company had gathered, and an -inspiration seized him to narrate what had occurred. So, with plenty of -noise and a liberal allowance of margin for his own repartee, he -recounted the side-splitting exchanges that had led up to the challenge. - -“What do you think, boys?” he shouted. “It’s pistols for two, at -midnight.” - -To a chorus of “No,” “Chuck it,” and “You’re having us on, old man,” he -responded: - -“Solemn fact, I give you my word. We meet in Jesmond Dene at the -witching hour of twelve. Coffee for one at five past.” - -Never before had the company enjoyed so rich a jest, and they fell about -in ecstasies of rib-punching laughter. - -“’Course I saw through it,” said May, “though he played his bluff well. -I wish some of you had been there. I was as solemn as a judge. Lord! it -was funny.” - -“D’you think he was bluffing, then?” asked a very young man, whose name -was Manning, and who secretly harboured admiration for Eliphalet -Cardomay. - -“I don’t _think_ about it, darling,” responded May, and was greeted with -a fresh burst of merriment, in which all but the aforesaid youngster -joined. - -“It ’ud be funnier still,” he ventured, “if it turned out that he wasn’t -bluffing at all.” - -But no one took any notice of that aside. - -“What are you going to do, Mr. May?” asked one. - -“I shall turn up, of course, dear boy, and, like as not, catch a cold -waiting half the night, while our little friend is sleeping in bed. Tell -you what: this joke is too big to keep to oneself. I’ll pay the hire of -a wagonette, then you can all slip off after the show and see the fun.” - -This spirited offer was received with enthusiasm, and the whole company -was on the point of repairing to a hostelry to honour the occasion, when -Eliphalet Cardomay, carrying a small polished wooden case, came quietly -through the stage-door. At his approach the conversation died abruptly, -and all eyes were turned upon him. - -“Please,” he said, asking for a gangway. - -Someone touched his shoulder, and asked: - -“Are you fighting a duel to-night, old man?” - -“Mr. May will answer that question,” he replied, and passed into the -street. - -“What did I tell you?” demanded May in his loudest tones. “Isn’t it -wonderful, eh?” - -“Did you notice what he was carrying?” said very young Mr. Manning. - -“Can’t say I did, unless it was a soother.” - -“He had that old case of pistols from the property-room.” - -“Damn good!” roared May; but the laugh stuck in his throat somehow, and -lacked the quality of genuine mirth. - -The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a -very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his -preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old -pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for -cartridges. - -The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about -among his stock. - -“I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and -this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back, -if you’d care to try a few shots.” - -“I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these -barrels are a trifle rusty.” - -Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in -cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a -greatly rejuvenated air. - -“Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial -shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and -actress who visits the town. - -“I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a -weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right -method.” - -They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range, -lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a -clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet -loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then, -laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut -the inner line at twelve o’clock. - -“Throws up a shade,” he remarked. - -His second shot perforated the bull very neatly. - -“That’s sound shooting,” exclaimed the astonished assistant. “Try the -other one.” - -There was little to choose between the two revolvers, and when all ten -shots had been fired, the target presented a very pretty pattern. - -“You’ve a steady hand. Before I saw this I thought actors lifted their -elbows too much to shoot that way. I like your light hold on the butt -and the thumb straight with the barrel—it’s stylish.” - -Eliphalet thanked him for his praises, paid for fifty cartridges, and -after carefully cleaning the two weapons, bade him good afternoon. - -He took his meal at a chop-house, and ate but sparingly. When he had -finished, he called for paper and an envelope, and wrote a farewell -letter to Blanche, to be delivered should misadventure overtake him. It -was rather a grandiose composition, in which the word “honour” recurred -with some frequency. He placed it in his pocket, paid the bill, and -walked to the theatre. - -The news of the challenge had spread like wildfire—even the stage hands -and cleaners were in possession of every detail. Wherever he went he was -followed by curious glances, and often after he had passed explosive but -suppressed giggles would break out. It was clear the company was -treating the affair as a joke. Personally, he could see very small -provocation for laughter, but reflecting that with trivial minds mirth -and calamity are close companions, he made no comment. He wondered -whether Harrington May would laugh next morning. - -Eliphalet had quite made up his mind not to kill his antagonist, but to -place a bullet in his thigh, trusting this would prove sufficient -punishment to meet with the requirements. He wished almost that the -cause of their quarrel had been a woman of finer fibre, but that could -not be helped, and the insult to his pride was the same in any case. - -The business of the play proceeded on even lines. A private affair could -not be allowed to interfere with a public duty; but once or twice he -stumbled with his words and missed a cue. Harrington May observed this, -was delighted, and noisily declared in the greenroom, during one of his -waits, that “Mother’s Boy” was in such alarm that he couldn’t “talk -straight.” - -The wagonette had been ordered, and towards the end of the play had -drawn up in a side street to wait the coming of the revellers. Nearly -everyone had brought with them a warm coat or wrap, that the elements -might not interfere with their perfect enjoyment. - -When the curtain fell on the last act, Eliphalet carefully dressed -himself, and was on the point of leaving his room, when Blanche came in. - -“You are a little fool, aren’t you?” she said. - -It is discouraging for a man about to risk his life for a lady’s sake to -be addressed in such terms. It was a time for guerdons and not rebukes. - -“In what manner am I a fool, Blanche?” - -“Challenging May to a duel, like that. Everyone knows about it, and is -laughing about it, too. Now, I suppose you are going to walk home as if -nothing has happened. A nice idiot it’ll make me look, and you’ll be the -laughing-stock of the theatre for ever.” - -“I do not understand you.” - -“Why couldn’t you punch his head, like a man, and leave it at that?” - -“I do not consider to do so would be punishment enough.” - -“Better than all this silly talking.” - -“There has been very little talking; indeed, I ought not to be talking -now. There is not much time before the—the—appointment.” - -Blanche’s eyes sought his face with quick interrogation. - -“Cardy!” she exclaimed. “You’re not serious? You don’t really mean -to——?” - -“Of course I am serious.” - -“But—you can’t—you mustn’t!” - -“I can and will. There is no going back now. Please.” - -But she barred his way. - -“No—no—no! I forbid you.” - -“Please.” - -“Oh, but you’re joking—joking! You couldn’t shoot him—not for that. -Besides, you wouldn’t know which end of the pistol to hold.” - -A man who is playing a part senior to his years will generally give -himself away on a detail. It was sheer youthful arrogance when he drew -from his pocket the target he had decorated that afternoon, and cast it -on the table before her. - -“I did this at fifteen paces,” he said. - -The message of the target was plain, and Blanche needed no second -glance. She flung herself at her lover’s feet, and besought him to spare -the life of Harrington May. - -“It—it wasn’t all his fault,” she sobbed. “I did egg him on a bit, -just—just to stir you up.” - -For a moment he was silent, and his face was ominously stern. - -“You achieved your object,” he replied at last. “We must talk more of -this later, Blanche. For the rest, you need not be alarmed. I shall not -kill this man, and you are free to take what is left of him, when I have -finished.” Thrusting her aside, he picked up the case of pistols and -hurried away. - -“Oh, God!” cried Blanche, and there was admiration as well as fear in -her voice. - -It was rather wonderful that he would risk death for her sake—but of -course it must not happen. She must go at once and warn Harrington May -of the danger. Then came the thought, “Suppose he, too, insists on -fighting?” Her eyes glittered. This drama that centred about her was -fantastic, thrilling. If he, too, were determined to enter the lists, -where would her choice lie? - -The corridors were deserted, for the company had dressed hurriedly and -were well away towards the sheltering bushes of Jesmond Dene. As she -hastened towards May’s room she could hear Eliphalet Cardomay’s fly -rattling over the cobbles of the street below. - -“Hulloa!” exclaimed May. “Not gone to the party? Better come in my cab. -Pity to miss the fun.” - -“It isn’t fun,” she cried. “He’s in deadly, awful earnest. He’s going to -shoot you.” - -The leading man licked his lips and smiled queerly. - -“You can’t bounce me,” he said. - -“I swear it. I’ve just left him. He’s gone there with the pistols, and -he can shoot straight—terribly straight.” - -“Then it isn’t a joke?” - -“A joke! He’ll kill you. Oh, Harrington, you must fly—get away—hide -somewhere. Look: it’s Saturday night. I’ll let you know if it’s safe to -come back on Monday—but you must go now.” - -“By God, if it’s like that, I will,” gasped May, and reached for his -coat and hat. - -“You won’t face him?” - -“I’m not looking for a funeral. Thanks for telling me.” - -As he clattered down the corridor, Blanche called the word “coward” -after his retreating form. - -It was a very formidable and grim young man who, half-an-hour later, -alighted on the fringes of that pleasant dell known as Jesmond Dene. -Under his arm he carried the case of pistols, and the lines about his -mouth were set and hard. - -“You will wait,” he said, addressing the cabman. - -“Perhaps I won’t,” returned that gentleman, who was unaccustomed to so -direct an order. - -Eliphalet did not deign to reply, but he turned aside from the road and -stepped briskly down the steep and wooded path. The moon shone serenely, -casting dark violet shadows of the trees upon the grey undergrowth. He -knew the way, for this had been a favourite seclusion when learning new -parts, and took a short cut to the appointed place. - -“Here comes May,” whispered one of the concealed company from his -observation-post in the bushes. “Keep your hands down, you chaps.” - -Eliphalet passed within a few feet of several unseen onlookers. - -“That _was_ May, wasn’t it?” - -“Couldn’t see his face.” - -“Must have been.” - -Young Manning spoke. - -“You’re wrong. It was Cardomay.” - -There was a ring of triumph in his voice. - -“Don’t talk rot.” - -“Look for yourselves, then.” - -Eliphalet stepped out into the clearing, and the light of the moon -showed his features with a ghastly precision. - -One of the girls gave a nervous laugh, and several men turned to each -other with apprehensive glances. - -“Lord, he’s turned up!” said one. - -“This is going too far,” said another. “We ought to stop it. Here!” - -A hand was clapped over his mouth by Harrington May’s staunchest -supporter. - -“Don’t spoil the fun. He’s only bluffing.” - -Then Manning spoke again. - -“Wish I knew which way they are going to stand,” he said. “Likely as not -one of us’ll pick up a stray bullet.” - -Hearing which, Miss Mary Neville, the ingénue, did what she was -accustomed to do in plays on such occasions—fainted. - -Far away in the distance the Town Hall clock struck twelve. There was a -general rustle, as everyone verified the time by their own watches in -the little patches of moonlight. - -“If May finds him here there’ll be trouble.” - -“P’r’aps he won’t come,” volunteered Manning, and was advised to avoid -folly and stupid speculation. - -Eliphalet laid a white kerchief on the ground—stepped out fifteen -paces, and dropped another. Then he took out the pistols and examined -them. This he did at the precise moment Miss Neville emerged from her -faint, and caused an immediate relapse. Satisfied that all was in order -with the weapons, he laid them on the top of the case. His actions were -very concise, and he appeared quite composed. - -“Fact is, he guesses we’re here, and he’s putting up a big bluff,” -whispered Harrington May’s supporter into a convenient ear. - -Then there was silence, faintly disturbed by the rustle of the breeze -and the clucking of water dripping from the mosses of the old -mill-wheel. - -Eliphalet removed his coat and looked at his watch. Ten minutes past -twelve. The waiting was trying his nerves. There should be strict -punctuality in an affair of honour. He began pacing up and down, slowly -at first, but later with a savage intensity of movement; when the -quarter past chimed, he tossed his head angrily. - -“Can’t make out what’s become of May. He was almost dressed when we left -the theatre.” - -“Perhaps——” began Manning, then stopped as the noise of approaching -wheels and hoofs cut crisply into the silence. - -Eliphalet heard it—drew a sharp breath, and squared his shoulders in -the direction of the sound. - -The excitement among the spectators leapt to fever-pitch as they heard -the vehicle come to a standstill. There immediately followed the patter -of running feet and the smart crackle of breaking twigs. - -“He’s coming!” - -All eyes turned towards the path as Blanche Cannon burst into view. -Without a second’s hesitation she flung herself into Eliphalet -Cardomay’s arms, gasping and crying: - -“Oh, my hero, my darling hero! He was a coward—he wouldn’t meet -you—he’s run away.” - -And in the exquisite relief of the moment Eliphalet folded her to his -breast in a sobbing ecstasy. - -Then the company, who had remained silent for longer than their natures -allowed, broke cover and surrounded the happy pair with a chorus of -hand-shaking, back-slapping congratulations. - -When the enthusiasm subsided, which was not until three a.m. that -morning, for everyone crowded to Eliphalet’s room to do him continued -honour, he was rather dismayed to find that he and Blanche were -destined, by pressure of opinion, to be made man and wife before the -month was out. - - * * * * * - -Surmise, therefore, O wise and prophetic reader, the disastrous results, -not alone confined to Art, that so often arise from humouring the -popular prejudice in favour of a Happy Ending. - - - - - CHAPTER III - THE CURE THAT WORKED WONDERS - - -Of all conventions a happy ending is the most perilous. - -It intrigues people into the most improbable situations. It fawns upon -the unthinking and offends the thoughtful. - -Happiness should arise from natural causes, and never be induced for the -purposes of convenience or climax. - -Eliphalet Cardomay’s early life was saturated with plots which, passing -through a morass of many tribulations, invariably ended with lovers -embracing. It was as much the inevitable outcome of this saturation that -led him to commit the fatal error of making Blanche Cannon his wife as -it was to slacken his waistcoat after a repast and sink, with drooping -eyelids, into a chair beneath an open window. The first was the accepted -happy ending to a love episode, and the second the plethoric happy -ending to a meal; and in neither case did the results justify the -action. - -His marriage ended sordidly in a cheap divorce; and his siesta, the one -on that particular afternoon, in a cold. - -Treacherous germs await old gentlemen who sleep beneath open windows. -Riding at ease with the army of descending smuts that denote the -industry of a Midland town, they enter the system and take command. -Wherefore, ten days later, instead of walking with sprightly step down -Brigan High Street, Eliphalet Cardomay was lying in bed, contemplating -M. Dyson, of the Royal Theatre, Brigan, with a pleading and watery eye. -But the manager was not a man to allow sentiment to stand in the way of -business. - -“Any other night, Mr. Cardomay,” he said, “I’d have bitten on the bullet -and said, ‘Stop away’—but this is our biggest business day in the -calendar, and if you go out of the bill . . .” He finished the sentence -with an expressive gesture. - -Poor Eliphalet, propped up with a pillow and two cushions borrowed from -the sofa belowstairs, looked pained as well as old. - -“Believe me,” he plaintively remarked, “I feel very ill. I don’t think I -could play the Reverend Barnard Coles to-night, and I know I couldn’t do -him justice. Really—really I should be grateful if you did not press me -further.” - -“Last thing I should dream of doing. Only it comes a bit hard on me, -after booking you solely for that date.” - -It being obviously useless to appeal for sympathy, Eliphalet fell back -on his second line of defence. - -“But, don’t you see, the entire dignity of the part would be gone if he -were played with a cold.” - -“No, I don’t,” declared Mr. Dyson. “What’s to prevent the Reverend -Coles, or old Hamlet himself, for that matter, from blowing his nose -like any other mortal? Now, you take my advice—lie in snug all day, and -have some rum and milk, and a couple of boiled onions for lunch.” - -“I am a teetotaler, Mr. Dyson, and also a rigid abstainer from onions, -not so much from personal distaste as from the knowledge that he whose -breath is impregnated with the aroma of that vegetable loses both -friends and prestige.” - -Suddenly Mr. Dyson’s face brightened. - -“By Jove,” he exclaimed, “I saw a guaranteed cure in yesterday’s -_Herald_. Tip-top thing. Breaks the back of the worst cold in four -hours. No humbug! There are photos of people who’ve benefited by it—in -the Ad.” His lynx eye lighted on a copy of the journal in question at -the moment Eliphalet was drawing it into concealment beneath the quilt. -“Hi! you’ve got it there—half a minute—now, listen.” And, shaking out -the folds of the crumpled news-sheet, he began to read. - -“Mrs. Baxter’s testimony on Enoch’s Instantaneous Cold Cure.” - -There followed a letter in which the good lady set forth, with great -lack of reserve, the painful and familiar symptoms of her malady, -stating how, after a night of darkness, an angel from Heaven (disguised -as a next-door neighbour) appeared, and urged her to try Enoch’s -Instantaneous Cold Cure. Whereon she, despaired of by the luminaries of -the faculty, secured a phial of the magic decoction, which not only -dissipated the cold, but actually relieved her of an almost chronic -dyspepsia and a lifelong tendency to sciatic rheumatism. - -“What do you think of that?” demanded Mr. Dyson, in conclusion. - -“I am too familiar with the form to be greatly impressed.” - -“Will you try a bottle?” - -“I had very much rather not.” - -Mr. Dyson’s mouth shut like a trap. “Comes to this,” he said. “You won’t -try to help me out.” - -The poor invalid waved his head from side to side. - -“Oh, very well,” he conceded. “I’ll take it if it gives you any -satisfaction.” - -“That’s the style,” cried the manager. “I’ll get you a bottle right -away. Mark my words, you’ll be fit for anything by night.” And, slapping -a hat on his head, he clattered from the room. - -He was back five minutes later with a neat chemist’s parcel in his hand. -“Bought one for myself, too,” he said. “Felt a bit snivelly this -morning. Now, come on and have a dose at once.” - -“I have just had a little beef-tea,” replied Eliphalet, “but I promise -to take it in half-an-hour. In the meantime, I believe, with your -assistance, I could snatch a few moments’ sleep.” - -“Don’t see how I can help in that direction.” - -“Perhaps not,” said Eliphalet; “but I daresay if you left me alone I -could manage it by myself.” - -“Righto! See you at the theatre, then. Don’t forget the physic, mind.” - -“I won’t forget.” - -But he did forget. It was eleven o’clock when Mr. Dyson left, and it was -after five when Eliphalet awoke from a profound slumber. - -The room was quite dark, save for the light from a street lamp which -percolated through the muslin curtains and cast strange shadows on the -ceiling. - -He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The troublesome itching behind -them had abated. His nasal passages were clearer—they actually admitted -air. - -“I believe I am better,” he said. Then, striking a match, he lit the -gas-jet by the bed, and looked at his watch. - -“A quarter past five! Old boy, if we are going to play to-night, we had -better get up.” - -Very unwillingly he withdrew his feet from the cosy coverings and, as he -came to a sitting posture and made a tentative search with his toes for -the carpet slippers, his eyes fell upon the little paper parcel where -Mr. Dyson had left it. - -“Good gracious, I have broken my promise!” he exclaimed. “I must take -the stuff at once.” - -He picked up the parcel, broke the pink string and extracted a small -blue glass bottle bearing a label covered all over with microscopic -print. - -“Now, the question is whether I should not be just as well off without -this,” he mused. “However!” - -He withdrew the cork and smelt the fluid critically. It had rather an -agreeable smell—slightly sickly, perhaps, but on the whole pleasant. In -placing it to his lips, he observed the label. - -“Some people would read that,” ran his thoughts, “but as it probably -deals with just such another case as Mrs. Baxter’s, I think I won’t.” -And he swallowed the contents of the bottle unto the last drain. - -The action was typical of Eliphalet. Small details, not connected with -his calling, he invariably ignored. They fidgeted and oppressed him, and -it is probable, but for the zealous attentiveness of his dresser, -Potter, he would have strode the streets with buttonless clothes and -laceless boots. - -Certainly Potter would never have allowed his master to consume a bottle -full of unexplored liquid without first ascertaining in what measure it -should be taken. But Potter had been summoned to the bedside of a -departing aunt, and Eliphalet, confronted with the problem of “doing -for” himself, had set about it by the shortest route. - -Messrs. Enoch had expressly stated on their unread label that not more -than thirty drops should be taken at a single dose—and not more than -three doses _per diem_. “Taken in excess,” so ran the legend, “the cure -might have effects prejudicial to the system.” - -Roughly speaking, Eliphalet Cardomay had consumed some three thousand -drops, and already their subtle powers were at work. - -Being a strict teetotaler, and unfamiliar with spirituous influences, he -was at once sensible of exhilaration and a tingling warmth in his -vitals. - -With feet dangling, he sat on the edge of the bed, blinking and clicking -his tongue against the roof of his mouth. - -“An original flavour,” he soliloquised. “Yes—I think I like it.” Then, -donning a dressing-gown, he crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. - -“Saakes alive,” said the worthy Lancashire landlady, “ye’ll never be -goin’ to get oop with that ’eavy cold an’ all?” - -“Duty before ailments,” observed Eliphalet gravely. “May I have a can of -warm water here, and a plate of soup and a rack of toast when I come -downstairs?” - -When the water arrived, accompanied by advice to get back to bed, he set -about to shave a twenty-hours’ stubble from his chin. It was a spasmodic -effort, and he reflected how rapidly his cold had pulled him down. - -“We are getting old and palsied,” he confided to his reflection in the -mirror. - -While washing, he experienced a novel and peculiar sensation—just as if -all his nerves were transmitting electric messages to their various -centres—messages which seemed to run, “I’m having a riotous time -here—what’s the news with you?” Moreover, he had a curious conviction -that his brain-cells were opening and closing in the most unusual way. -Little glimpses of long-forgotten incidents raced across his mental -screen, to disappear or be obliterated by some succeeding impression. -During the process of putting on his collar and tie quite right such -pictures came and went. - -He saw himself as a tiny boy, dressed up in a white suit and white shoes -and socks, going to a circus with his father. He remembered how -Eliphalet No. 1 had stopped to speak to a friend, and how he had filled -in the weary wait by paddling through a four-inch slough of mud, swept -up by the roadside. He was on the point of laughing at the recollection -when it struck him that there was nothing to laugh at in a man’s last -words to his wife—how vividly the trumpery appointments of that room -recurred to him, and the silly threats she had made—and how—they -applauded on his first appearance in “The Corsican Brothers.” He had -held his head high that night, and the pavement outside the stage-door -was thronged with an eager and waiting crowd, and—all the theatrical -profession were there when Eliphalet senior was laid to rest. “A Great -Tragedian,” old Toole had said, and he had replied, “A wonderful father, -sir.” And what a night of it they had (the early ’seventies, wasn’t -it)—He and a dozen other bloods put a barricade of beer-barrels across -the top of the Hay-market—Jermyn and Panton Street—and no one was -allowed to go past without a drink. He was not a teetotaler then. That -had been proved by the magistrate’s comments at the Police Court on the -following morning. How his head had ached. Was his head aching now? Not -a bit—a little dizzy, perhaps—that was from the cold—but the cold was -better—much better. Fine stuff Enoch’s Instantaneous—Enoch! - - “And forty little laughing boys - Came running out of school.” - -Was that Enoch Arden—or Eugene Aram? Either or neither? What did it -matter? Where was his coat?—where was it? - -“Potter!” he called—then, “Dear me! how stupid!” Potter, he remembered, -was at his aunt’s funeral—or was it christening? - -He found the coat on the far side of the bed, where, careless of -everything, ill and miserable, he had cast it before flinging himself -between the blankets. Strange he should have felt so ill overnight, when -now—— - -He slapped his chest and sang an arpeggio. - -“La-di-da-daa! Resonant, my boy, and of good timbre.” - - “Let us then be up and doing, - With a heart for any fate.” - -He stooped to pick up his hat, and kicked it clown-fashion right across -the room. A second effort was more successful, but, oddly enough, the -pattern of the carpet photographed itself vividly upon the retina of his -eyes. He was still aware of it when he returned to the perpendicular. - -There were angles and shapes in yellow and green on a red ground which -danced before them as he descended the stairs—the stairs that had such -an awkward twist he had never before noticed. “They tell me,” he gravely -announced to Mrs. Beecher, who had come into the hall at the sound of -his approach, “they tell me that one of the most difficult achievements -is to put a spiral staircase into perspective.” - -“Aye—well, a’ve put soup on table; you ought to take cab to theatre,” -responded the good lady. - -Eliphalet was touched to a point of exaggeration. - -“What a happy and fortunate man your good husband is to possess such a -wife.” And so saying, he took his hat from the hall stand and went out -into the street. - -The keen evening air felt like a cool hand upon his brow, and Eliphalet -hummed to himself as he went. He turned into the High Street as the Town -Hall clock struck six. - -Six! He was very early. The curtain didn’t rise until 7.30, and a -quarter of an hour was ample time to assume the clerical garb of the -Reverend Coles. Wherefore he had a full hour to spend as he liked, and -it was a delicious evening for a walk. - -Beyond the fringe of factory chimneys lay rolling downs and green -valleys—valleys with light-hearted brooks chuckling among the stones. -Years had passed since he sat beside a brook, with the water thrilling -his bare toes—and all of a sudden a great desire possessed him to be -alone in a solitude of water and willows. - -There was a policeman standing a few paces away, and to him Eliphalet -said: - -“Could you direct me to a valley with a stream running through it—where -I can be all to myself—alone?” - -The policeman, a broad-beamed Lancashire lad, regarded him suspiciously. - -“I can tell you where you’ll be alone all right,” he responded, “and -happen you’ll find yourself there sooner than you expect unless you get -a move on.” - -“But why?” - -“Get off.” - -“But, look here,” said Eliphalet very seriously. “When I was a younger -man I used to count the buttons on policemen’s coats.” And with this -grave admission, he turned away. He had not gone more than twenty yards -before his attention was attracted by two small boys and a little girl, -their noses glued to the windows of a confectioner’s. - -“Are you hungry?” he demanded. - -All three turned their attention from the magnetic charms of mince-pies -and Maids-of-Honour to the æsthetic and deeply-seamed features of -Eliphalet Cardomay. There was something in his countenance which at once -dispelled any inclinations to tell untruths. It was such an open and -kindly face—like that of an old baby—and the child he had addressed -turned from the contemplation of it to judge the effect his words had -made upon the other two. - -Presently the little girl replied, “Noa, us isn’t ’oongry, but us cud do -wi’ soom of they there.” - -“So could I,” said Eliphalet. “Come along.” - -At the head of this little ragged band he entered the shop and addressed -a comfortable looking matron who was arranging macaroons on a glass -stand. - -“We have come to eat cakes, madam,” he announced. “Chelsea buns, tarts -with jam on them, doughnuts and sweet almond biscuits. We are not -hungry, you understand, but we want these things, for the children do -not know their flavours—and I have forgotten them.” - -So the good lady, who was a motherly soul, established them at a little -marble-topped table and brought many delicacies, and Eliphalet, an -Easter cake in one hand and a marzipan potato in the other, began to -talk. He told them many little incidents of his own childhood—his voice -sounding very far away. He told them the plot of _Julius Cæsar_ and how -he would like to be a grandfather—or a father—and what he intended to -put on for this spring season, and about a villa at New Brighton where -he would live when he retired. - -And all the while the children swallowed the cakes and thought him -amiable but mad. - -It was seven-fifteen when the feast was suddenly broken up by the -violent entry of Mr. Dyson. - -He had called at Eliphalet’s rooms and learnt of his unusual departure, -and when the actor did not put in an appearance at the theatre, had -hastened out in great alarm to search the neighbourhood. - -“It was sheer luck that I saw you through the window,” he cried. “Do you -know what the _time_ is?” - -“How should I, since it waits for no man?” said Eliphalet. - -“You’ve got barely ten minutes to get on the stage.” - -This startling announcement brought Eliphalet abruptly to his feet. - -“Dear me! I had forgotten. There are so few children in my life. Madam, -please,” he placed half a sovereign on the counter, and shook his head -at the proffered change. “Give it to them in a bag. Come, Dyson. Ten -minutes, you said.” - -As they hurried from the shop one of the children asked, “Is yon his -keeper, missus?” - -Mr. Dyson gripped him by the arm and dragged him along. - -“Gave me the scare of my life. How did you come to overlook what the -hour was?” - -“That’s what I must have done,” replied Eliphalet hazily. - -“Hope you took that stuff all right?” - -“Yes—I think so. Fancy I ought to have another dose. Let’s stop and buy -some more.” - -“No time. I’ll give you some at the theatre. Hurry along.” - -The local dresser was not a man of marked intelligence or great celerity -of action, but he contrived to get Eliphalet into the outer coverings of -the Reverend Barnard Coles in less than quarter of an hour. - -Mr. Dyson, busily employed in the front of the house, sent round his -bottle of Enoch’s Instantaneous, half of which Eliphalet drank. He would -probably have drunk the rest, had not the cork been pushed inwards and -floated across the neck of the bottle before he had finished the -contents. - -Just before his entrance, Mr. Dyson rushed round with a few words of -warning. - -“Clinkin’ house,” he said. “Packed out—but they may want holding.” - -“Thass all right—we know.” - -“Feeling pretty good in yourself?” - -Eliphalet took a deep breath, closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. At -that instant he heard his cue. Alert at once, he opened the door and -walked on to the stage. The lights dazzled him. He was struck with a -consciousness of something left undone. What was it? Ah! he had failed -to answer Mr. Dyson’s question. Wherefore he promptly replied: - -“No, I feel rather funny.” - -There was the usual burst of complimentary applause, and in an instant -he was the Reverend Barnard Coles, about to be deserted by wife and -child. - -Eliphalet played the first act of “The Broken Heart” very cautiously. -Without suspecting that anything was radically wrong with him, he felt -that he must be wary. Once or twice his articulation had struck him as -peculiar. He had shied badly over the word “constantly”—“consanny” was -the nearest approach he had been able to make to the correct -pronunciation. Then again, sundry speeches had become unexpectedly -involved. For example, he had to say, “You with your great eyes, your -scarlet mouth and your white face, are ever before me, a barrier which -shuts me off from God.” - -What he actually said was: - -“You, with your white eyes—your great mouth—and your scarlet face,” -etc. Fortunately he had put so much passion into the lines that no one -noticed the slight confusion of adjectives. That is to say, no one on -the audience side of the curtain; but Freddie Manning, the -stage-manager, who had known Eliphalet as a man of temperance during a -constant association of countless years, tipped his bowler hat to the -back of his head and quoted briefly from the Bible. - -“Syd,” he said, addressing the call-boy, “slip along for a glass of cold -water and stand with it at the door the Guv’nor comes off by.” - -The call-boy grinned and went on his errand whistling a song, the words -of which dealt with the pleasures of alcoholic excess. - -Catching the implied suggestion, Mr. Manning, nothing if not loyal, -directed the toe of his boot at the seat of the young musician’s -trousers. - -“I say! What’s wrong with the Guv’nor?” asked the lady who played the -villainess. - -“Nothing, my dear,” was the curt reply. - -“But he’s been saying the most extraordinary things,” she persisted. - -“Has ’e? Well, don’t you bother about it.” - -This conversation took place just before the series of events leading to -the finale of Act I. - -The scene, as written, ran thus: The worthy Vicar, deserted by wife and -child—beset by an intriguing woman—sinks down before his writing-desk -and buries his face in his hands. After a few seconds of silent agony he -rises, straightens himself—like a man determined to bear his burden -with unbent back—and strides from the room. - -No sooner has he gone than two paid desperadoes make burglarious entry -by the French windows, and steal from his safe papers proving him to -have been guilty of a crime years before. As they are escaping, the -Reverend Barnard Coles returns, and cries “Who’s there?” He tries to -arrest their flight, and is brutally struck down.—CURTAIN. - -Now when the wicked lady left the stage, on this particular night, -Eliphalet was perfectly clear about what he had to do. It was the -author’s intention he should stagger to his writing-table—and stagger -he did, most realistically. He supported himself with one hand and -switched off the table lamp with the other, leaving the stage in -darkness, save for the crimson rays from the fireplace, which encarmined -his form during the few moments of grief and prayer before his exit. - -With the reduction of the light Eliphalet experienced a totally -unlooked-for sensation in his head—a dizziness, a vertigo. He sank into -the chair and buried his face, and then—— - -I would not dream of suggesting any reader of this story would be likely -to have personal knowledge of the sensations which sudden darkness -brings to persons who have over-stepped the margins of sobriety. I am -credibly informed, however, by contrite, but experienced authorities, -that peculiar and various illusions occur. As a general rule, either the -floor comes up, or the ceiling descends, and this with a rotary and -oscillating motion. - -So long as the darkness prevails there is no escape for the unhappy -sufferer, and, strange to say, he is seldom wise enough to escape from -the darkness. - -Eliphalet Cardomay had not been drinking. On the other hand, who but an -analyst could say what potent drugs went to the manufacture of Enoch’s -Instantaneous? - -No sooner had his head fallen into his hands than he felt himself borne -aloft—spirally ascending to some giddy pinnacle, rising above and above -the level of earthly clay. - -He could not combat the forces at work—they were irresistible. He could -only cling to the edges of the writing-table and wait—and, waiting, -ascend. “And singing, ever soaring—and soaring as thou singest,” he -quoted. - -A frantic assistant stage-manager deserted the prompt corner and grasped -Freddie Manning by the arm. - -“The Guv-nor’s stuck on,” he gasped. “Ought to have been off half a -minute ago. Looks as if he won’t move.” - -Mr. Manning dived into the O.P., and took in the situation at a glance. - -“Shall I ring down?” queried the A.S.M. - -“No. Check your red arc in the fireplace. Here, you chaps,” he addressed -the two burglars. “Go and pretend you don’t see him. Play the scene -quiet, and just as you come off, spot him and use the life-preserver. -Got it? Right away, then!” - -He was Napoleonic in crises, was Mr. Manning. “One could always rely on -Freddie,” was a byword in Cardomay’s company. - -The two miscreants climbed noiselessly over the window-sill, just as the -audience was beginning to find the Reverend Coles’ anguish a shade -protracted; with panther steps they approached the safe, inserted the -key and withdrew the incriminating papers. - -And all the while Eliphalet clung on to the table and wondered where he -was and what strange machinery was hoisting him heavenward. He solved -the mystery at the exact moment the thieves had finished their work. - -He was in a lift, that fierce little lift at the Army and Navy Stores. -He was a liftman—he had been a liftman for years. In another -half-second they would arrive at the first floor. - -He pushed back his chair with a clatter—flung up his head, and the -words rang out: - -“This is the drapery, stationery and ironmongery departmins——” - -The affrighted burglars staggered back as Eliphalet rose to his feet, -and cried, “This is the jewelry, toys, games, and saddlery departmins.” - -The hindmost burglar pushed his companion forward. - -“Slash him, Jake!” he hissed. - -The blow was struck—Eliphalet fell, and with him the curtain. - -Up went the lights, and Freddie Manning rushed on to the stage. - -“No calls,” he shouted. “Clear, everyone. Strike, boys!” - -The big scene flats split up into sections and marched miraculously -away. - -“Come on, Guv’nor.” He stretched out a hand and helped Eliphalet to his -feet. - -“I think,” said Eliphalet in a dazed sort of way, “I am not very well -to-night.” - -“You’re all right,” said Manning. “I’ll give you a hand to your -dressing-room.” - -Half-way down the long stone corridor Eliphalet hung back and resisted. - -“Dunno whether iss struck you, but I think we’re having an allfully -jolly evening, ol’ boy.” - -“You get changed,” remarked Manning grimly, and handed him over to the -dresser. - -When he returned to the stage he found several members of the company -talking together in animated whispers. - -He at once projected himself into their midst. - -“If I hear man or woman saying the Guv’nor’s drunk,” he said, “he or she -gets the sack—quick. Got that?” And, cocking his hat over his right -eye, he marched off. - -Before the curtain the simple audience were discussing the play. - -“What’s he mean when he says that bit about the drapery department?” -demanded the young lady. - -Her companion shook her head darkly, and volunteered: “It’s the grief -’as turned ’is brain.” - -“Ah! that must be it. Gone loopy like.” - -Eliphalet, in his dressing-room, was in a fine rage. - -“Get that cork out, d’y’hear!” he admonished. “How the deuce am I to -take med-cine with the cork in?” - -“A didna knaw tha wanted any more,” said the dresser. - -“’S no excuse. Get it out! My cold’s worse—mush worse. Le’s have it.” -And, snatching the bottle, he knocked off its neck and drank what -remained of the fluid. - -“You don’ seem to—t’understand I’m a ver’ important pers’n—great -actor—Eliphalet Card’may. You’re a low feller—but a good chap—one of -the nicest and mos’ delightful chaps I ever met——” - -“Second act beginners, please,” yelled the call-boy. - -Eliphalet passed a hand over his brow. “Dear me!” he said. “I dunno. -Yes, yes—I’m coming—I’m all ri’, qui’ all ri’.” - -And he made his way to the stage. - -By a Herculean effort he struggled through Act II. His voice was a shade -thick—his gait a thought unsteady—his rendering distinctly heterodox; -but the audience was mainly composed of simple, uninitiated folk who -accepted what was placed before them without much questioning. They had -been assured for three weeks past, on every hoarding in the city, that -Eliphalet Cardomay was a great actor. And since the ways of the great -are ever incomprehensible, it behove them, as groundlings, to give -genius its due and applaud exceedingly at the end of the act. - -Unhappily, Mr. Dyson, manager and part owner of the theatre, did not -reflect the feelings of his supporters. He had seen the act, with -growing indignation, and realised he was not getting what he had paid -for. In short, that Eliphalet Cardomay was giving a rotten show for the -simple reason that he was “boosed.” Mr. Dyson was not a man to shirk -duty, however unpleasant it might be. Accordingly he hurried round to -Eliphalet’s dressing-room, pushed open the door and stalked inside. - -“You get out,” he said to the dresser, and when the man had gone, “Look -here, Mr. Cardomay. You’re boosed—_boosed_.” - -“Boosed” was a favourite word of Mr. Dyson’s, and, on certain occasions, -a favourite pastime. This circumstance, however, did not make him any -more tolerant of the failing in others. - -Eliphalet was lying full-length in a dilapidated arm-chair, his hands -hanging limply over the sides. Certainly his general appearance gave -ample excuse for Mr. Dyson’s charge. - -Through a mental fog he became vaguely aware of the manager’s presence. -With a faint smile he murmured: - -“Whassay?” - -“You’re boosed.” - -“Boosed? Who’s boosed? Wha’s boose?” - -“You are—and you’ve got to pull yourself together. See?” - -Eliphalet blinked, then sat upright. - -“Good God!” he exclaimed. “D’you sugges’ I’m drunk?” - -“I know it—and what’s more, the audience’ll know it, too, if you aren’t -jolly careful.” - -The old actor rose to his feet, his face working as under a great -emotion. - -“You dare say that t’me! I—I’m a tee-to-tootler—for -twenty—twenty-five years. Loathe drink—nev’ touch it. I’m—I’m -one—one—” - -“You’re one of the rowdy-dowdy boys to-night,” cut in Mr. Dyson crisply. - -The fog descended again, and Eliphalet swayed on the back of the chair. - -“Tha’s it,” he said. “One of the dowdy boys—all in a row.” - -Mr. Dyson flung open the door, shouting: - -“Where’s your understudy?” - -At that moment Freddie Manning came down the corridor. - -“What’s the row?” he demanded. - -“He’s drunk!” - -“Drop that,” said the loyal S.M. - -“Look at him!” - -Eliphalet was leaning on the door, and he sang: - -“Then next morning before the beak we’re feshed.” - -“He’s ill,” came from Manning. - -“Ill! He’s boosed, and I won’t have him go on—see?” - -Mr. Manning shoved his hat on the back of his head and said: - -“If he is, no one is going to say so before me.” - -“Where’s his understudy?” - -“You look after the front of the house and leave the back to me. Clear -out!” - -“He’s blind to the wide.” - -Mr. Manning jerked back the cuff of his sleeve and shut his teeth tight. -The faces of the disputants were barely two inches apart. The dresser -came into the room, and Eliphalet passed noiselessly out. Chuckling -stupidly, he made his way to the stage. - -“Take up the curtain,” he ordered, and the assistant stage-manager, -accustomed to years of implicit obedience, touched the bell, and the -curtain rose. - -“Excuse me,” the dresser was saying. “A doan’t think t’ poor gentleman’s -droonk. A think t’is physic as ’as oop-set ’im. ’E’s been taking doases -very free from this ’ere.” And he held aloft the empty bottle of Enoch’s -Instantaneous. - -The stage-manager seized the bottle and read the label. - -“Did he take the lot?” - -“Aye, and another bottle beside.” - -“Drugged!—p’raps he’s killed himself.” Then, in a roar: “Where the hell -did he get the stuff?” - -Mr. Dyson fell back a step and covered his mouth guiltily. - -“You?” Manning jerked out the monosyllable threateningly. - -“I did mention—I—I told him it was good,” faltered Mr. Dyson. - -“Then,” said Freddie Manning, “you’ll go right on before the curtain and -tell the house just exactly what’s happened. The Guv-nor’s going home to -bed right now, and, look here again, you’d better state the facts pretty -lucid, for I swear I’ll break your neck if it gets about that the -Guv’nor was tight.” - -From the distance came the sound of a mighty roar of laughter. -Simultaneously they turned and saw, for the first time, that Eliphalet -Cardomay had gone. - -“He’s on!” exclaimed Manning and, followed by Mr. Dyson, made a dash for -the wings. - -He was on! That was the opinion of the entire audience. - -One of the great dramatic moments of the play had been wrecked and lay -in splinters on the stage. A scene, the moving nature of which would -have wrung tears from a stone, had, by a single line, been turned into -an ecstasy of laughter. - -The wife and child of the melancholy but Reverend Coles, having seen -through the falsity of the life they had chosen, and battered by the -glittering villainies of Black Moustache’s patent leather boots and -doubtful champagne, had returned weepingly, to implore his forgiveness -and his blessing, and he, instead of replying, “I forgive and bless -you,” had smiled idiotically and said, “Chase me!” - -The house rocked and fell about with laughter. - -The unprecedented success of his sally made a profound impression upon -Eliphalet. He saw himself as a comedian—a funny man. The last of his -self-control fell from him, and he gave himself over to rickety -horse-play and clumsy mafficking. He overset chairs and tables, and -laughed stupidly, He turned tragedy into farce, and the Reverend Coles -from a figure of pathos became a figure of fun. - -The “mother” and “daughter,” friends of many preceding tours, strove -nobly, but without avail, to keep the scene together, and were -eventually driven from the stage in desperation, and genuine tears. Then -the temper of the audience, who knew real tears from the acted variety, -underwent a complete change, and became nasty. - -“’Ee! Tha’s droonk, man!” - -“Shame to un! Pull un orf.” - -“Booooo-booooo!” - -“Ought to ’ave our money back.” - -“Comin’ on like that.” - -“Spoiling of a fine play!” - -“Get orf—get orf!” - -“Sling summat at un!” - -“Shame! Booooo! Ssssss!!” - -While the tumult progressed Eliphalet leaned upon a palm pedestal and -surveyed the house with a mystified expression. He thought they were -applauding him, and bowed his acknowledgment (incidentally knocking over -the palm and pedestal!). There was a fresh uproar. Evidently they were -not applauding—something must be wrong. What? He held up his hand, and -his great bass voice rang out with unexpected volume. - -“Silence!” And they were silent. “I was warned you’d want holding, and -I’ll hold you.” - -A shout of derision was hurled from the gallery. - -“I’ll hold you yet,” said Eliphalet, rocking to and fro. - -Then a carrot whizzed through the air and fell with a plump at his feet. - -A carrot! The vegetable of derision—the symbol of contempt—the food of -asses—to him, Eliphalet Cardomay! - -And the mists cleared from his brain and the waywardness from his limbs. - -“Ladies—gentlemen!” he cried. “I am ill—very ill! I can’t -understand—never—never before have I failed my audience. Let me finish -the play—give me a hearing, or break my heart.” - -There was a lull, and Freddie Manning, in the wings, seized the -character with whom the next scene was played, and with, “Get on and -don’t give him time to think,” hurled him on to the stage. - -Twice before the end of the act the mists rose before Eliphalet’s brain, -but he battled them down by sheer force of will, though the effort -brought beads of sweat to his brow. With grim determination he hammered -out his lines until the last one had been spoken, and there remained -naught else but the heart-attack—the clutching at his breast—the -broken cry of “Mary!” and the fall into peace—oblivion. - -The curtain had barely touched the boards before Mr. Manning had thrust -the manager before it. - -“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Dyson, “I have not come here to make an -apology, but to say that you have been privileged to-night to witness a -performance under, perhaps, the most remarkable circumstances under -which a man has ever appeared.” And to the best of his ability he told -them what had happened. When he had finished it was obvious to the -meanest intelligence that the applause savoured of the sceptical. - -“Won’t do,” said Freddie Manning, and pushed his way before the -footlights. - -“Easy there! You’re not going yet,” he cried. “Some of you believe it -was a yarn the manager has just put over. But I tell you it’s true, and -if any man here to-night goes home and says that my Guv’nor and my -friend, Mr. Cardomay, was drunk, he’ll be steering a straight course for -the libel court—and what’s more, he’ll get this,” and he held up a -closed first with a row of shiny knuckles turned outward. “He’ll get -this between the eyes—an’ that’s a promise I’ll keep.” - -Right into the hearts of those hard-bit Lancashire lads went those -“straight-flung words,” and such a roar of enthusiasm followed them as -would have wakened the dead. - -But it failed to waken Eliphalet Cardomay, who lay on his back and -snored, with his head on a rolled-up stage cloth and his mouth wide -open. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - THE ELIPHALET TOUCH - - -Eliphalet Cardomay was not, in the true sense of the word, a Bohemian. -In his own particular way he was rather conventional. He knew he had not -been drunk by any intentional intemperance of his own, yet the memory of -the affair at Brigan was a nightmare to which even Manning was not -permitted to refer. - -To a man who has formed for himself certain high standards of behaviour, -even the inadvertent collapse of any one of these is a matter of acute -distress. Eliphalet Cardomay hated insobriety. The word conjured up in -his mind a vision of a last scene in his married life. He regarded -drunkenness as the thief of virtue, and with Eliphalet virtue was of -supreme account. So far as lay within his power he suppressed any -tendency in his company toward what is inaccurately termed by laymen, -“theatrical arrangements.” - -To prevent some little wanderer from committing a false and foolish step -he would take any amount of trouble. Eliphalet Cardomay was, despite the -failure of his own marriage, a romanticist. He would gladly walk ten -miles to a wedding, and an equal distance on his hands to a christening. - -There is a sentimental kink in most childless old men. A wise and loving -parent Eliphalet Cardomay would have made, had the fates not willed it -otherwise, for he was the very type of sentimentalist who gladly would -have given his every possession to have his dress-tie—on the rare -occasions he wore one—tied by dainty daughter-fingers. But no daughter -bore the name of Cardomay—he was alone and self-contained, and watched -all around him a world of apathetic parents seemingly insensible to the -happiness that was theirs. And so, in his little way, Eliphalet fathered -his flock, guided and ferried them over rough waters, gave them gentle, -easy advices, and, without saying much about it, contrived to do a deal -of good. - - * * * * * - -Some girls are always old enough to be on their own—others are never -old enough to be on their own, even when middle-age has made their -girlhood a sham. - -Of the latter order was Miss Eunice Terry, whose real name was Mary -Kent. She became Eunice Terry on her accession to the stage because she -foolishly believed such verbal extravagances would facilitate her ascent -of the ladder of Fame. The foolishness of Eunice did not stop with her -choice of a name, for the stage had scarcely claimed her as its own -before she adopted the practice of calling everyone “My dear,” of -colouring her naturally pretty face with unnatural pigments, and of -wearing clothes, and particularly boots, of a type which no man admires, -except on evenings of frivolity removed from the home circle. - -Had Eunice Terry been a wise little girl she would have remained Mary -Kent even though on the stage. For Mary Kent was quite an attractive -person, and far more likely to figure in the cast of a play than any -amount of Eunice Terrys. But she was not a wise little girl, she was a -very foolish one, and her folly was the cause of a growing grief in the -heart of Henry Churchill, who had loved her with joy as Mary, and -continued to do so with melancholy as Eunice. - -Henry Churchill was a big, conventional young man, with a -disproportionately small salary derived from an estate agent. He had -first met Mary when the latter was employed by the same firm as typist, -and had succumbed at once to her fascinations. - -They spent four delightful months getting engaged, and, after working -hours, would sit on the pebbles of Bognor beach and make delicious plans -for the future. There was only one cloud to dim the skies of these -pleasant discourses, and that was Mary’s constantly expressed ambition -to go on the stage. - -“I should have gone ages ago,” she would say, “if it hadn’t been for -Auntie, and you know what she is.” - -And Henry secretly thanked Heaven for Auntie, for, knowing nothing -whatever about the stage or stage-folk, he very properly disapproved of -both. - -Auntie, it appears, was the stumbling-block to many joyous enterprises. -It was she who insisted that he must earn fully two hundred a year -before she would consent to the match. - -“Mary wants any amount of looking after,” she said, “and you’re not old -enough yet to look after yourself.” - -A premature marriage was thus averted, and the young lovers consoled -themselves by privately condemning Auntie’s tyranny and common-sense. - -Then one day Auntie died, unexpectedly and inconspicuously on the -horsehair sofa in the parlour, and Mary Kent was left alone in the world -to work out her own destiny. - -It might be imagined that Henry embraced the opportunity to make her his -wife then and there, but Auntie had left, by way of a legacy, a certain -amount of the one-time detested common-sense. Reviewing his financial -position by the clear light of before-breakfast sunshine, he was forced -to admit that a salary that barely sufficed to satisfy his own needs -would inevitably prove insufficient for two. He conveyed this weighty -decision to the ears of his adored one, who, deprived of the same -clarity of vision that had been given to him, accepted it as a token of -waning affection. - -“If you can’t keep me,” she sobbed, “then I’ll keep both of us.” - -Sorely perplexed, he asked her what she meant. - -“I shall go on the stage and earn a huge salary, and then perhaps you’ll -be sorry.” - -“Don’t talk like that, Mary,” he begged. - -“I always meant to go when Auntie died, as it makes no difference, -anyhow, and now I shall.” - -These remarks being somewhat involved, Henry Churchill scarcely knew how -to answer, so he said the worst thing possible. - -“I don’t see how you can go on the stage without knowing anything about -acting.” - -“I do know something about it, and when you see me driving about in my -carriage I sha’n’t take any notice of you, and that’ll pay you out!” - -Henry pondered for a moment before replying: - -“Surely you have more respect for your poor aunt’s memory than to go -talking about carriages, like that?” - -But Mary only pouted, and never said another word during the whole walk -home. - -Next morning Miss Mary Kent’s place at the estate agent’s was -unoccupied, and when Henry, after an agonising three hours, rushed round -to her abode, he found a letter awaiting him, the gist of which was she -had gone to make her fortune on the stage, and though she would always -love him she must give rein to her artistic abilities before the -consummation of their happiness could be achieved. - -Beginner’s luck is no fable, and it was certainly exampled when Mary -Kent presented herself at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, -at the psychological moment Eliphalet Cardomay decided that another -lady-guest was required for the reception-scene at the Ambassador’s. - -The Brighton _Herald_ had commented upon the quality and lack of guests -in this important function, and Eliphalet, viewing the scene from the -wings, was bound to confess there was justice in their observations. - -It is not pleasant for an actor of his standing to read in the “What -People are Saying” column that “The Ambassador at the Royal this week -hasn’t many friends, and what he has hardly seem worth knowing.” - -As a general rule, guests can be made to double in other acts with -peasants, gardeners, or policemen, but in this particular play there -were no peasants, policemen, or gardeners; hence, to invite more than a -select few to the Ambassadorial rout was a distinct extravagance. -Nevertheless, it would not do if people got hold of the idea that he was -cheese-paring. Accordingly, at the end of the matinée, he called the -stage-manager, and addressed him as follows: - -“Mr. Manning, you will endeavour to find a girl and a young gentleman to -walk on in the third act; the stage is not sufficiently dressed.” - -“Right you are, Guv’nor,” said the stage-manager. “There was a girl -asking for a job at the stage-door five minutes ago. Nip down the road, -Sydney, and try and catch the young lady.” - -Sydney, the call-boy, departed with speed, and came up with Mary at the -corner of the street. - -“The Guv’nor wants to have a look at you, miss,” he said. “Might be a -shop going.” - -With fluttering heart Mary retraced her footsteps, and was led by Sydney -to that most hideous of structures, the back of the stage. - -But it was all wonderful to Mary, especially when she found herself -within a few paces of the great Mr. Cardomay, irreproachably attired in -evening-dress, with a velvet collar, and wearing many mystic orders on -his white shirt front. - -Mr. Manning detached himself from his employer, who melted into the -wings, and, twisting the card she had left at the stage-door between -forefinger and thumb, approached her. - -To the tyro Mr. Manning was rather terrifying. His bowler hat, which he -always wore either on the extreme back or the extreme front of his head, -seemed menacing, as also did the extinguished cigarette which stuck to -his lower lip and engaged upon the strangest evolutions as he spoke. - -“Y-e-es,” he said, looking her up and down. “Um! Of course I know what -you can do. What have you done?” - -“Nothing,” said Mary, startled into speaking the truth. - -Mr. Manning sucked his teeth and shook his head. At this juncture -Eliphalet Cardomay appeared from behind the scenery, and said: - -“All right, Manning, make the engagement. She will enter after the -French Consul and his wife—cross down right and sit in chair below -settee until music cue, then off; on again at finale by door right. Walk -it through and see the wardrobe-mistress. Tell Boscombe to make a -duration of tour contract.” And without another word he vanished into -the shadows. - -“Am I really engaged?” panted Mary. “Is it a good part?” - -“No worse than other walk-on,” replied Manning. “Come on through this -door; you’ll have to go on to-night, and I want some tea.” - -It is questionable whether the inclusion of Miss Eunice Terry at the -Ambassador’s reception greatly improved the scene. For certainly never -was a guest more awkward. - -With jealous amazement she viewed the natural ease of the other young -ladies in the crowd, and envied them their mellifluous laughter. Earlier -in the evening she had listened with awe to the conversation in the -dressing-room, and had marked how each, according to her own tale, was -usually to be seen in highly important rôles, but being sick of -“resting” had accepted a “walk-on” as a “fill-in.” From the way the -Christian names of stage celebrities flew about Mary judged them to be -well in with the _élite_ of the profession. After a few days she learnt -that it was not essential to be personally acquainted with such persons -as Julia Neilson or Marie Löhr, before speaking of them as “Julia” or -“Marie.” - -These familiarities intrigued her greatly, and before the week was out -she was able to refer to H. B. Irving as “Harry” or Dion Boucicault as -“Dot” without the slightest embarrassment. Eliphalet Cardomay was the -only person never spoken of by an abbreviation. He was and remained “The -Guv’nor.” - -Mr. Manning, the stage-manager, automatically became “Freddie,” not to -be confounded with Fred, which, as everyone knows, was reserved for Fred -Terry. - -“Freddie” was the subject of much conversation, indeed about forty per -cent, of the entire output either started with “Freddie is a brick, you -know,” or “Freddie is a perfect beast.” - -Another twenty per cent, was given over to the doings of the call-boy, -“that little devil, Sydney,” and the remaining to reminiscences of past -successes, or such remarks as: - -“I feel a perfect rag to-day.” - -“Have you seen the show at So-and-so?” - -“My dear, he was perfectly awful!” - -“There was nothing but paper in the house.” - -“But I always do love Marian; she makes me cry, of course.” - -“She’s such a dear off the stage.” And so forth and so on. - -Harmless stuff for the most part—not, as a rule, scandalous—always and -without exception vapid and silly. - -They are dear, kind-hearted, empty-headed little ladies who sail their -boats round the fringes of the lake of dramatic art. They belong to a -_genus_ of its own. They never play parts—in the main they couldn’t if -they tried—in the main they don’t want to. They are content to talk -big, to walk on and on in one “show” after another, until at last they -have walked away their good looks and disappear to an even greater -obscurity than that of the peasant or the guest. - -But Eunice Terry was not in all respects the counterpart of these other -girls. At least she was ambitious. She desired success, fame—that is to -say, she desired the advantages these conditions carried with them. It -did not occur to her that to be successful and beloved of the public one -must give the public something by way of return. She was out for her -chance without even considering whether or no she would be able to make -good if she got it. So, instead of thinking about her profession, she -devoted herself entirely to acquiring silly habits of speech and little -vulgarities of attire which robbed her of all her good taste and most of -her good looks. - -On the day Eliphalet Cardomay engaged her he made the following note in -a little book kept for that purpose. “18th January. Engaged Eunice -Terry. A guinea for eight performances and one-fourteenth for any -addition. Looks about twenty years of age, pretty, slightly wistful; -evidently inexperienced. Might be suitable for very sympathetic parts. -Note: the name Eunice Terry seems strangely out of keeping—Dorothy or -Mary would be more appropriate.” Having made this entry he forgot all -about her until one day when he decided to revive “East Lynne,” and -then, in looking through his first-impression book for a suitable -“Joyce,” the faithful nurse, he came across the paragraph, and at once -dispatched the call-boy for Mr. Manning. - -“Manning,” he said, “I’ve been thinking of Miss Terry for the part of -Joyce. Is she still with us?” - -“Yes, Guv’nor. Of course, we’ve never tried her out.” - -Eliphalet nodded. - -“That should hardly matter. I have a note here that she is simple and -sympathetic. With these attributes the part will play itself. Will you -send her to me?” - -There was a tremendous flutter in the dressing-room when Mr. Manning -popped in his head and said: - -“Guv’nor wants to see you, Miss Terry. Look slippy!” - -Eunice, dressed for the street, felt her hour of triumph was at hand. - -“If I’d only known in the morning,” she gasped, “I’d have put on my fawn -coat and skirt. This old thing’s a rag. Does this white fox look dirty, -dear?” - -“No; you look sweet, dear.” - -Followed some frenzied powdering—some dexterous touches with a -be-rouged hare’s-foot—the borrowing of a pair of white gloves from one -girl, “that lovely parasol” from another, and a hurried departure to -meet her fate. - -At the door of Mr. Cardomay’s room she halted. It would not do to appear -flurried. She must be calm and remember all the wonderful things she had -learnt during the last six weeks. She must stand her ground as an -artiste, and it was comforting to reflect upon the irreproachable plinth -provided by her patent-leather boots, with the uppers that soared -upwards to the height of her knee. She knocked, and heard the answering -“Come in.” - -Mr. Cardomay was engaged in writing in an autograph book as she entered, -and he laid it aside and turned his eyes towards her. What he saw seemed -to surprise him, for he contracted his brows a little. He had expected -to find the same little rosy-cheeked runaway from Bognor, but, instead, -here was a young lady all over white fur, white boots, white powder, -long gloves and short skirts. - -“There’s some mistake, I think,” he said. “I asked for Miss Terry.” - -“I’m Eunice Terry.” - -“Tch-tch! dear me, you will think it very strange that I hardly know the -young ladies in my own company.” - -“Oh, not at all,” she replied. “One knocks up against so many people on -the road, doesn’t one?” - -He nodded gravely. Evidently the young lady was no use for the part, -but, being kind-hearted, he hardly knew how to get rid of her. - -“I sent for you,” he said untruthfully, “to ask if you were any relation -of the Terrys.” - -Eunice’s high hopes came down with a bump. - -“Not really a relation,” she answered. “Of course, we know Fred very -well.” - -“Um!” said Eliphalet. “Well, I trust you’re happy in the company. Good -afternoon.” - -Eunice turned to go, then, with sudden courage stayed and said: “I was -hoping, Mr. Cardomay, you had got something for me in the next show. I’m -simply dying to play a part—a big part.” - -The unsatisfied fatherly instinct in Eliphalet Cardomay came to the -surface, and pointing to a chair, he said: - -“Sit down a minute. How old are you?” - -“I’m twenty.” - -“Have you a father or a mother?” - -“No. I used to live with an old aunt. She was a frightful ogre, Mr. -Cardomay. Wouldn’t let me go on the stage. So silly.” - -“She is dead?” - -“Yes.” - -“What a pity. And you are not engaged?” - -“Well, only in a way. I don’t think I shall ever marry him; not, at any -rate, until I’m famous. You see, he’s foolish about the stage, too. -Seemed to think it would spoil me.” - -Eliphalet’s eyes wandered to the white boots elaborately displayed for -his benefit. - -“Poor young man,” was his comment. - -“He’s a great dear, of course, and I like him very much, but I couldn’t -let him stand in the way of my career, could I?” - -“He won’t.” - -“I’m so glad you agree with me.” - -“Real love does not stand in the way of an artistic career, it advances -it.” - -“I’m madly keen to get on.” - -“What do you call getting on?” - -“I mean to have one’s name and photograph in all the papers, to keep a -motor, and be recognised—all that sort of thing.” - -Eliphalet smiled ironically. “At least it was an honest answer,” he -said. “The last girl to whom I put the same question replied: ‘To play -Lady Macbeth better than anyone else.’” - -“How silly!” said Eunice. - -And Eliphalet rose to put an end to the interview. - -“Do you think you will have something for me?” she hazarded. - -“Advice at any time you need it, and, as a little to go on with, don’t -lose track of that poor young man.” - -Everyone had waited in the dressing-room to hear the result of her -interview, and a salvo of “Well’s” and “Did you fix anything?” was fired -from the expectant circle. - -“I’d rather not say,” she answered evasively. “He particularly said I -mustn’t mention it to anyone.” - -These were brave words, and brave also was the gaiety of the song she -sang as she left the theatre. But that night, after the gas had been -turned out in the lodging she shared with another girl, Eunice Terry -found herself crying, and seemed in no great likelihood of stopping. - -Flora Wayne, her companion, heard the sobs in her sleep, and, instantly -sitting bolt upright and wide awake, as only a woman can, demanded what -was the matter. Whereupon Mary Kent forgot that she was Eunice Terry, -and whimpered with piteous grief, because she hadn’t got on and didn’t -understand why Mr. Cardomay should have sent for her and given her -nothing. - -“Why don’t I get on?” asked the tear-stained one pathetically. - -And Flora, like the fool she undoubtedly was, whispered various reasons -by which, according to her study of human beings, it appeared that to -rise upon the stage was only possible for those who consented to fall in -other ways. - -“It’s the only way to get a start,” said Flora. “Because I wouldn’t take -it is why I have always stuck where I am.” And having sown the canker of -this perilous seed in the fertile soil of the silly little brain beside -her, Flora turned over and continued her broken sleep. - -But Eunice lay awake and turned the matter over in her mind. It was a -disturbing thought that art and virtue could never be allied, and she -wondered very deeply if it were so, approaching the subject as fearfully -as a child with a strange dog. - -She had been in Mr. Cardomay’s company four months when this mental -crisis occurred, and during these months Henry Churchill, to bury the -sorrow of her loss, had plunged himself so deeply into work at the Real -Estate Agent’s, that he had attracted the favourable attention of his -superiors. One bright day he was sent for to the inner office, where he -found Mr. Robins, senior partner of the firm of Robins, Robins and -Crusoe, who informed him of their intention of starting a new branch at -Lancingdon and placing him in charge, as manager, with a salary of two -hundred and fifty a year and a commission on business transacted. This -momentous interview took place on the day before Henry Churchill’s -annual holiday, and it was not unnatural, after a night’s rest in which -he set his mind in order, he should have packed a bag and after studying -a theatrical paper hastened off to the town where his Mary was playing, -to tell her the wonderful news and seek to rescue her from the paths of -unrighteousness and sin. - -Having arrived and taken a room at a temperance hotel, he lost no time -in seeking out the theatre. To a young man of gentle upbringing it -required no small courage to turn down that narrow alley towards the -stage-door—that alley which in his imagination was at the conclusion of -each evening performance probably chock-a-block with the gilded youth of -the city, each one bearing a bouquet of exotic flowers designed to -anæsthetise the blossom of his heart into accepting their addresses. - -Fortunately he was spared the indignity of asking for her at the -stage-door, for at the moment of his arrival she herself stepped out. -For a moment he failed to recognise her—so little of the original Mary -remained under the mask of pink powder and the screen of white fox, but -the features of the little figure were the same. - -The “Mary!” he exclaimed savoured more of rebuke than recognition. - -“Why, it’s Harry!” she cried, with a genuine pleasure in her voice. - -But he was so shocked by the silly little changes she had made in -herself that the tone of welcome was lost to his ears, and it was only -with difficulty he restrained himself from saying many foolish things. - -“Is there anywhere we could go and have a few words together?” he -gravely asked. - -“Yes, rather! How about the Mik?” - -“Mik?” - -“Mikado,” she replied. “It’s much better than the Royal, you know; the -Royal’s always so full. Fancy your turning up! I’m real glad to see you, -boy!” - -Henry had never been called “Boy” before, and it grated on his ears as -the powder offended his eyes. - -All the way to the Mikado Eunice kept up a sharp rattle of dressing-room -remarks, about poor dear Flo who couldn’t act a bit, but was such a dear -for all that; about Sydney Lennox, who had played second leads with -Fred, and was reported to have ticked off Dot before an entire West End -company; and endless other showy fragments intended to impress him with -the manner of her success, since the day they had parted. - -As a matter of fact she had another reason for talking, and that was to -hide her own feelings, which had been sorely upset by a short interview -she had forced on “Freddie” Manning half an hour before. - -Like all good stage-managers, Manning assiduously avoided persons who -sought to converse with him on business subjects—but this time Eunice -had caught him unawares at the end of a passage that led to a blank -wall. - -“Mr. Manning,” she had said, “do be a dear and tell me straight out what -my chances are.” - -Manning rubbed his small, round ended nose and screwed up his features, -like a child before a dose of physic. - -“Dare say there’ll be a walk-on for you in the next show,” he said at -last. - -“But I mean my chances of a part—a real part.” - -“Umph!” remarked the stage-manager. “What do you want to play parts for, -anyway?” - -“But I do. Please tell me, and don’t tease.” - -Mr. Manning could be very straightforward when he wished. - -“Acting’s like everything else,” he said. “It’s got to be learned. No -one’s going to give you a part unless you give something in return.” - -It was a perfectly innocent speech, but, thanks to the vapourings of -Flora, Eunice Terry read its meaning all wrong. - -“And that’s the only way to get on?” she asked nervously. - -“Sure!” responded Freddie. “You don’t get anything for nothing in this -life.” Then very dexterously he slipped past her down the passage. - -Henry listened to her chatter with growing displeasure, but it was not -until they had seated themselves at a table in that Japanese-fanny, -coffee-smelling restaurant known as the “Mik” that he really spoke his -mind. - -“Now, look here, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk to you very straight. -Mr. Robins has offered me the managership at the Lancingdon branch, with -the salary of £250 a year.” - -“Oh, I am glad!” said Eunice Terry, laying a white-gloved hand on his -sleeve. “That’s fine!” - -“The question is whether you will throw up this business and marry me.” - -For a moment she made no answer. Awhile she turned over in her mind the -words of Flora and Freddie Manning. Here was this big, honest young man, -who really did love her, and there was that remote phantom of possible -success, with its barrier of the price to be paid. It would be very nice -to set up house with Harry with two-fifty a year, for after all the -thirty shillings a week she earned didn’t go far, and really and truly -there was nothing very sensational or exciting in her present life. When -she lifted her head she was smiling very prettily, and it was on her -lips to say “Yes,” when some demon, possibly the ghost of Auntie, -inspired Henry Churchill to say: - -“Of course, if you consent, there must be an end to all this making-up -business.” - -“Oh!” gasped Eunice. “How dare you speak to me like that!” - -“It’s better we should understand each other. I dare say all this is -very suitable to your present mode of life, but it wouldn’t do in -Lancingdon.” - -“You beast!” she said. “If you think I’d marry you and be a rotten -little estate agent’s wife, you’re wrong. You talk about the stage like -that, and know nothing about it. I’d be a pretty sort of fool if I gave -up the stage for you!” - -“Is this the little Mary I used to know?” inquired Henry Churchill, -employing an old formula. - -“No, it isn’t. I’ve grown up a lot.” - -“Grown into bad ways,” said Henry Churchill, getting deeper into -trouble. “Come, come, Mary, let us forget this unhappy chapter of your -life and begin again with a clean sheet.” - -“I’ve got a clean sheet.” She stamped her foot. “How dare you talk to me -as if I was a wicked woman!” - -“I am trying to prevent such a thing.” - -“Funny way of doing it. If anything does happen to me, it’ll be your -fault. I hope—I hope I go thoroughly to the bad—just to pay you out.” - -“I forbid you to say such things.” - -“You forbid! You have no control over me. I lead my life in my own -way—with my art.” - -Considering that Henry’s main desire was to placate her wrath, his -response of “I don’t see how you can call being one of a crowd ‘Art,’” -was as infelicitous as you could wish. - -Mary rose with the single word “Cad!” and, flinging the white fox about -her shoulders, swept from the room. - -Henry did not attempt to follow her, but sat gazing into a -highly-decorated coffee-cup and chewed the cud of tragedy. The love of -his life was ruined—his beautiful image destroyed by the vile pollution -of the stage. A great resentment surged through him that such -destructive machinery should be allowed to exist to lure the righteous -to their undoing. - -On the table before him was a throw-away of the week’s play. He picked -it up and held it at arm’s length, as though it were a tract of the -devil. The name Eliphalet Cardomay shrieked from the page in block type. -That was the fellow—he was the man at whose door her ruin must be laid. -Henry Churchill crumpled the paper fiercely, and as he saw the name -twist up in his grasp a thought came to him. - -That evening, at ten o’clock, he was at the stage-door, demanding that -his card should be conveyed to Mr. Cardomay. - -“Never sees anyone till after the show,” said the doorkeeper, and -returned to his football edition. - -It was well after eleven before Henry eventually found himself in Mr. -Cardomay’s dressing-room. Possibly he expected to see some Satanic -apparition, for certainly he was a little astonished to find himself in -the presence of a grey-haired and elderly gentleman, with a -deeply-seamed face, which he was thoughtfully wiping with a towel. Over -the edge of the towel peered a pair of shrewd but kindly eyes. - -“Yes? What can I do for you?” - -“I—My name is Henry Churchill.” - -“I had already gathered as much from your card.” - -“I am here on a matter of very important business.” - -“You are seeking an engagement, perhaps?” It was said very kindly. - -“No—far from it,” replied Henry. “In fact, I may say that I despise the -stage and everything to do with it.” - -A whimsical smile played round the corners of Eliphalet’s eyes. - -“You appear to have chosen an odd place to make such an assertion,” was -all he said. - -“Perhaps, but I didn’t come on that score. You have a girl here named -Mary Kent.” - -“Not here, believe me.” - -“There’s no use denying it. She—she’s a member of your—troupe.” - -Eliphalet held up his hand. “Mr. Churchill,” he said, “would you mind -going away and not returning until you have bettered your vocabulary and -learnt a modicum of good manners?” - -The distinction with which this speech was delivered quite took the wind -from Henry’s sails. - -“I—I am sorry,” he said, “but what would you say if your affianced were -ruined—spoiled and painted up like a Jezebel?” - -“Do you accuse me of ruining, spoiling and painting up a certain Miss -Mary Kent? Because I assure you I have never before heard the lady’s -name.” - -“You know her better, perhaps, as Eunice Terry?” - -“Miss Terry? Dear me! Really! So you are the young man of whom she -spoke. The young man I advised her not to lose sight of.” - -“You advised her?” - -“Certainly. I sensed that you might prove a valuable sheet-anchor -to—well, rather a will-o’-the-wisp little craft. I hope, Mr. Churchill, -you have come to carry her away to the hymeneal altar?” - -“That’s what I did come for, but, thanks to your teaching, it’s all -knocked on the head.” - -“My teaching?” - -“Yes. Since you taught her to get herself up—talk a lot of silly -theatrical shop, and put on stagey ways.” - -“My dear young man, those very stagey ways you speak of are none of my -teaching. Indeed, but for their existence I might have done something to -advance the little lady in her profession. It was their presence -dissuaded me and also caused me to advise her not to lose touch with -you.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“There are many young and very foolish girls whom the glamour of the -stage attracts—who are in no way suited, nor try to suit themselves, -for success upon the boards. Oddly enough, they solace their souls with -trumpery talk and silly vanities. They are good enough in themselves, -but weak, do you see? Unable to grasp the essentials of a fine picture -while hypnotised with the glitter of a cheap gilt frame. With a little -care—a little sympathy—a little tact—they can be won away from where -they are not wanted to where they are wanted. Now I advise you to talk -to this little runaway very gently. Condole with her on the lack of -opportunity she has had, but plead your love as a finer and greater -outlet for her self-expression. Do this, Mr. Churchill, and upon my -word, within a month you’ll be happily house-hunting, with her hand upon -your arm.” - -“It’s no good,” said Henry Churchill. “I have talked to her.” - -“What did you say?” - -“Told her I heartily disapproved of everything she was doing.” - -“That was unwise.” - -“I believe in saying what I think.” - -“Yet people who always say what they think rarely have the privilege of -doing what they like. You have made a regrettable mistake, and there is -nothing left for you to do but leave her horizon until the memory of it -has vanished.” - -“But I want to marry her.” - -“Precisely. Hence my suggestion.” - -“Look here: will you promise not to re-engage her after this piece?” - -“Why should I?” - -“I want to get her out of this business.” - -“You would not achieve your object that way. She is pretty enough to -ensure her getting another engagement, and while she is with me she is -unlikely to come to any harm. No; I shall engage her and re-engage her -for one crowd after another, in the hope that she will surfeit of -walking on, and that it will soak into her little head that she is not -destined for a great career. And now, good night, Mr. Churchill—some -matters of business——” - -But Henry did not move at once. - -“I am not at all sure,” he said, “you are going about this business in -the best way.” - -Eliphalet smiled. “Of course you are not. But then you are not a student -of human nature, and by profession I am. Good night, again.” - -But Henry Churchill disregarded Mr. Cardomay’s advice, and wrote a -letter to Mary urging her to abandon a profession in which she was -doomed to failure, and accept his hand in marriage. This -foolishly-constructed affair fired her determination to show him, at all -costs, that she could succeed, and moreover to say that she never wished -to see or hear from him again. Both letters, in a fit of emotional -confidence, she showed to Flora, who, being a meddlesome little -busybody, decided that it was merely a lovers’ quarrel, and determined -to act as intermediary and secretly keep the unhappy young man informed -as to his sweetheart’s doings. - -Now it was just at this critical time that Sydney Lennox (he who was -reputed to have ticked off Dot Boucicault before a West End company) -chanced to cast a favouring eye upon the cherry-lipped Eunice. Sydney -Lennox was attracting a good deal of attention in the company, for it -was common knowledge that in a few weeks’ time he was taking out a tour -of his own. The younger members would haunt his exits in the hope of a -chance word with him, and many there were who besought him to give them -work. Then one night, during one of his waits, Eunice boldly bearded the -lion and asked if he couldn’t find her a part to play. - -Mr. Lennox blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke towards the ceiling and -watched it disappear. - -“Can you act, then?” he demanded. - -“Oh, I’m certain I could if I had the chance.” - -“And you want me to back the chance you can, eh?” It was not a pretty -speech, but Mr. Lennox was like that. “Nothing doing, my dear,” he -finished up. - -“I’m sorry,” said Eunice, and turned sadly away. - -Something in the cut of her retreating little figure made an appeal to -Sydney Lennox, for he called out: - -“Here! Come back a minute.” - -She turned expectantly, and he allowed his eyes to wander over her. -Certainly she was pretty, very pretty. Quite an asset on a summer tour. - -“Got any people?” - -“No; I’m an orphan.” - -“On your own, then?” - -“Yes; and I’m awfully keen to get on.” - -Mr. Lennox rubbed his chin. - -“Find things pretty dull, don’t you?” - -“I’m bored to tears with being in the crowd. I’d give anything to get -out of it and play a part.” - -“You would? I see—I see. Right! Well, come and talk to me again.” He -touched her shoulder with a light, familiar touch, and walked towards -his entrance. - -A week later Flora noticed a great excitement in her companion’s manner. - -“What’s the matter, Euny?” she asked. - -“I—I’m to play second lead in Mr. Lennox’s tour.” - -“Euny!” - -“Yes. Isn’t it splendid?” - -But Flora made no answer for a moment; then she said very slowly, “Is it -splendid?” - -“Of course. Why not?” - -“I’d like to know the terms that got you that shop.” - -Then Eunice burst out with: - -“You told me yourself it was the only way to get a start. I shouldn’t be -the first, and——” - -But Flora interrupted. - -“Don’t you touch it, Euny,” she said. “Don’t be a fool. You’d never -forgive yourself, and it isn’t as if you’re likely to get on.” - -Ah! that unhappy string! Why must all her advisers harp upon it? - -“Isn’t it? Well, I will get on, you’ll see. I’m not going to be an old -stick-in-the-mud all my life—like—like some people.” - -That night Flora wrote to Harry for the last time, and told him the -state of affairs. - -On receipt of the letter Henry Churchill went quite mad. Seizing his hat -and an umbrella, he rushed to the station and steamed Mary-wards by the -first train. Had he possessed such a thing, he would probably have taken -a revolver rather than an umbrella, for his intentions were certainly -lethal. - -The great length of the railway journey had the effect of partially -flattening his effervescence, and surely the hand of Providence was -evident in the fact that the first person he met on arriving at his -destination was Eliphalet Cardomay. The sight of the old actor peaceably -pursuing his way brought about a fresh paroxysm of anger. - -Had not Eliphalet been a man of ready perceptions, it is probable that -he would have made neither head nor tail of the torrent of reproaches -and threats that fell from Henry’s lips; but through it all he was able -to discern that here was real tragedy, and that the need for action was -immediate. With great presence of mind he piloted the distraught young -man into an adjacent dairy and, placing before him a bun and a glass of -milk, besought him to drink and assuage his heat. And since no one can -be really violent in the butter-smelling coolth of a dairy, he managed -to extract the story and at the same time bring the narrator to a more -rational mood. - -“If you will leave it to me,” he said, “I promise you on my word of -honour I will put this matter right. I only ask you to go away and wait -until I send for you. Do this, and all will be well.” Thereafter he -piloted Henry back to the station and waited until the south-bound train -bore him out of view. Then his brows came together and the lines of his -mouth hardened. - -That night he sent for Lennox, and after a few small formalities, -including the offer of a chair and a cigarette, he said: - -“I hear you are thinking of Miss Terry for the second lead in your new -production.” - -“I had thought of her,” conceded Lennox. - -Eliphalet placed his finger-tips together. - -“Is that quite wise?” he asked. “She is young and very inexperienced.” - -“Quite so; but one can but try her.” - -“I see no reason why you should try her. There are many others far more -suitable.” - -“Very likely, but I’ve promised this girl. Of course, if the audiences -don’t like her, it will be easy enough to take her out of the bill.” - -“Will it? Will it?” There was an insistent note in Eliphalet’s voice. - -“Why not?” - -“Would your obligation towards the young lady be fairly discharged if -you did?” - -“What obligation?” - -“To be frank, Mr. Lennox, I understand you have made certain -proposals—er—conditions to her—which I regret should have come from a -member of my company.” - -Sydney Lennox rose rather stiffly. - -“I don’t admit your right to interfere in my private affairs, Mr. -Cardomay. What I may choose to do or not to do is no possible concern of -yours.” - -“No?” came the mild rejoinder. “But it happens that I take a personal -interest in this young lady.” - -“Indeed?” said Lennox, then added unforgiveably, “First come, first -served.” - -One assumes that Sydney Lennox had played in his time many villains, for -he deported himself throughout the offensive inspired by his previous -remark, with a cynical calm little short of remarkable. Briefly and very -much to the point Eliphalet Cardomay spoke his mind, and what he said -could hardly have been pleasant hearing. - -At the conclusion, Lennox bowed and walked towards the door. Here he -turned with: - -“What a pity so much eloquence should have been wasted. Doubtless your -next move will be to warn the little Eunice against my machinations, but -let me assure you that her ambition to get on will certainly outweigh -your most moral representations.” - -“That being so,” replied Eliphalet, “I must think of other means.” - -“There are no other means.” And with this Parthian arrow Lennox -withdrew. - -It was a challenge, and Eliphalet Cardomay bit his nails over it until -he was “called.” - -While in his bath that night, after a period of much brain-racking, the -“other means” suddenly illumined his brain, causing him to rise so -abruptly that nearly a gallon of water splashed on the oilcloth, -percolated through the ceiling of the parlour below and figured to the -extent of fifteen and six-pence on his week’s account. - -The next morning he said to Manning: - -“I am going to give a special matinée at Birmingham the week after next. -Second Act of ‘The Corsican Brothers’—Trial Scene from ‘The Merchant of -Venice’ and—and—well, I shall think of something.” - -Freddie Manning politely asked what the idea was. - -“I wish to—er—to try out some of our younger members.” - -At the stage-door he encountered Miss Terry, and beckoned her into his -dressing-room. - -“They tell me you are to play a part in Lennox’s tour. Hum?” - -“Yes,” said Eunice, with a slight increase of colour. - -“It is, in a sense, unfortunate, since I myself had possibilities for -you.” - -Eunice almost seized his arm. - -“Oh, Mr. Cardomay,” she exclaimed, “do you really mean that? Oh, I wish -you would!” - -“Some other time, then, perhaps.” - -“No, now. I’d much rather now.” - -“But your contract with Mr. Lennox?” - -“I haven’t signed one. Please——” - -“Perhaps it would be a mistake, since what I have to offer is only a -single performance. Naturally, if your success merited it, I should look -after your future.” - -In her excitement Eunice rose and paced up and down. - -“Please, please let me do it. I don’t really want to take the other -engagement—not a bit, I don’t. What was it you thought of me for?” - -“A special matinée in three weeks’ time. Selections from my favourite -plays. I should want you for the Trial Scene in ‘The Merchant of -Venice.’ For—for Portia, in fact.” - -“Portia!” repeated Eunice. “Is it a good part?” - -“It has made many reputations,” he gravely answered, without a shade of -a smile. - -“I’ll accept. I’ll tell Mr. Lennox at once. Oh, thank you ever so much.” - -“There, there,” said Eliphalet, patting her shoulder with a kindly hand. -“Don’t be too grateful. One never knows!” - -Sydney Lennox played a losing hand rather creditably. He even refrained -from expressing his views on the reason for Eliphalet’s action. Possibly -he thought that to do so would have reflected but little glamour on his -own personality. - -At the rehearsals everybody remarked to everybody else on the -extraordinary lack of guidance Eliphalet gave to the youthful Portia. - -“She’s simply awful, my dear,” said her dressing-room companion, “but he -doesn’t seem to mind.” - -A day or two before the matinée Eliphalet sent a letter to Henry -Churchill, saying he had to give Miss Terry a “chance.” “Doubtless,” he -wrote, “you will think I am behaving unfairly towards you by so doing, -but I am convinced that it is the wisest course. I want you to be -present and to come round after the performance (not before) and pay -your respects to the little débutante.” - -To be sure of a good attendance an early-closing day was chosen, and a -general invitation issued to the Hepplewhite Steel Works Shakespeare -Society. - -“Don’t know what they’ll think of our Portia, Guv’nor,” said Manning. - -“But we _shall_ know, whatever they think,” replied Eliphalet sweetly. - -He had chosen an act from one of his most popular melodramas to complete -the programme, and the Trial Scene was reserved for the final item. - -Certainly it was a meaty audience who were gathered in. The theatre was -packed with a cheerful “How-do-you-do” whistling crowd, who hurled -recognitions and shrill pleasantries from one part of the house to the -other. - -In the second row of the stalls sat Henry Churchill. He had the look of -a man attending his own funeral. - -Within his bosom there surged a great resentment against Eliphalet -Cardomay, a resentment which would certainly find expression when their -meeting took place after the performance. His anger was not lessened -when he found himself greatly enthralled by “The Corsican Brothers,” and -worked up to a keen pitch of excitement by the act from “The Weir.” It -was infuriating that this shameless mummer could be capable of inspiring -sensations other than those of disgust in his properly ordered brain. - -Then he found himself overtaken by a feeling of great nervous -apprehension. In a few minutes he would be seeing his beloved bathed in -the effulgent glow of the lime—treading the first stage of the road to -ruin. - -Then the curtain rose on the Trial Scene. - -It must be confessed, after the generous and lurid fare that had been -accorded them, the audience (not excepting the Hepplewhite Shakespeare -Society) failed to look forward with any pleasurable anticipation to -this example of the Bard’s genius. - -Very naturally they felt aggrieved that William Shakespeare should have -been dragged into an afternoon’s entertainment, when the time allotted -him might have been more profitably spent with the work of some lesser -littérateur. Consequently their attitude was disposed to be hostile. - -Wonderful to relate, Eunice Terry felt no apprehensions. She was quite -certain of herself. She had spent long hours “getting” her “silly old -lines,” and she had “got” them. True, she thought the part was a “dud -and a stuma,” and she didn’t pretend to understand half the things she -had to say—still, that was the way with Shakespeare, and she had a -“perfect duck of a make-up.” Violet O’Neal had helped her with it, and -never were lily tints and rose more happily blended. She was as sure of -her success as though already her picture postcards had gone into the -hundredth edition. - -Before going on, she approached Mr. Cardomay, sombre and Semitic as the -Merchant, and asked, more for something to say than from any doubt on -the point, “D’you think I shall be all right?” and he gravely replied, -“You will do everything I expect of you.” - -It would not be fair to follow the performance through its disastrous -stages of incompetence and “dry-up” to the abrupt and unfinished climax. -The Shakespearean Society were chiefly responsible for the disturbance. -From the moment of Eunice’s first entrance they felt an insult had been -placed upon their intelligence, an insult that called for immediate -reprisals. The Quality of Mercy is all very well, but when you are told -about it by someone who evidently hasn’t the slightest idea what she is -talking about, the most lenient is apt to change his mercy to a Quality -of Justice. - -To borrow a phrase from the parlance of “the road,” Eunice Terry asked -for, and got, “the Bird.” - -At first she didn’t understand, and floundered on hopelessly through a -quagmire of unbalanced lines. Then, to an accompaniment of shouts and -whistles, the truth dawned on her, and her little lower lip shot out and -began to work spasmodically. - -Seeing which, Henry Churchill got up and “engaged” the gallery. - -“You cowards!” he cried. - -And Freddie Manning from the prompt corner took advantage of the tumult -to shout: - -“Shall I ring down, Guv’nor?” - -“No,” said Eliphalet, but he had to shut his eyes to hide the grief on -the little face before him. “Go on, Miss Terry.” - -“I—I can’t.” - -“You must.” - -“I can’t—I’ve forgotten—I don’t want to——” - -“Rotten!” shouted the house with one accord. “Rotten!” - -Then Eunice burst into tears and rushed from the stage, and -simultaneously Henry Churchill fought his way out of the stalls. - -“I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, and -the curtain fell. - -Eunice Terry was crying brokenly against a scene flat, but he offered -her no word of comfort or condolence. He had seen Henry Churchill’s -furious exit from the stalls, and he hoped he wouldn’t be long. - -“I am afraid you have done yourself very little good, Miss Terry,” he -said. - -“I—I’ll never act again!” she sobbed. - -Then, at the psychological moment, when all the world was against her, -came Henry Churchill, with a broad shoulder, to soak up her tears. - -“As for you, sir, to expose her to such—such brutal treatment,” he -exploded over his enveloping arm, “if you were a younger man, -I’d—I’d——” - -“Why?” said Eliphalet. - -“As it is, I shall take her away here and now. Yes, and if you sue us -for breach of contract, we shall fight.” - -“Don’t fight,” said Eliphalet quietly. “Rather live happily ever -afterwards.” - -“Go, dear, put on your things, and I’ll get you out of this.” - -“Yes, Henry.” - -And so anxiously did she obey his instructions that she took off her -stage make-up and forgot to put on the one for the street. She even -forgot the white fox in her haste to be off. - -Through his dressing-room window Eliphalet Cardomay watched Henry -Churchill, still scarlet with indignation, place Mary Kent in a cab and -drive away. - -“I have often remarked, Manning,” he said, “one gets very little thanks -for doing things for people.” - - - - - CHAPTER V - GETTING THE BEST - - -Despite his remark at the conclusion of the foregoing chapter it was not -Eliphalet Cardomay’s habit to look for thanks, and on the rare occasions -when it was offered he usually murmured something quite incoherent and -sought to escape. His real lode-star was to obtain a result, and no -amount of personal inconvenience counted in this most vital of all -obligations. To obtain the best result from the material at hand was -practically his religion. Not as a rule given to boasting, yet he might -frequently be heard to say: - -“I can always be sure of getting the best from any member of my company, -be it in or out of the theatre.” - -It was a harmless enough little foible and saved many an inept actor or -actress from reproaches. Eliphalet would argue that even though the -quality of art with which they served him was indifferent, it -represented the high-water mark of which they were capable, and so he -forebore to criticise. - -Like the martyrs of old, Eliphalet lived his ideals and was ready to -uphold them by any sacrifice, as the succeeding episode goes to -demonstrate. - -No first-class provincial touring company need despise the Pier Pavilion -at Brestwater-super-Mare. It boasts a stage of bold proportions, a -capacious be-mirrored and luxuriously-upholstered auditorium and a -façade that compels instant admiration. The design, a happy mixture of -all the exhibition buildings which have ever sprung into existence, -combined with a strong vein of Moorish architecture, is a triumph of -skill and ingenuity. - -Well, indeed, may the happy manager who has been fortunate enough to -book a week there swell with pride as he passes the turnstile of the -Pier, without the prepayment of twopence, and sees the majestic domes -and spires of the Pavilion whitely silhouette themselves against the -turquoise Channel waters. In such inspired surroundings, with the -chuckle of sea beneath his feet, and the singing of the wind in his -ears, who could choose but feel carefree and joyous, and give -both-handedly of his artistic best? - -But Eliphalet Cardomay, one of the mildest creatures God ever placed -upon earth—a man of most even temper and lovable qualities—sensitive -to an extreme of the influences of his environments—was in a dark and -forbidding mood. The beauty of the day, the music of the water, the -rococo architecture, were as nothing to him. With hands clasped behind -his back, stickless and hatless, he strode the pier boards like a man -possessed. - -The importunities of peroxided young ladies who, from the vantage of -their little kiosks, besought him to buy chocolates, local views, frozen -roses—or to solve the mystery of a certain walking-stick which in adept -hands would transform itself into a useless pen—he almost rudely -ignored. - -“Phtsss!” he exploded aloud. “The man’s a coward—an incompetent.” - -He gripped the railings of the Pier and gazed fiercely out to sea, while -the wind played cornfields in his long grey hair. - -A photographer, ever alert for fresh victims, approached and commenting -upon the favourable condition of the elements, suggested that the -gentleman might feel disposed to have a “likeness” taken. - -“I do not feel disposed,” returned Eliphalet, curtly. - -“I have some most amusing backgrounds,” continued the photographer, in -no wise rebuffed, and proceeded, to describe how, in his professional -opinion, Eliphalet would prove a suitable subject to place his head -through a hole in a large canvas upon which was painted an -astonishingly-clad individual riding on a rocking-horse. He wound up -with the words, “Causes roars of laughter.” - -Eliphalet spun round and fixed two pin-points upon his frock-coated -persecutor. - -“Are you seeking to amuse yourself at my expense?” - -“No, sir—I assure you.” - -“Then go away.” - -But the photographer was not a man to be trifled with. His hand flew to -his hip pocket, in the manner of a mining-camp desperado, and withdrew a -neat fan of samples of his craft. - -“I am sure,” he blandly ventured, “after a glance through these, I -should number you among my patrons.” - -With a view to scattering the photographer’s examples upon the waves, -Eliphalet Cardomay snatched them from the extended hand; but before he -had accomplished his intention he abruptly checked himself. The top -photograph had caught his eye. It depicted a knock-kneed individual -dressed in a close-fitting striped garment, shivering upon the steps of -a bathing-machine. - -“Ha!” exclaimed Eliphalet, surveying the image at the length of his arm. -“Ha!” - -“Most amusing, is it not?” volunteered the photographic artist, with an -accompanying smile usually employed as a pattern for his more serious -sitters. - -Eliphalet regarded him with one eyebrow raised high above its fellow. - -“Amusing! Appropriate, if you like, but amusing—no—it is -contemptible.” And so saying, he slapped the photographs into the -astonished artist’s hand and, throwing back his head, stalked off, past -the line of melancholy fishers in the direction of his dressing-room. - -Upon the stripped stage were assembled the various members of his -company; for the most part they had composed themselves in little groups -and were talking in animated whispers. - -Out of the medley of subdued tongues occasional fragments of speech were -audible. - -“But these juveniles are not like they were in our day, Kitterson.” - -“You could see Mr. Cardomay was in a rage,” said Violet O’Neal. - -“He’d have sworn if he hadn’t gone out,” returned Miss Fullar. - -“Can’t think what Cartwright’s making such a fuss over.” - -“Any fool could jump six feet into a net.” - -“Wish they’d give me the part.” - -“You can’t get away from it, old man, Cartwright’s no actor.” - -With his back against the proscenium and fiddling with an unlighted -cigarette, stood an isolated figure, over whom seemed to hover a spirit -of tragedy. Ever and anon his eyes sought a wooden structure at the back -of the stage. The structure was in the nature of a rostrum, about ten -feet in height, beneath which was stretched a substantial net some -thirty inches clear of the boards. - -This young man was Mr. Aloysius Cartwright, the new _jeune premier_ for -the forthcoming production. - -Up and down before him, his bowler hat eclipsing his right eye and the -major portion of the right side of his face, walked Mr. Manning, the -stage-manager. Presently he halted in his stride and addressed Mr. -Cartwright. - -“Look here, why don’t you have another packet at it while the Guv’nor’s -away? Make up your mind to do it, and it’s as good as done.” - -“No, really, Manning, I’ve—I can’t.” - -Freddie Manning sniffed noisily. - -“It comes to this, o’ man. You’ll put the kibosh on the whole show if -you don’t. I can’t see what you’re raising the wind over. You told me -you were a swimmer, too.” - -“Oh, I can swim a bit, but that has nothing to do with it. What I——” -He stopped, for at that moment Eliphalet Cardomay appeared through the -swing-doors. - -His entrance caused something of a nervous flutter, for everyone had -felt the effects of the rehearsal which had ended in his abrupt -departure. - -The wrath of a naturally quiet-humoured man is always somewhat alarming, -for no one can be sure of the direction in which it will vent itself. -But apparently the thunder-clouds had passed away, for when Eliphalet -came to a halt in the glare of the bunch light, his features were almost -seraphic in their calm. - -“Come, Manning,” he said. “We will go on, ladies and gentlemen, please. -Mr. Cartwright, I apologise for my hasty departure a while ago, but -you—well, I was upset. It is a matter of personal pride with me that I -have always—and in using the word I speak advisedly—have always been -able to get the best out of any actor or actress I have employed. For a -moment I feared that you—that I was to sacrifice that reputation; and I -am sure, Mr. Cartwright, you would not willingly cause me so much -distress.” - -“Well, I——” began Aloysius Cartwright—but the senior man held up his -hand in a gesture compelling silence. - -“Perhaps you have not fully realised the essence of the scene and what I -have here may help you to do so.” So saying, he unrolled a large sheet -of paper he had been carrying and displayed a very lurid poster of a -young man in evening dress leaping from a lock-gate into a canal. It was -a striking composition in which black shadows and a much-reflected moon -played important parts. - -“Now, Mr. Cartwright, with this as your guide I am certain I shall not -appeal to you in vain.” And Eliphalet Cardomay, having made the _amende -honorable_ for his previous ill-humour, smiled a kindly smile of -encouragement. - -But Aloysius Cartwright failed to seize the opportunity of reinstating -himself in his manager’s good graces. - -“It—it is all very well, sir, but I wish to say that I am neither an -acrobat nor a cinema actor—my tastes are for—for legitimate work.” - -The lines about Eliphalet’s mouth drew down and hardened. “I think,” he -said, “you are confusing the issue. The question appears to me to turn -more upon personal valour than upon anything else.” Then, speaking with -sudden enthusiasm, “Why, my dear, dear boy—consider a moment. Put -yourself in the hero’s position. Imagine your own sweetheart bound hand -and foot and struggling in the waters of the canal. Would you hesitate -for a second? No. Would you falter before the task of saving her from -the clutches of the stream? No, no. Then be the man whom you’re -portraying. Play upon the impulsiveness of your nature, the gallantry of -your youth, the pluck—the enthusiasm—the _élan_: lift up—grip -us—thrill us, and——” with an abrupt change from the inspired to the -finite, “do remember that we’re producing the day after to-morrow.” - -“I’ll try,” said Mr. Cartwright. - -“Clear the stage,” shouted Manning, clapping his hands to support the -order. “Up left, Miss Maybank, please. Come on, Fieldfare—for goodness’ -sake, o’ man. Now where’s that rope? Props! PROPS!!” An old man wearing -a green baize apron thrust his head through the opening to the scene -dock. “Get that rope—quick—and try and remember some of us live by -eating, and don’t want to be here all day. There you are! Catch hold, -Denton! Where’ll they start, Guv’nor?” - -“Miss O’Neal’s entrance. I’ll go into the stalls.” - -“Your entrance, my dear. Ready, sir? Right.” - -Violet O’Neal the _ingénue_, stepped out from behind an imaginary wing -and began to walk between two chalked lines on the stage, indicating the -bank of the river on one hand, and the ancient mill on the other. In the -excitement of the moment she overstepped the margins of the line. - -“Don’t do that,” said Eliphalet, rising from his seat. “It is not the -intention you should fall in the water before being thrown there.” - -“Back, please,” from Manning. “Once more, please.” - -Violet retraced her steps and came on again with the nervous air of an -amateur walking the tightrope. - -Eliphalet tapped with his stick on the brass rail of the orchestra pit. - -“A little more natural grace, please,” he suggested. “And shouldn’t you -be singing here?” - -“Oh, yes, I forgot.” - -“Quite—but please don’t forget.” - -Then Mr. Manning, “Once more, please!” And a glance at his watch, for -the stage-manager was a person who took lunch seriously. - -This time she succeeded better with the manœuvre and produced a humming -sound intended to indicate a carefree damsel enjoying the evening air. - -Then from the assumed shadow of the mill leapt two figures and barred -her way. - -“Sir Jasper—you!” cried the girl. - -“Yes, me.” - -“I,” corrected Eliphalet. - -“Yes, I,” amended Fieldfare. “You little counted on the pleasure of -renewing our acquaintance so soon—eh?” (Sinister words with a hint of -dark deeds behind them.) - -“Please let me pass.” This imperiously from the girl. - -“Pass! There is but one passing for you, and that lies there.” With a -gesture towards where the water would be on the night. “Unless——” - -“I am not a child to be frightened by such threats, Sir Jasper. Stand -aside, or I shall cry for help.” - -“Cry, will you?—and who will answer it? The trees—the hills—the -river?” - -Mr. Cartwright placed his foot in the lowest rung of the ladder leading -to the rostrum. - -Miss Maybank: “I command you to let me pass.” - -Fieldfare: “You little fool! Don’t you realise that at this moment you -are utterly mine?—that I could flick out your life as easily as—er—” -he fluffed for his words, “as easily as I could crack a nut in a door?” - -“What are you talking about?” interrupted Eliphalet. “Beneath my heel is -the line. Persons of quality do not crack nuts in doors.” - -Fieldfare: “Crack a nut beneath my heels.” - -“HEEL—singular. It is not a cocoanut that requires both feet.” - -“Beneath my heel,” pursued Fieldfare with a nervousness which reflected -itself in Mr. Aloysius Cartwright’s lick-lipping, collar-in-finger -perturbation. “Choose, and choose quickly—life with me, or death, and -death alone.” - -“God help me!” - -“Choose.” - -“Then I choose.” - -Like lightning she whisked round to make good, but the second man was -upon her, and bound her wrists with cruel dexterity. - -“Frank—Frank!” she cried. - -Fieldfare: “Little fool! by now your Frank is in the arms of the Duchess -of Cleeve.” - -“It’s a lie!” - -“No, the truth. So make up your mind quickly—your lover is false to -you—which shall it be—life or death?” - -“If life means life with you—then death a hundred times.” - -Fieldfare: “Well, die, then—die!” And with a coward’s blow he pushed -her over the river-bank. - -Prompter: “Splash! Two handfuls of rice, and that’s your cue light, Mr. -Cartwright.” - -For a moment it seemed that the panic had deserted Aloysius, for he -clattered up the steps three at a time, crying: - -“Doris! Doris! Where are you? Doris, I say!” - -Fieldfare: “H’st! Quickly away!” And he and his companion flitted into -the shadows as Cartwright, like a human whirlwind, dashed on to the lock -bridge. - -Like a man distraught, he gripped the bridge rail and cried: - -“Where are you, my love? Where are you?” - -From the water below came a faint cry of: - -“Fraaank! Fr—a—!” gugle—gugle. - -Cartwright: “My God!—in the river—drowning! I—I am coming!” - -Eliphalet Cardomay leaned forward tensely in his stall, as with superb -abandon the hero whipped off his dress coat and, casting it from him, -sprang on to the rail of the bridge. With hands high above his -head—posed for a magnificent dive—he stood there for one breathless -second—then suddenly his body went all limp, his hands fell to his -sides, and he faltered: - -“It’s no use—I can’t do it, sir.” - -And Eliphalet Cardomay, for the first time on record, swore before his -entire company. - -“Damnation!” The word rang out like a tocsin. Then, tearing off his hat, -he kicked it across the auditorium and high up into the dress-circle. - -“Lamentable creature!” he cried. “Wretched poltroon!” - -Mr. Cartwright slowly descended from the rostrum. - -“It is not part of my professional ambition to leap into a net,” he -faltered. - -“Leap!” echoed Eliphalet wildly. “Leap! Dare you employ such a word? I -have seen a tile fall from a roof with more grace. I have seen a blind -man stumble on a banana-skin with greater dignity. But a more pitiable -craven-hearted exhibition than yours I—I——” Words failed him. “You -have ruined my belief in the younger generation—you have shattered my -belief in myself. Manning, Manning! what are we going to do about it?” - -“Have a bit of lunch, Guv’nor, and talk it over quietly afterwards.” - -So attractive did the proposition sound that without awaiting the -sanction of the master, the entire company trooped to the wings and, -grabbing their hats and coats, made for the nearest exit. - -Never before in the recollection of the oldest member of the company had -“the Guv’nor” given way to the slightest exhibition of temper, and the -occasion had seriously unnerved them. That he should have lost control -of himself to the extent of using violent language, and kicking his -defenceless hat, was a revelation which could only be conversationally -approached in the fresh air and sunshine. - -Some form of belated courage induced Mr. Cartwright to remain, after the -others had departed, brushing his Homburg hat upon his sleeve and -buttoning and unbuttoning his gloves. He of all others had the greater -reason for flight, and to his credit be it entered that he lingered. - -But Eliphalet Cardomay was in no mood to spare him on that account. Like -a destroyer circling a troop-ship, he revolved round the unhappy -Aloysius, ever and anon firing salvoes of reproach and opprobrium. - -Even when, unable to endure longer the whips and scorns of the -managerial tongue, Mr. Cartwright sought to escape, Eliphalet was close -upon his heels, jerking out verbal grenades of the most poignant nature. - -Past the lines of melancholy fishers they pursued their way, hunted and -hunter; through the turnstile of what might be called the super-pier -upon which the Pavilion was situated, they made their way—Mr. -Cartwright doing his best to preserve an air of stoic endurance, and -Eliphalet Cardomay following with periodical explosions of artistic -wrath. - -Above the box-office, the lurid poster of the hero leaping into the -canal insisted upon recognition. - -“Look!” cried Eliphalet, restraining his quarry with the crook of his -stick. “Look, and be ashamed! That is what I have led the public to -expect, and——” His eye fell upon the photographer’s booth, not five -yards distant, beside which sat a young lady, tilting back her chair -against the chain bulwarks of the pier. “HA! It is not too late to make -amends. I have never yet cheated my public. Come!” And seizing the youth -by the arm, he dragged him protestingly towards the temple of -photographic art. - -The photographer was seated within, indulging his appetite with a cut -from the joint and two vegetables imported from a neighbouring café. He -rose, politely masticating, as the two came in, and inquired, to the -best ability of his well-filled mouth, in what manner he could be of -service to them. - -“I have brought you a subject,” said Eliphalet. “I wish you to take this -gentleman with his head thrust through the hole of that vile canvas of -the shivering creature on the bathing-machine steps.” - -“I protest,” began Cartwright, but Eliphalet talked him down. - -“I shall want it enlarged to the size of the poster yonder, which it is -destined to supplant. I shall placard it on every hoarding in the town. -I shall——” - -But the sentence was never completed, for from immediately outside came -a sharp, wild scream. Through the windows of the studio they had a -momentary glimpse of a pair of white shoes and stockings pointing -towards Heaven for a fraction of time. Followed another shriller scream -and a deep, resonant splash. - -“Good ’eavens!” cried the photographer, rendered aitch-less by surprise. -“That girl’s fallen in.” - -By common consent they rushed out, and were confronted with a view of an -upturned chair, a swinging chain, and in the water below, the flash of a -white skirt and an outstretched hand. - -“She’s drowning!” gasped Eliphalet, in genuine horror. - -Then spoke Aloysius Cartwright, and his words tumbled over one another -like the waters of a cataract: - -“Here’s a chance, sir—a chance! You—you’ve slanged and vilified me all -the morning for making a muddle of the rescue scene. Here’s the real -thing! Here’s a chance to show me how to do it now!” - -The walking-stick fell from Eliphalet’s hand and a fine colour flushed -his cheek, as he said, articulating each word with biting emphasis: - -“I am sixty-two years of age, Mr. Cartwright.” - -But Cartwright, his temper roused by much pricking, was beyond the touch -of sarcasm. - -“I merely said it was a chance,” he replied. “I didn’t expect you would -take it.” - -The old man’s face went very white, and with trembling fingers he -released the buttons of his long coat. - -“Did you not?” he said. “I have never asked a man to perform what I -lacked the courage to do myself, Mr. Cartwright, so kindly observe me.” -And, throwing aside his coat, he sprang head-first into the water. - -“Good God!” exclaimed Cartwright, and fell back a pace. - -Naturally, by this time a crowd had assembled. With the light of hope in -their eyes, and greatly to the confusion of their lines, the melancholy -fishermen came hurrying to the spot. The various sweet and novelty shops -swiftly gave up their complement of be-pearled, peroxided maidens. A -very worldly-wise young man, in a blue suit, which seemed to be entering -into a colour competition with the sea, on the not unnatural assumption -that a cinema play was in course of production, asked his friend where -the camera was situated. From the far side of the pier a boatman, whose -duty it was to guard the destinies of bathers, aroused himself from -lethargy and plied a busy oar among the pier-piles, beneath the -spectators, towards the confusion in the water. An old lady in a -bath-chair, who, that very morning, had confided to her fellow-guests at -the boarding-house her utter inability to walk unaided, alighted from -her conveyance with surprising alacrity and managed to secure a place in -the front row, while, in token of the mistake of leaping rapidly to -conclusions, from the back of the crowd came a querulous and -oft-repeated cry of “Fire!” - -“Make a passage there,” shouted a compelling voice, and shouldering his -way through the crowd came Mr. Manning. - -Seeing Cartwright, he demanded: - -“What the hell’s up?” - -“The Guv’nor! A girl fell into the sea, and—and he—he went in after -her.” - -“What! But he can’t swim, man—he’ll drown!” And gripping the pier -railings, Mr. Manning leant perilously over the side. - -“You don’t mean that,” gasped Cartwright. - -“Mean it! Look for yourself, you fool!” - -And Cartwright looked. - -The young lady on whose behalf Mr. Cardomay had committed himself to the -deep had already disappeared. A kindly wave had washed her to within -easy grasp of an iron cross-tie, where, gripping tenaciously, she moved -in rhythmic sympathy to the motions of the channel tide. But the case of -Eliphalet was none so good. Neither was Rome built, nor are divers made, -in a day. Eliphalet had landed (to use a contradiction in terms) -full-length and flat upon the waters, and as a result suffered the loss -of every vestige of wind his lungs contained. Wherefore the process of -drowning was but a matter of moments. Already he had made one of his -allotted three excursions among the laminaria of the ocean bed, and the -second was in active course of preparation. - -“Oh, Guv’nor!” wailed Mr. Manning. “You can’t swim, and neither can I.” - -And then the unexpected came to pass. Mr. Aloysius Cartwright—one-time -coward and craven—of a sudden became a hero and a man. Disregarding the -sensibilities of the feminine element in the crowd, he peeled off his -coat and vest, kicked his beautiful brogue shoes right and left -(incidentally breaking one of the photographer’s windows), and performed -a dive so faultless in its athletic perfection as to excite a cry of -rapture and amazement from all present. - -He “took off” at the precise moment Eliphalet came to the surface for -the second time, and it was only by a miracle he failed to torpedo that -unhappy man or alight head-first in the prow of the boat which had -unexpectedly shot out from beneath the pier. - -It is certain and beyond dispute that had he delayed another second he -would have broken his own neck, sunk the boat and driven Eliphalet -finally to the bottom. But the tragedy was averted, and he cleft the -waves with scarce a bubble to mark his entry. Reappearing with a strong -side-stroke some twenty feet away, he made for the boat, where his -assistance was instrumental in considerably delaying the work of rescue. - -It was a sorry-looking and draggle-tailed trio who eventually came to -port at the little iron stairway by the pier-head. Between them -Cartwright and Mr. Manning conveyed Eliphalet Cardomay to a couch in his -dressing-room. The young lady who caused these sensational happenings -was carried off by one of the peroxide sisterhood, and departs from our -field of vision in a semi-hysterical condition. - -It was Mr. Manning who took entire charge of the work of bringing “the -Guv’nor” round, and did it with that thoroughness which distinguished -all his undertakings. - -Eventually Eliphalet opened his eyes and let them drift round the room -until they came to rest on Aloysius Cartwright, who was forming an -island in an ocean that dripped from his clothes. Eliphalet regarded him -with a puzzled expression which suddenly cleared and was supplanted by a -rare and almost beautiful smile. - -“That was a wonderful dive, Mr. Cartwright,” he murmured. “Just what I -wanted.” The smile transformed itself into a look of great contentment. -“I have always believed I could bring out the best in any member of my -company. I think I am justified in holding that opinion still.” - -This is an advertising age, and the success of a commodity depends not -so much on its quality as the quality of the advertisement bringing it -before the public eye. Nevertheless, and despite the packed houses which -patronised his new production, Eliphalet Cardomay was highly incensed -when asked by a reporter to confide to the columns of the _Brestwater -Mercury_ the precise sum he had paid in gold to the young lady who fell -into the sea. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - QUICKSANDS OF TRADITION - - -People who imagine an actor’s life is all honey forget that he has to -read plays, and the reading of plays is at once the most onerous and -exacting of all tasks. - -Not one in a hundred is fit to be read, and scarcely one in a thousand -deserves production. - -Nearly everyone believes he can write a play, and most of these -believers have a shot at it—and good, bad or indifferent, each one of -these shots is stuffed into the barrel of a quarto envelope, charged -with the address of this or that theatrical manager, and propelled by -means of a given number of postage-stamps to its billet upon the -managerial desk. Should the desk pertain to one of the more illustrious -lights of the stage, the envelope is carried off by some erudite young -gentleman, employed for the purpose, who cons the manuscript by the -light of midnight oil, and directs its future career forward or -backward, as the merit of the work suggests. - -In pursuance of this melancholy vocation the optic nerves and digestive -organs invariably become impaired. The reader loses interest in life and -sense of appreciation. He becomes a confirmed cynic and usually blights -his own career by throwing out an obvious winner, and being thrown out -himself for so doing. - -But those who work upon the Road, who have no swing-door offices in the -Haymarket or Shaftesbury Avenue, who travel year in and year out -dragging their productions from one town to another, who live in cheap -hotels or cheaper lodgings, who have neither house nor home nor any -household goods to call their own—naught save a succession of ugly -theatrical baskets—for these no such luxury as a reader of plays -exists. It is part of the price they must pay for billing their names so -wide and large on the provincial hoardings that all odd hours and the -pleasant magazine-time of the Sunday train journey should be spent in -the consideration of unsought-for dramatic effusions. - -No one could compete with Eliphalet Cardomay’s energy in this direction. -He had made a strict rule to read two plays on week-days and three on -Sundays, and he never departed from it. Yet, despite his diligent -inquiry into the realms, or rather, reams, of the unknown, never once, -in thirty years of provincial management, did he discover and produce a -new play. He just went on doing the old repertory routine of revival and -re-revival, and then back again to the beginning. Sometimes he would -vary the order by purchasing the touring rights of a successful London -melodrama, but these ventures were few and far between. Yet always at -the back of his head was the belief that one day he would chance upon -and present an entirely original and unexploited work. - -It was at a time when he was debating on the advisability of making an -offer for the latest Lyceum success that a copy of “A Man’s Way” came to -hand. - -He started to examine it on a journey between Glasgow and Brighton, and -before arriving at his journey’s end he had read it three times, and his -stage-manager, Freddie Manning, had read it twice. - -“What do you think, Manning?” he queried. - -“Not too bad,” replied Manning, who was not given to superlatives. - -“A good title, ‘A Man’s Way’—an arresting title.” - -“Might be worse.” - -“And an ingenious plot.” - -“M’m!” - -“Something very original about it.” - -“Wants a lot of cutting.” - -“Oh, yes—too long.” - -“Damsite!” - -“This Mr. Theodore Leonard—ever heard of him, Manning?” - -The stage-manager picked his teeth negatively. - -“No, neither have I. A first play, probably. Very fresh and -ingenious—modern, too. Yes, yes! The part of the doctor—with a little -alteration—I think we could get away with it. H’m! read it again, -Manning—read it again.” - -The result of Manning’s second excursion through “A Man’s Way” was -reassuring. He repeated his former verdict that it “wasn’t too bad.” - -That night as he lay in bed Eliphalet Cardomay digested “A Man’s Way” -and revolved the possibilities of doing it in his mind. It was so -essentially unlike anything he had ever done before that the prospect -pleased. The central character of the doctor was his firm, purposeful -way—his manner of treating wife and patient with the same unvarying but -just dictatorship—it was new, and yet true to life—very human, if only -on account of the unemotional quality of the work. - -From beginning to end there wasn’t a single set speech—no lofty periods -of crescendo to induce those rapturous outbursts of applause by means of -which members of provincial audiences seek to convince their immediate -neighbours that they are sensible and appreciative to the influences of -uplifting thought. - -To produce such a work would be a step up. It would present him as an -actor in a new light. He would encourage a deeper-thinking public. He -would, _ipso facto_, become a modern. Modern influences were afoot on -the stage nowadays, and he, Eliphalet, still floundered in the dead seas -of rodomontade. Why should he live in the past, when here was “A Man’s -Way” to lead him to the future? Eliphalet sat up in bed and lit the -candle. Somewhere in the second act were some lines that struck the -key-note of what was and what had been. They arose from where a poor, -half-starved penitent came with a piteous tale to tell, and he, the -doctor, made answer, “It’ll keep, won’t it? Get some grub and a good -sleep. We’ll fix the rest in the morning.” - -Eliphalet suddenly remembered a play he had done years and years before, -in which a somewhat similar scene occurred, in which he had said, “Not -to-night, my brother. Your body needs nourishment, your brain needs -rest. Go—take what my poor dwelling has to offer. Eat, sleep, and pray -to Him to visit your dreams with peace.” - -Probably for the first time in his life it dawned on Eliphalet Cardomay -that this kind of talk was bosh—stilted bosh. People didn’t say things -like that; wherefore it was sheer dishonesty to proclaim such stuff to -an audience. - -He would have done with this nonsense—he would rise superior to these -absurd stage conventions, and for the future devote himself solely to -reproducing the actualities of life and the actualities of speech. And -having arrived at this sensational resolve, Eliphalet rose, donned a -dressing-gown and seating himself at the little davenport desk by the -window, drew pen and paper towards him. - -Finally and absolutely he had made up his mind he would “do” “A Man’s -Way,” and then and there he wrote to Mr. Theodore Lennard and said that, -though his work had made a distinctly favourable impression, he could -see no prospects immediate or otherwise of producing the play. -Nevertheless it might be to their mutual advantage to meet and discuss -the matter. - -This done, he paddled across the moonlit street in gown and carpet -slippers, and dropped the letter into the pillar-box at the corner, and -it was not until he heard it fluttering down against the iron sides of -its cage that the first doubt assailed him. - -It was a gentle night and warm. Fifty yards away the iron railings of -the esplanade traced black lines across the luminous sea. - -Eliphalet forgot his unconventional attire, and a few moments later was -leaning over the railings, listening to the swish and rustle of the -pebbles as the water washed them to and fro. - -“The same old sea,” he thought, “just the same as -ever—unchangeable—from Christ’s time to mine.” Then aloud, and with -startling emphasis, “Get some grub and a good sleep—we can fix the rest -in the morning. I don’t know,” said Eliphalet, “really I don’t know. -‘Eat, sleep and pray to Him to visit your dreams with peace.’” - -Realism and Art—if it were Art. - -For thirty years it had passed for Art with him—thirty unchangeable -years. Did reality for the stage actually exist, or was it a mere modern -fetish? Change—Futurism—Realism! What were they but ugly likenesses of -nature—the human frame with all its bones showing? - -The moon was a fairy over the sea, and the sea a playground for the -moods of light—unchangeable, unreal, as it was in the beginning. - -“There is no realism,” mused Eliphalet. “It plays no part in our -spiritual lives.” - -Then a rubber-soled policeman came down the esplanade, and spoke harsh -words regarding folk who walked the night in carpet-slippers and -dressing-gowns. He instanced cases where heavy penalties had been -awarded for lesser offences, and followed Eliphalet to his lodging with -flashing bull’s-eye and threatening mien. - -“Yes—yes—yes,” said Eliphalet testily. “Very sorry, and if you are not -satisfied, come round and we’ll fix things up in the morning.” - -Slightly distressed, he returned to bed. It was surprising he should -have used the word “fix.” Curious how one adapts oneself to a -change—even of vocabulary. “A Man’s Way” was certainly a fine -play—realistic—human! - -Mr. Theodore Lennard lived at Worthing and duly received the letter on -the following morning. A young man was Mr. Lennard, shy and retiring to -a fault but gifted with strong faculties for literary force. He could -make his characters express themselves most vigorously—in fact, say -things which he himself, under similar stresses of emotion, would never -dare to utter. He wrote easily, frankly and honestly, and he loved his -characters and envied them their vigour and lovable qualities. It was -pitiful to reflect that he, with his knowledge of how a strong man -should act, should be as pliable as a reed in the wind. - -Beyond question the world should have known the works of Theodore -Lennard long before this story was written, and the reason why he was -still obscure was because never before had he had the courage to submit -any of his writings for approval. - -This was his first experiment, and lo, within three days of posting it, -came a letter from an established stage personality expressive of -admiration. - -Mr. Lennard read and re-read Eliphalet Cardomay’s non-committal -communication, and his elation knew no bounds. He felt he had been -discovered—a stupendous feeling. America must have been conscious of it -when Christopher Columbus hove over her horizon. - -An hour and a half later, not without misgivings, he presented himself -at the stage-door of the Theatre Royal, Brighton. Mr. Cardomay, he was -informed, was not within—he was probably lunching at his lodging. A -request for the address of the lodging was sternly refused. It is an -unwritten law that stage-doors never give addresses, however -inconvenient the withholding of them may prove. He would do well, the -doorkeeper advised, to call again that evening after the performance. - -The prospect of spending several hours on the esplanade somewhat -depressed Mr. Lennard, but he was rescued from such an unpleasant -necessity by the opportune arrival of Freddie Manning, who thrust a long -arm through the little window of the doorkeeper’s box and seized a -handful of miscellaneous correspondence. - -Realising he was in the presence of a man of importance, Mr. Theodore -Lennard coughed discreetly. - -“Yes?” said Manning, shuffling the letters from one hand to another. - -“I—Good morning—afternoon—my name is—or rather, I was hoping to see -Mr. Cardomay.” - -“What about?” - -Mr. Lennard stuttered, and after a period of incoherence produced -Eliphalet’s note and handed it to the stage-manager, who read it through -and frowned. - -“I see,” he said. “Well, the Guv’nor’s busy at the moment. -He’s—er—working on a play we shall probably be producing.” (This was -pure fiction, or, as Manning would have said, a business stroke.) “If -you come round to 15 St. James’s Place at 4.30, I’ll try to get you a -hearing. Morning.” And tilting his hat well over his right eye, Manning -hurried off in the direction of his master’s abode. He found Eliphalet -at lunch, and started abruptly with: - -“What’s this business about Theodore Lennard, Guv’nor? You’re never -seriously thinking of doing that play of his—are you?” - -Eliphalet consumed a mouthful of Bartlett Pear anointed with Bird’s -Custard before replying: - -“When I wrote to him last night I firmly intended to do so—but this -morning I am a little undecided.” - -“The author’s turned up, and he’s coming along here at 4.30.” - -“Dear me! Is he indeed?” - -“So you’d better prepare a choke-off right away.” - -Eliphalet mused. - -“Why should I choke him off, Manning? You said yourself it was a good -play.” - -“I said it wasn’t too bad,” corrected Manning exactly. “Besides, I -thought you’d fixed on the Lyceum piece.” - -“Which is exactly like every other drama we have ever produced.” - -“Well, we’re exactly like all the other characters we’ve ever played. No -good changing our play if we can’t change ourselves to match it.” - -Eliphalet looked sad. - -“But why can’t we change ourselves?” - -Freddie Manning quoted briefly the proverb of the leopard and the -Ethiopian. - -“You’re not very charitable this morning, Manning.” - -“This is a business talk.” - -“Then if we ourselves are immutable we must change the substance of the -play.” - -“Or cut it out and do the other.” - -“But ‘A Man’s Way’ is so original,” came from Eliphalet, with a -plaintive note. - -Freddie stuck his hands deep into his pockets. - -“Granted,” he began, “but it don’t fit us. It don’t fit us anywhere. -Look at the leading part—a smart Harley Street surgeon! Ever seen a -Harley Street surgeon, Guv’nor?” - -“No, but I could go to Harley Street, and for two guineas——” - -“It ’ud cost you more than that before you’d done. Why, Guv’nor, you’d -have to turn yourself inside out. You couldn’t wear the clothes—and you -couldn’t play the part in the clothes you do wear.” - -The old actor’s hand sought his flowing tie with an affectionate touch. -“There’s something in what you say, Manning.” - -“There’s a lot in it. Bar a parson or a Silver King fixture, you’re not -the type for modern parts. Then, again—would you cut your hair short? -Not you!” - -“No,” said Eliphalet. “Such as I am I have always been. I should -certainly decline to transfigure myself.” - -“There you are, then! Stick to the old stuff, I say.” - -“But I have a yearning for the new.” - -Manning shrugged his shoulders. - -“You’re the boss,” he said. - -“I want to do this play, Manning—very much indeed.” Suddenly he rose -dramatically. “Manning!” he exclaimed. “If I am unsuited to the rôle of -a Doctor of Medicine, why not alter him to a Doctor of Divinity?” - -“Mean changing the whole thing.” - -“Well, why not, and what of it?” - -“Then how about the ‘Pauline’?” said Manning, opening a fresh field of -opposition. “None of our girls ’ud do, and they’re all on long -contracts.” - -“Miss Morries.” - -“Tss! She’s _ingénue_—Sweet Nancy—sun-bonnet and long strings. She’d -never get away with that cold-storage class of goods.” - -Eliphalet drew patterns on the table-cloth with a long sensitive -forefinger. - -“It should not be difficult,” he hazarded, “to alter her part as well.” - -“If the author consents?” - -“That is a point we can decide at half-past four. Please don’t throw any -more cold water on the scheme. I am really anxious to be associated with -modern thought, and this forceful young man has shown me the way—‘A -Man’s Way.’” - -At precisely four-twenty-nine the forceful young man in question was -ringing the bell of Number 15, St. James’s Place, and as the skeleton -clock on the half-landing proclaimed the half-hour he was ushered into -Mr. Cardomay’s august presence. - -If Eliphalet expected to see in Mr. Lennard a pattern of masculine -virility he was grievously mistaken. Nothing could have been more -ineffective or retiring than the young man’s demeanour. - -So strange is the working of the human mind that this outward display of -weakness at once affected Eliphalet’s appreciation of “A Man’s Way.” He -felt that it was impossible that originality and power could flow from -such a source. Subconsciously he was offended that that high, narrow -forehead and the thin, nervous hands before him could have produced in -literature such vigorous characteristics. - -And while these thoughts were passing through his brain Mr. Theodore -Lennard stuttered out his apologies and excuses for intruding. - -“Not at all,” said Eliphalet. “I am very pleased to see you. Sit down, -and we will have some tea.” - -It was not until tea had come and gone that the subject of the play was -broached. Freddie Manning was the one to introduce it, and he did so as -though it were of secondary interest to a tooth he was picking with the -whisker of a recently-devoured prawn. - -“To be sure,” echoed Eliphalet. “The play! Well, Mr. Lennard, we have -read it and, with certain reservations, we like it.” - -“Think it not too bad,” amended Manning, who had broken the prawn’s -whisker at a critical point of leverage and was naturally put out about -it. - -Mr. Lennard smiled from one to the other to show his willingness to -accept praise or censure with equal avidity. - -“Granted certain minor alterations,” pursued Eliphalet, “we might even -be prepared to put the piece into rehearsal.” - -“That’s most awfully good of you. Very, very kind indeed,” bleated Mr. -Lennard. - -“I imagine this is your first play,” and scarcely waiting for the nod of -affirmation, Eliphalet went on, “and that being so, you understand -the—er—remuneration would not be large—would, in fact, -be—er—small.” - -“Sort of honorarium,” put in Manning, “You’d get a royalty or a sum down -for all rights.” - -“Whichever you prefer,” interposed Mr. Lennard hastily, although not -half-an-hour earlier he had resolved under no circumstances to sell out -his interests in the play. - -“It is of course difficult to get a first play produced at all,” said -Eliphalet, “and the thirty or forty pounds expended may well prove money -thrown away for the manager.” - -“I see that—I quite see that.” (He had fixed his lowest price at one -hundred down and 20 per cent. royalty, but such is the elasticity of the -artistic mind that these barriers were instantly swept away.) - -“Right,” said Manning. “Then, taking for granted you carry out the -alterations satisfactorily, you are ready to take £30 to cover all -claims?” - -The talented author hesitated. - -“Mr.—er—Cardomay mentioned forty.” - -“Figure of speech, that’s all.” - -“No, no, Manning, I think we might say forty. The extra ten payable if -the play is a success.” - -“That’s not business, Guv’nor.” - -“But it’s an agreeable suggestion,” said Mr. Lennard, who was poor as -well as honest. - -“It would be a more agreeable suggestion if you paid back the thirty if -the play’s a failure.” - -Manning’s arguments were too much to cope with, so the author subsided. - -“So far so good,” said Eliphalet, and produced the manuscript of the -play. “Now, what I chiefly want you to do in these alterations is to -retain the present spirit of the play as exactly as possible. It is -admirably suited to the title, and the title pleases me greatly.” - -Mr. Lennard looked grateful and asked what was required of him. - -“To begin with, the character of the doctor must be changed to that of a -clergyman.” - -“A clergyman!” - -“Precisely. I don’t play doctors, but I can and do play clergymen. After -all, in a healer of the body or a healer of the mind there is no great -difference.” - -“Well,” said Mr. Lennard nervously, “it’s rather—I mean—a tall order. -Aren’t some of the lines and—er-situations slightly unsuited to a -cleric?” - -“Change ’em, then. Make ’em suitable. That’s an author’s job, ain’t it?” -demanded Manning. - -“But I made a particular study of a Harley Street surgeon in the -character of Dr. Wentall—a most careful study, in detail.” - -“Well, go round to the Vicarage and make a fresh study there. You’ve got -a fortnight.” - -“Then, again, the whole scheme of the play would be affected. There -would be insuperable difficulties in getting my characters on and off -the stage. As patients visiting a doctor their comings and goings are in -perfectly natural sequence.” - -“You can fix that all right.” Manning dismissed such a trivial objection -with a wave of the hand. - -“And now,” said Eliphalet pleasantly, “about the part of the wife, -Pauline?” - -“You wouldn’t alter her? I—I thought she was rather good.” - -“Admitted. But as it happens we have a young lady in our present company -who, although charming, is scarcely capable of realising your intentions -in this part.” - -“But wouldn’t it be better to engage someone who was capable?” suggested -Lennard. - -“That would be rather shirking a responsibility, when it would be easy -for you to modify and simplify the emotions she would be asked to -portray.” - -“I don’t understand.” - -“Look here, then,” Manning explained. “Cut out all that highly-strung, -neurotic bosh and make her a simple, loving creature.” - -“That’s it! With a vein of sunshiny humour.” And Eliphalet leant back -and smiled. - -“But how am I to adjust the quick, ill-considered actions of Pauline, as -I’ve conceived her, to the type of character you suggest?” - -“That is for you to decide, Mr. Lennard. We are here simply to reproduce -your thoughts—not to inspire them. All I ask is that you should retain -the present spirit of the play.” - -The poor author looked utterly bewildered, but before he had recovered -his powers of speech in came Manning with a bombshell. - -“And now,” he detonated, “comes the question of Comic Relief.” - -“Ah!” said Eliphalet. “I had quite forgotten the Comic Relief.” - -Theodore Lennard essayed an epigram. - -“I have seldom found it comic,” he said, “and never a relief.” - -Both his hearers frowned. - -“We must not consider only ourselves in these matters,” said Eliphalet -gravely. “A large percentage of the audience rely for their pleasure -exclusively upon this branch of the entertainment.” - -“But I can’t see how I’m to get it in with the people as I’ve written -them, Mr. Cardomay.” - -“Then write some more—we have quite a large company.” - -“What sort?” - -Eliphalet fixed his eyes on the ceiling. - -“A good deal of harmless fun,” he said, “can be extracted from -highly-characterised domestic servants of opposite sexes. Their -mispronunciation of words, their little _amours_, and perhaps some -good-natured horseplay among the chairs and tables.” - -“Are you serious, sir?” - -“I am seriously suggesting a vein of humour. And now, Mr. Lennard, if -you will consider these minor alterations, I trust we shall come to an -arrangement satisfactory to you and to myself.” - -Mr. Lennard rose and fumbled with his hat. - -“I—I’ll do what I can,” he said. Then, with unexpected courage, “But -how would it be if you produced the play as it is?” - -“Look here, that’s hardly playing the game, o’ man,” said Manning. “You -waste an hour of the Guv’nor’s time, and then put up a suggestion like -that!” - -“Yes—yes—I see. I beg your pardon, Mr. Cardomay. I apologise. Good -afternoon, and thank you very, very much.” - -After ten days the second version of “A Man’s Way” was delivered, and -Eliphalet started to read it in great excitement. When he had finished, -he was possessed with the curious conviction that he was mad. -Accordingly he sent for Manning, and fluttered round while the -stage-manager snorted through the manuscript. - -“Well, Manning?” - -“It’s all wrong. Parsons don’t act like that.” - -Eliphalet nodded. “And they don’t talk like that,” he added. - -Manning whisked over some pages. “Look at this bit, Guv’nor. ‘Get some -grub and a good sleep.’” (Odd he should have chosen that line.) “People -wouldn’t stick it.” - -“Yes, yes—absurd! He should be soothing—inspired!” - -“Then, again, this stage direction: ‘Takes Pauline by the shoulders and -pushes her through the French window into the night, saying, “As you -can’t be mentally cauterised, you’d better be mentally cooled.”’” - -“Shocking!” - -“They’d throw things.” - -“And, curiously enough, in the first version I thought that scene was -good. He has made a mistake in keeping that hard note in the character. -Besides, now that the Pauline has been sweetened, there is no longer any -occasion for such drastic measures. And the Comic Relief, Manning?” - -“Horrible, Guv’nor. Out of place.” - -“I felt the same. Send Lennard a wire, Manning.” - -“Saying it’s all off?” - -“No, no—but I want to talk to him.” - -On his way to the Post Office, Manning almost ran into Theodore Lennard, -who had followed in the wake of his play. The stage-manager buttonholed -him at once. - -“You’ve fairly done it,” he opened fire. “Your play’s like a bit of bad -joinery where the joints don’t fit, and rattle. It’s a hash, old man, a -hash!” - -“But what I cannot understand,” Eliphalet was saying five minutes later, -“is how you could put such words into the mouth of a clergyman.” - -“I didn’t,” came the plaintive reply. “I only left them in.” - -“But no cleric would say such things.” - -“Think for yourself—would he, o’ man? ‘Mentally cauterised,’ and all -that kind of stuff! Bad form!” - -“But Mr. Cardomay expressly asked me to keep the spirit of the play.” - -“You took me too literally, Mr. Lennard. No self-respecting member of -the Church would turn his wife out of doors in the middle of the night. -He would wrestle with her mentally. There is a fine chance in that scene -for inspired rhetoric. Think! Something that starts gently and -gradually, crescendoes as the wealth of this theme reveals itself. Why, -it comes to my brain as easily as if the trouble were my own.” He began -to pace up and down, saying, “God gave you into my keeping, and I shall -not let you go. For the sake of that great love that once was ours—love -consecrated by holy matrimony, cemented by the hands of little -children—put behind you these dark thoughts, my dear, these sinful, -useless hopes. Shun this evil phantom that rises like -a—a—something—in our path. Bear your part in the great trust—the -trust of a wife and a mother.” He paused dramatically. - -“That’s the stuff,” chipped in Freddie Manning. “And the girl finishes -up by crying in his arms, and the house shouts itself sick.” - -“According to my way of thinking,” hazarded Mr. Lennard politely, “no -woman would stop in the room if her husband talked like that.” - -“Well, there you are,” said Manning. “That’s a jolly good way of getting -her off—much better than pitching her through the window.” - -“Let us approach the matter rationally,” suggested Eliphalet, although -he was not a little distressed at the reception given to his oratory. -“Having gone so far, I am not anxious to relinquish the play. Even if -only on account of the title, I confess I am drawn towards it. I -suggest, Mr. Lennard, that you leave the manuscript with me to work -upon. It would save much fruitless discussion. I should bring to bear a -fresh eye, cultivated to observe and remedy the existing faults. What do -you say?” - -“Just as you please,” said the young man hopelessly. “I don’t suppose I -should ever get what you want.” - -During the fortnight in which Eliphalet laboured at “A Man’s Way” he had -constant resource to manuscripts of old plays in his repertory, most -particularly to one called “The Vespers,” in which a clergyman and his -wife passed through troubled waters. In this work Right throve -persistently, mainly through the good offices of much Homeric matter -delivered from the centre of the stage and etherealised by the -influences of the Spot Lime or Red Glow from Fire. - -Eliphalet was not an author, and he began to work tentatively. But after -a while he found that to give any real tone value to the scenes and -characters it was necessary to carry out very extensive alterations. It -is possible to keep gold-fish in an aviary. In certain elements only a -certain class of life can exist. Influences in one breath to say “Chuck -it and clear out” in the next. Wherefore, for every line Eliphalet -altered there arose an immediate obligation to alter a hundred -succeeding lines. And this duty, with the aid of his reference library, -i.e., the Repertory Plays, he most conscientiously performed. - -But, alas! with the change of text came a fresh trouble. Situations had -to be re-constructed to fit the new psychology. Nothing daunted, -Eliphalet dipped afresh into his old lore, and emerged with stilted and -stereotyped scenes which he faithfully paraphrased and transplanted. - -And the finished article bore about as much resemblance to “A Man’s Way” -as a cow to a nightingale. - -Poor Eliphalet Cardomay! The quicksands of tradition would not let him -go. - -“Yes,” said Freddie Manning, “it’s more like our usual stuff now.” He -took out a cigarette, which he licked thoughtfully before lighting “But -I was thinking——” - -“What?” said Eliphalet. - -“Hasn’t it struck you, Guv’nor, that the title ‘A Man’s Way,’ doesn’t -fit any longer?” - -Eliphalet looked quite scared. - -“But I like the title enormously. It’s so original—er—modern.” - -“But it don’t belong, Guv’nor. It gives the wrong idea.” - -“Ye-es, I see what you mean. With this more ascetic character, eh?” - -“Exactly.” He rubbed his nose productively. “‘A Man’s Prayer’ would be -better,” he hazarded. - -Eliphalet thought it over and shook his head. - -“No, it ain’t good. How about ‘The Great Trust?’” - -“Sounds a shade American, Manning.” - -“It does.” - -Eliphalet struck the table. “I have it,” he said. “‘His Prayer.’” - -“That’s the note!” - -“Then let Lennard know we have decided to call it that. And you might -take back some of these to the theatre.” He indicated the pile of plays -on his table from which his alterations had been quarried. - -Freddie Manning carried off these veterans of the Road, and having -nothing better to do for an hour he perused the four acts of “The -Vespers” and became pregnant of an idea. He said nothing about it at the -theatre that night, but the following morning, when, faithful to his -usual routine, he paid his eleven o’clock call on his master, he had -every intention of doing so. - -In the meanwhile Eliphalet had passed a troubled night. Dispassionately -and clear-headedly he had been through “His Prayer” (late “A Man’s Way”) -and had given it deep thought. - -He had chosen this work because he believed it would lift him from the -Old School and place him among the moderns, and lo! it was even as all -his other plays. He had been deceived. There was not a spark of -originality in it. It was set and stereotyped, lifeless and dull. - -“Why, why did I ever believe in the thing?” recurred over and over again -in his mind. - -So before Manning had a chance to speak a word, he was saying: - -“I have made a most grievous error in the matter of ‘A Man’s Way.’ It’s -no good, Manning—no good at all, and I cannot conceive how I ever -thought it was.” - -“We are all liable to mistakes, Guv’nor.” - -Eliphalet shook his head. “Perhaps I am getting old,” he said, “and -losing my sense of good and ill. Why, even with the alterations I have -so laboriously contrived, it does not compare with the poorest play in -our repertoire.” - -Manning slapped his hat on the table. - -“Guv’nor,” he said, “that’s what I’m here to say. It all comes of trying -to get off our own railway system. Now what’s wrong with doing ‘The -Vespers’ instead?” - -“’Pon my soul,” said Eliphalet, “I believe it would bear reviving.” - -“It would—and not a cent to pay, either.” - -Eliphalet leant back and rubbed his fingers together. - -“‘The Vespers?’” he spoke the title lovingly. “Why, Manning, it must be -twenty years since I played ‘The Vespers.’ Ah, Manning, they knew how to -write—those old ’uns. They had poetry, understanding. This ultra-modern -business is all wrong, Manning, all wrong.” - -“It’s all wrong for us, Guv’nor.” He did not overstress the “us,” but it -had a meaning which Eliphalet was not slow to perceive. - -“Let the cobbler stick to his last,” he said. - -Manning rose abruptly. - -“Well, I’ll send Lennard a letter and return the script.” - -“No,” said Eliphalet, “I’ll do that.” - -Manning eyed him doubtfully. - -“You are under no obligation to pay him anything, Guv’nor.” - -“No—no—no. Of course not.” - -But nevertheless there was a cheque for forty pounds in the letter he -posted. Perhaps subconsciously, he was paying for a lesson and not for a -play. - -It was the Eliphalet touch. He, too, had had his disappointments, and -maybe, this was one of them. No man should raise hopes and dash them to -the ground. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - GAS WORKS - - -The effects of international politics are far-reaching. But for them -Eliphalet Cardomay would certainly have produced “The Vespers.” The -declaration of peace in South Africa was the direct cause of his -abandoning the project. A wave of patriotism seized him, and on its -impulse he purchased the touring rights of a great military melodrama, -entitled “The Flag,” which had been accorded considerable success in a -London theatre. - -In this play he figured as a dashing, if rather improbable Colonel, -whose courage was to be relied upon in any extremity. The extremities -were many and dire, but never failed to find our hero alert, -sententious, resourceful and with an inexhaustible supply of cigarettes. - -Truth to tell, the part was not eminently suited, either to his -personality or method. Colonels do not, as a rule, wear much hair upon -the temples or nape of the neck, nor do they engage unduly in gesture or -vocalisation. Eliphalet, on the other hand, did all these -things—declining to sacrifice his established traditions on the shrine -of convention. His “Colonel,” therefore, was an indifferent -impersonation less like unto a soldier than unto Van Biene in “The -Broken Melody.” - -In the last scene of the play there was a great “to do”; nothing less, -in short, than a bombardment and assault upon the Consulate which the -Colonel and his brave followers were defending. With heavy odds against -them, these gallant few contrived to hold out until the opportune -arrival of a rescue-party headed by the Colonel’s young and lovely -daughter, and heralded by a fife-and-drum band. - -While the bombardment was in progress the Colonel and a faithful orderly -had the stage to themselves. The courageous soldier spent his time -between an open cigarette-box and an open window, from which latter -vantage he was able to control the movements of his troops, and supply -the audience with details of the attack. - -Eliphalet Cardomay had been at great pains to make the sounds of the -battle convincing. He had bought large drums and employed extra hands to -beat the stage with canes. As a final _tour de force_ half a dozen -squibs were let off, a single maroon was exploded in an iron bucket, and -red fire was burnt with liberality in an adjacent frying-pan. - -It was a stirring entertainment. Eliphalet felt he was upholding the -best traditions of the race and drama. - -During the second week of the tour his satisfaction received a shock. - -He was staying at an hotel, the rooms in that particular town being -indifferent and unclean, and had returned thither after the performance -to sip a cup of cocoa and smoke a small cigar before retiring to rest. -He had found a secluded palm-sheltered recess in the lounge, and, at the -time the shock occurred, was reflecting that he had, perhaps, allowed -himself too free an expression of criticism when discussing with the -theatre manager the matter of exits from the auditorium. - -His own production was a heavy one, and to give it stage room the -manager had moved a quantity of stock scenery and stored it in the two -emergency corridors which, in case of necessity, would empty the theatre -into a narrow thoroughfare at the back. Eliphalet did not approve of -this measure and had quoted the Lord Chamberlain’s rules in support. Mr. -Gimball, the manager, had replied, with singular lack of courtesy, that -he was quite capable of running the front of the house without -interference. To this Eliphalet answered, “Your first duty to your -patrons is to provide them with a speedy means of leaving the -auditorium.” - -And Mr. Gimball returned: - -“I can get them out all right if you can get them in.” - -An uncalled-for observation, the memory of which rankled. Eliphalet did -not aspire to be a master of repartee, and had not engaged in the -discussion with a view to sharpening his wits. It seemed obvious every -precaution should be taken, especially in the case of a theatre situated -next-door to a small-arms and cartridge-making factory and abutting the -local gas-works. - -Thus it is not unnatural that, in the shade of the hotel palms, he -should have sought for more quieting influences. He was sipping the -cocoa, when he chanced to overhear the following conversation: - -“I shan’t forgive you for this, Bryan, when we might have spent a -pleasant evening at a music-hall.” - -“Sorry,” said an older voice, “but after all it wasn’t such a bad show. -Certainly the battle scene was a bit indifferent—still, one can’t -expect everything.” - -“A bit indifferent! It was deplorable. But, apart from that, the way -that old actor, what’s his name, played the part of the Colonel was -enough to drive a man to drink. Going about, smiling, cracking jests, -and lighting cigarettes! I’ve been through a decent few shows—Dundee, -Barterton, and some others that were pretty warm, too—and I can tell -you, people don’t behave like that under shell-fire—they’ve too much to -think about to play the mountebank. Carry on with the work and show -decent pluck—yes. But behave like that old idiot—no, no!” - -“You’re blasé with too much of the real thing, my dear Raeburn. Let’s -have a drink and talk about something else.” - -But the South African warrior was not to be denied. He had things to -say, and meant to say them. - -“Half the time,” he continued, ignoring the interruption, “these -actor-Johnnies don’t know what they’re doing. A slack, idle crowd, -lolling over a bar by day and messing up their faces with grease-paint -by night. They’ve no experience of life, or death, or danger, and -wouldn’t know how to cope with it if they had. They’re gas-works, that’s -all. Lord, it makes me sick to see a man attitudinising and throwing the -heroic pose, when if it came to a pinch he’d take to his heels at the -sight of a runaway horse half-a-mile away.” - -“That statement,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, rising and approaching the -two gentlemen, “is offensive and unjust.” - -The man who had been speaking, a broad-shouldered, well-built fellow of -middle age, spun round in his chair, and eyed the newcomer with -disfavour. - -“I’m not aware we invited you to join our conversation,” he said. - -Eliphalet Cardomay acknowledged the thrust with a fencer’s gesture. - -“True; but I feel justified in upholding the honour of my profession, as -doubtless you would feel for any person or ideal you may happen to -cherish.” - -Captain Raeburn cocked his head at a somewhat insolent angle. - -“Come on, then, draw up a chair and let’s have it out. It would simplify -matters to exchange names. Mine is Raeburn—Captain Raeburn—and this is -Mr. Bryan.” - -The old actor bowed ceremoniously to each in turn. - -“And mine,” he said, “is Eliphalet Cardomay.” - -By the expression of surprise on their faces it was clear, until this -moment, they had failed to recognise in him the gallant Colonel of an -hour before. - -“Is it, begad?” said Raeburn. “Then our conversation must have been -devilish unpleasant overhearing.” He offered no apology, however. - -Eliphalet shrugged his shoulders and, dividing the tails of his long, -old-fashioned frock-coat, sat down at the small table. - -Mr. Bryan was of more sensitive metal than his companion, and felt the -need to smooth some of the creases from the situation. - -“Raeburn,” he said, with a conciliatory laugh, “says a good deal he -doesn’t mean. You know what it is! Personally, I am sorry you should -have overheard his criticisms—very sorry indeed.” - -“I am glad I did,” was the response, “for it gives me the chance of -refuting them. It is not very agreeable for us to have people saying in -public that we lack the essential elements of courage.” - -“Well, well, well!” said Raeburn with brusque heartiness, “a word spoken -is a bullet fired. No use pretending you didn’t touch the trigger, eh?” - -“But is it not unwise to tamper with firearms when you are not -acquainted with their mechanism?” - -Raeburn coloured a trifle and remarked, “That’s hardly applicable to me, -Mr. Cardomay.” - -“I was merely enlarging a metaphor you introduced.” - -“Ah—I see. Yes. But how about a drink before we start? You won’t refuse -a whisky, eh?” - -“You may find it hard to believe, but I shall refuse; for oddly enough, -and at the risk of destroying one of your illusions, I do not drink -alcohol.” - -“Ha! Well, that’s a score to you.” - -“I wish I could shatter other beliefs as easily. You said we of the -stage have no real experience of life, death and danger, and could not -cope with it if we had.” - -“I did.” - -“I, on the other hand, maintain that we have a greater experience than -almost any other class. We must know what to do for every occasion, for -otherwise we would need at once to seek a fresh means of livelihood—or -starve. We live amidst a turmoil of ever-changing emotions——” - -“Acted emotions!” - -“But very real to us. What we depict is merely what we have known or -seen or felt. All our lives we are moving in different scenes and -different places—we are rubbing shoulders week by week with different -men, different women, and human events, both great and small, which even -you, with your battle-field experiences, would find it hard to -outrival.” - -Raeburn made no reply, but the angle of his nostrils was distinctly -sceptical. - -“Yes, all the time we are drawing our experiences—learning our lesson -from the book of life. A child pricks its finger—and we can study from -the child’s mother the measure of sympathy she offers for so small a -sorrow, yes, and deduce therefrom how great her sympathy and concern -would be if the pricked finger were, instead, a mortal malady. There is -no happening too small to be of use to us, to help us with our lesson; -and every hour of the day or night we are piecing together the minute -mosaic which goes to fashion the broad patterns of our art.” - -“H’m! That’s all very nice and very interesting, but forgive me if I -don’t exactly see what it’s leading up to.” - -“Merely this: that from the lesson we have learnt, we, of all people, -are to be relied upon to do the right thing in any emergency.” - -Captain Raeburn found the loophole he had been seeking, and fired his -shaft unceremoniously. - -“Then why, my dear sir, play that last scene in ‘The Flag’ in the manner -you do? Surely you don’t imagine a Colonel would really behave like that -under similar conditions?” - -“Although I have never been in a battle, I can see no reason against his -doing so.” - -“You can take it from me that he wouldn’t.” - -“At the risk of appearing disputatious, I contend, if it were his wish -to allay a spirit of panic, that is precisely the way he would set about -it.” - -“Why, the men would laugh at him.” - -“In which case he would have achieved his object.” - -“Well, well, well! You could talk from now to dooms-day and not convince -me.” - -“I am very sorry,” said Eliphalet, rising. “It was good of you to hear -me so patiently. Good night.” He hesitated. “I was wondering—you fought -in South Africa?” - -“Yes, all through the campaign.” - -“And have heard and seen many stiff engagements?” Raeburn nodded. “You -were commenting unfavourably upon the effects of the battle that I -introduce in the play.” - -Captain Raeburn produced a cigar and lit it. “’Fraid I was,” he agreed. - -“Would it be asking too much from you to—to explain in what direction -our effects differ from the reality?” - -“That’s an awkward question to answer.” - -“Meaning we are entirely at fault?” - -“Something of the kind.” - -Eliphalet sat down again and looked worried. “That’s a pity,” he said. -“A great pity. I should like to have it right. Perhaps, if you—er——” - -Raeburn spread out his legs. It was evident he rather enjoyed this -tribute to his professional skill. - -“Certainly, I will. Now, let’s see. These rebels are at the gate, aren’t -they? A few shots are fired—answered by rifle-fire from the defenders. -That ’ud want organising to a certain extent. There’d be time in -it—they’re trained troops—see? Probably a machine-gun would open up -somewhere.” - -Eliphalet had begun to take notes on the back of an envelope. - -“A machine-gun—very good,” he said. “Now, how would that sound?” - -Raeburn tapped his forefinger in a metrical beat upon the table. - -“I see, I see. Please continue.” - -“Isn’t there some talk about the rebels bringing up artillery?” - -“Yes; they open fire on the consulate.” - -“Ah, that was where you were all over the place. First, you want a low, -distant report, then a whistle—SShhreeee—e—u—u—cr—umpp. Something -like that they go.” - -“Very effective! This is most valuable.” - -Under the subtle influence of appreciation the warrior developed his -theme and gave many graphic illustrations of the din of battle, each of -which the stage mind of Eliphalet Cardomay rapidly translated to the -possible resources of the property-room. - -“Finally, when the rebels blow up the gate you want a noise—a real -noise. That twopenny maroon you explode wouldn’t lift a wicket off a -nursery door.” - -“And I thought that effect was fairly good,” said Eliphalet plaintively. - -“I can only tell you it made me laugh.” - -“We must change it, then—it must be changed at once. I pride myself on -presenting nothing but the best to my audience. Many thanks, Captain -Raeburn; you have rendered me a great service. I shall rehearse the -battle-scene very thoroughly and utilise all your valuable suggestions. -If you and your friend would honour me by accepting a box for Friday -night’s performance, I think I can promise you a reflection of the real -thing.” - -Probably Mr. Bryan realised that Raeburn would drop a brick, so without -giving him time to refuse he gracefully accepted the invitation on -behalf of both. And when Eliphalet had wished them “Good night” and -departed, he said: - -“We’d insulted him quite enough, my dear fellow; we should have been -inexcusably rude to have said ‘No.’” - -“A silly old gas-bag,” smiled Raeburn. “We’ll go, then. Anything for a -laugh.” - -Next day, and the one following, Eliphalet Cardomay and his -stage-manager, Freddie Manning, worked at the battle-scene like grim -death. The artillery practice achieved with drums of different notes and -a develine whistle was a triumph of realism. A stern suggestion of -machine gunnery was contrived by the use of an archaic police rattle, -opportunely unearthed from a neighbouring junk shop. For the mining of -the gate a large cistern was salvaged from a rubbish-heap and two -maroons were placed inside and fired simultaneously. - -“Manning,” exclaimed Eliphalet gleefully, “it is tremendous! Now, just -once more, and we’ll leave it at that.” - -On his way back to the hotel he chanced to meet Captain Raeburn, who was -swinging a cane in Broaden Street. - -“We shall surprise you to-night,” he said, by way of greeting, and -passed on, chuckling. - -The Grand Theatre, Wadley, was situated at the top end of a short blind -road, standing back from Broaden Street. The stage-door and emergency -exits, which, it will be remembered, were blocked with scenery, opened -on a narrow thoroughfare at the back. - -Approaching the box-office, one passed Messrs. Felder & Syme’s Small -Arms and Cartridge factory. Behind them, and separated only by a -ten-foot wall, one of the many urban gasometers rose and fell in -response to the city’s consumption. - -Friday night in Wadley was always the best for business. It was then the -“good people” patronised the drama, and Mr. Gimball, the manager, was -wont to make special efforts for their better comfort. On Friday there -were extra members in the orchestra. On Friday there was red cloth on -the front steps. On Friday all the electric light points burnt gaily in -the big lustre chandelier above the auditorium, and woe betide the -programme-girl that failed to appear in her whitest and newest apron -upon that night of nights. - -When the returns were brought to Eliphalet Cardomay at the close of the -second act, he was agreeably pleased. - -“We’ve a fine audience for our new battle,” he observed, “and the play -is going well.” - -Captain Raeburn sat back in his box, the picture of misery. - -“Look here,” he remonstrated, “that fellow Cardomay is awful. How about -slipping quietly away?” - -But Mr. Bryan would not hear of it. - -In the Small Arms factory next door the night-watchman was making -himself comfortable against his vigil. By means of a pile of -straw-filled cases he constructed an easy-chair. The light of the small -caged gas-jet being insufficient to illuminate his Late Football Extra, -he produced from his pocket a stump of candle and waxed it to the top of -one of the cases. This done, he ensconced himself luxuriously, spread -out the paper, and settled down for a “nice read.” - -Meanwhile the third act of “The Flag” proceeded. Eddies of rebellion -were already lapping against the walls of the consulate. The Colonel’s -daughter, disguised as a gipsy, had dropped from the walls and was away -in search of aid—and the audience had begun to realise that in the next -act there would be trouble, with a capital “T.” They were right. - -The print of the halfpenny Football Edition, held in the hands of the -night-watchman, began to blur. Delicious little thrills of fatigue -pulsed through his limbs. He reflected how foolish he had been never -before to have disposed himself so comfortably. Also he reflected how -good that pint of dinner ale had been, partaken before coming on duty. -Odd thing he had never drunk of dinner ale before! In the future he -would remedy that omission—a rounder, mellower and more palatable -beverage would be hard to conceive. He closed his eyes and allowed his -imagination to picture the big glass tankard and the burnt Sienna -distillation it had contained. He tried to open them again but they -revolted against the impulse. - -“Aft’ all,” he muttered, “aft’ all—wha’s it marrer?” - -The paper slipped from his fingers and dropped to the top of the case -beside the candle. His hand made a lumbering, futile gesture to regain -it, then fell to his knee and skidded off inertly. His head rolled a -trifle, lurched forward and his body went limp. Then came the heavy -regular purr of a man breathing. - -A capricious draught slanted the flame of the candle until it gently -touched the corner of the newspaper. Being damp, the paper burnt slowly -and only in one direction. Finally it went out, but not before setting -light to an enthusiastic wisp of straw. The straw realised at once what -was required, and passed the dancing yellow flame along the ridge of the -line of overflowing cases. The lids of the cases were screwed down and -the heat generated from the burning wisps of protruding straw was -insufficient to ignite them. This was very disappointing, for very soon -the straw had burnt out and, but for one insignificant circumstance, a -very enjoyable fire would have been lost to the neighbourhood. The -circumstance in question was provided by a stump of pencil which hung on -a string from a notice-board. A final spurt of flame from the last tuft -of straw ignited the little piece of cedar-wood, which—nothing if not -communicative—promptly conveyed its sorrow to the string supporting it. -The string burnt through and the flaming pencil dropped to the floor -upon a little heap of paper and rubbish. In these sympathetic -surroundings it received every encouragement, and in very little time -the whole pile was blazing merrily. A chance puff of wind from an open -doorway scattered fragments in three directions, in each of which a -cheerful fire resulted. - -The packing-room, a few feet down the passage, where stacks of empty -cartridge-boxes were stored, was, perhaps, the most successful; -although, considering the non-inflammable nature of much of its -contents, the small recess beneath the wooden staircase competed very -creditably. The third fire was insignificant, confining itself to the -cremation of a row of overalls hanging on a line of hooks. - -When the night-watchman woke, he found himself confronted with a task -beyond the reaches of his capacity. His rush to the fire rack resulted -in oversetting two buckets of water, and the flames, laughing at his -failure, tore down the ceiling of the packing-room and mounted gleefully -to the storey above. - -The curtain had just risen on the last act when Mr. Gimball burst -through the iron door and almost fell upon Eliphalet Cardomay, waiting -in the wings. - -“The cartridge factory next door is ablaze,” he gasped, “and the sparks -are pouring down by the box-office. Drop the iron curtain and we’ll get -the audience out.” - -“At once!” assented Cardomay. “But wait a moment—if the stuff is -falling outside, will they be able to pass?” - -“God! I don’t know—I doubt it.” - -“There are five minutes before my entrance. Take me somewhere where I -can see—quickly.” - -Mr. Gimball hurried him through the iron door and up some private -stairs. At the end of a corridor they found a window, and looked down at -the street below. Flames were pouring from the factory and the walls -bulged dangerously. - -“Useless,” said Eliphalet. “We must empty the house through the -emergency exits.” - -Then he remembered, and looked at Mr. Gimball with condemning eyes. - -“I shall lose my licence for this,” muttered the manager hoarsely. -“There’s only one way for it—we must pass them through the iron door -and out across the stage.” - -“You fool!” (It was most unusual for Eliphalet to say a thing like -that.) “You fool! Pass three hundred people through a two-foot doorway? -There’d be a panic—a horrible panic. We must clear those blocked exits, -that’s all.” - -“It’ll take an hour.” - -“We’ll do it in a quarter.” - -“But in the meantime?” - -“In the meantime we will play the play.” - -“But, my God, don’t you realise that place is full of explosives? Even -if we’re not blown up, the row——” - -“And don’t you realise it is a battle scene we shall be playing?” - -Then, as fast as his years would carry him, he hurried back to the -stage. - -“What orders, Guv’nor?” said Manning, who, through the open door of the -scene entrance, could see the progress of the fire. - -“Get all your men, Manning, everyone who is not actually playing, and -clear the stuff from the emergency exits. The front of the house is -impassable. Make a job of it, Manning, while I hold the audience.” - -“Right!” said Manning. “Now, boys, every one of you.” He was stripping -off his coat as Eliphalet heard his cue and walked on to the stage. - -Even through the make-up, fear was written large on the face of old -Kitterson, who played the orderly. - -“We’re in for a rough time,” said Eliphalet, speaking from the text. - -There came a sharp, insistent crackle—almost merged into a single -report. A shelf of twelve-bore cartridges had gone up next door. - -Eliphalet took a cigarette from his case and lit it steadily. - -“Why, man,” he said lightly, between the puffs, “you are not afraid—are -you?” He stretched out his hand and gripped old Kitterson’s arm with a -warning pressure. - -“We’ve been through too much together to show the white feather now.” - -Half his words were lost in the roar and crackle from outside. - -Captain Raeburn touched his friend’s arm. - -“Altering the lines, aren’t they?” he queried. - -“Damn good effect of something burning. You can almost smell the smoke.” - -Eliphalet had smelt the smoke too. It made him cough, so he impromptued -quickly. - -“The devils have fired the outbuildings. Phew! how the infernal fumes -choke one.” - -He strode over to the window, through which, and beyond the edge of the -back cloth, the open scene door gave a view of the factory fire. - -Great geysers of flame were spouting from the back windows and reaching -loving hands toward the gasometer, not sixty feet distant. - -Old Kitterson had followed and he, too, saw and realised the waiting -danger. - -“God!” he exclaimed. “If that catches!” And there was a note of terror -in his voice. - -“Yes,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully, “if they fire the magazine it would -not be pleasant.” - -Kitterson was plucking his sleeve and beckoning him to come away, but -Eliphalet threw the old fellow from him with a fine flash of anger in -his voice and eyes. - -“If we are to die,” he cried, “we will die like soldiers and -gentlemen—at our posts.” - -There was a hoarse, solid detonation, followed by a splutter of little -reports and the sharp stink of gunpowder filled the auditorium. - -Some ladies in the stalls moved restively, and complained it was too -realistic. In the gallery a girl shrieked, and some boys mocked her with -their laughter. - -Eliphalet Cardomay was sitting on the window-sill, lighting a fresh -cigarette. - -“Well done, lads,” he cried to his imaginary forces below. “A few more -like that, and we——” - -Crash! - -A great piece of the factory wall fell noisily into the yard, and the -released flames poured out toward the gasometer. Eliphalet could feel -the sweat breaking out upon his forehead. He almost prayed for that -devastating flash which would end the charade. But a gentle wind took -the matter in hand and fanned the tongues of flame away. - -De—dinga—longa—longalong. De—dong—along—along. - -The engines were coming. He had forgotten the possibility of that sound -and the message of terror it might convey to the audience. If the truth -leaked out there would be a panic. They would find the front of the -theatre impassable, and battle with each other in the blocked exits. - -So he burst into a great shout of laughter. - -“Some idiot is ringing the fire bell!” he shouted. “Ha! the fool. Come, -Weldon; don’t you see the joke? Laugh, man; laugh!” - -“I can’t make this out,” Raeburn was saying. “Wait here a minute. I am -going to see.” - -He slipped from the box and ran down a deserted corridor. On his left he -heard the sound of men’s voices and the moving of heavy objects. He -pushed open a door labelled “Extra Exit” and found Manning with a crowd -of furiously working actors and stage hands humping large scene flats -into the street at the back. They worked as though their very lives -depended upon it. - -“What’s up?” demanded Raeburn. - -Freddie Manning scarcely looked in his direction, but he jerked out: - -“Get away and keep your mouth shut.” - -Raeburn took the hint, and made his way to the box-office. The road -outside was blocked with fallen débris and mantled in a smother of -smoke. It cleared for a second, long enough to show him half a dozen -engines farther down, with brass-helmeted firemen busy paying out the -hose. - -Clinging to one of the theatre pillars was the night-watchman—a -shivering wreck of what so short a time before had been a fine -connoisseur of dinner ale. - -“There’s thousands o’ rounds up there,” he dithered, pointing at the -still-to-catch top storey. “And if they don’t set off the gas-works, may -I never touch another pint.” - -Then Captain Raeburn understood many things, and he returned to his box -to watch the man he had belittled deal with emergency. - -Eliphalet Cardomay had got his second wind and was holding the audience -with a light but firm rein. He was jesting with death at his -elbow—tickling the feet of Fate, and strewing the stage with -half-smoked cigarettes. Old Kitterson, fired by example, had braced his -shoulders for the ordeal and was doing his best to help the Guv’nor in -his hour of need. - -They had reverted to the original text when Raeburn re-entered the box, -and Kitterson was saying: - -“They are piling explosives beneath the main gate, sir.” - -“We shall go to our Maker with a better speed, then.” - -“Is there nothing we can do?” - -“Nothing, if the relief is not in time. We have still our prayers and a -generous supply of these excellent cigarettes.” - -Kitterson (at the window): “Ah! they are lighting the fuse. They move -away from it. It burns slowly—Guv’nor—sir!” - -Almost with a single impulse the entire audience clapped hands over his -ears, and, by a caprice of fortune, some thousands of rounds of best -smokeless cartridges detonated with a hollow, paralysing roar. - -The whole building shook. The long line of the back-cloth snapped, and -it swung down from a single tether. Several women went into hysterics, -and a quantity of plaster mouldings fell from the roof and splattered -among the audience. - -Then there was silence—no sound but the soothing hiss of water on -red-hot beams. - -Eliphalet Cardomay, with arms folded, stood in the middle of the stage, -a queer smile playing about his lips; Kitterson had dropped his head in -his hands and was crouching beside a table; and then the door burst -open, and little Violet O’Neal, “the Colonel’s daughter,” followed by -two men in officers’ uniforms, burst upon the stage. - -“It’s all right,” she gasped. “The danger—the worst is over.” - -Suddenly her part came back to her. - -“The rebels are flying,” she cried. “You’re safe—safe!” - -Eliphalet, Colonel and father, caught her to his breast, smothering -something she was saying about the gasometer. - -“God has rescued us, my child—God is very good.” - -And Manning, who had dashed up from the street a second before, was just -in time to ring down. - -“Exits all clear, Guv’nor,” he cried. - -“Take up the curtain, then,” said Eliphalet; and when it rose he stepped -forward to the footlights and, holding up his hand for silence, said: - -“Ladies and gentlemen, will you kindly leave the theatre by the right -and left emergency exits. There has been a fire in the street by the -box-office, so this way will be more convenient.” - -He bowed—turned with a pardonable instinct towards the box in which -Raeburn and his friend were standing, and favoured them with a very -slight smile. - -The curtain fell and the audience, in some perplexity, but without -panic, filed out of the theatre to the narrow alley at the back. - -“Mr. Cardomay,” said Gimball, “I reckon you’ve saved my licence.” - -“It had not occurred to me I had so important a task to fulfil,” -returned Eliphalet. - -“I can tell you I’m grateful.” - -“Well, you will at least admit I kept them in the theatre and got them -out.” - -In the _foyer_ of the hotel Captain Raeburn was waiting, a broad hand -outstretched to greet him. - -“You flirted with death better than anyone I’ve struck yet,” he said. “I -estimate you have saved a hundred lives to-night, Mr. Cardomay. Are you -big enough to accept an apology?” - -A flush of pride spread over Eliphalet’s rugose features. - -“I am small enough to be deeply flattered by it,” he replied, as he took -the proffered hand. “Yet, after all, it was a simple enough matter. I -had but to follow my training—to give them a few whiffs from the -gas-works.” - -“I deserve it, Colonel,” Raeburn acknowledged, “and a good kicking -besides. But look here, after all this, surely you’ll have a drink -to-night.” - -Eliphalet smiled whimsically. - -“Why, yes,” he said, “I should enjoy a cup of cocoa very much.” - -“Have it your own way,” laughed Raeburn, and gave the order. - -Eliphalet divided the tails of his coat and sat himself comfortably on a -cane chair. - -“Despite our earnest preparations, you never heard the new battle -effects, after all.” - -“What I heard was pretty convincing, though!” - -“Ye—es! But still, it’s disappointing. Now, if you and your friend -would accept a box for to-morrow night——” - -And Raeburn had the good grace to answer: - -“There is nothing I should enjoy more.” - - - - - _PART II. AND A ROUGH COMPOUND_ - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - MORNICE JUNE - - -Eliphalet Cardomay stretched himself luxuriously on a green-painted -arm-chair by the Achilles Statue in Hyde Park. - -He was wearing a new broad-brimmed grey felt hat, and the seasonableness -of his attire spread to a pair of dark felt spats, below which the -bright spring sunshine reflected itself on the surface of his -well-blacked boots. - -It was pleasing to lounge under the new-foliaged plane trees and watch -fashionable London sedately disporting itself on the gravel paths—to -see the riders cantering in the Row, and to hear the “clot-clot” and -pleasant jingle of harness as the smart people drove by. Something in -the pageantry of it all appealed to his dramatic sense. Piccadilly—the -Strand—Oxford Street—awoke no sympathetic chords in his being—he was -more at ease and happier in any of the great thoroughfares of -Manchester, Leeds or Glasgow, but this great meeting-place of England’s -noblest-born stirred him strangely. - -The tide of well-dressed men and beautifully-gowned women set his mind -upon a sad train of thought. They were not for him, these select; his -poster on a hoarding they would pass by without a second glance. They -belonged to the great ones of the London stage—that mighty little -clique whose doors were barred to such as he. That very morning he had -seen a few of the upper theatrical ten walking in the Park, and, even as -the thought crossed his mind, Sir Charles Cleeve, an actor knight, and -his fashionable wife, drove past in a high phaeton drawn by a pair of -piebalds. A real live duchess turned in her carriage to smile a greeting -to them. (Eliphalet knew she was a duchess, for he had often seen her -portrait in the illustrated weeklies, hanging on Smith’s book-stalls in -the Midland stations.) A clever woman Sir Charles’s wife. All the world -knew that the high ground he now held unchallenged had in part been won -for him by her tireless energy, tact and charm. - -It was a great thing for an actor to possess such a wife. He fell to -wondering whether, had his choice been as happy, he, too, might not have -been a member of the Garrick Club, a driver of phaetons, a recipient of -smiles from duchesses. He could hardly refrain from smiling at the -thought of the figure his wife would have cut in polite society. Yet she -had been an able enough actress in her day. Poor Blanche—poor, -empty-headed, self-centred, easy-virtued Blanche. It required an effort -to reconstruct her picture in his mind. Twenty-seven years is a long -time, and even pleasant pictures had faded in less. Once he had loved -her, like a very Romeo, and set her on a pinnacle higher than any -balcony. He shivered, as with horrible clarity he saw the night when, -returning late from the theatre (there had been a rehearsal after the -show), he had found her in their wretched little parlour, drinking a -wretched brand of champagne with Harrington May, the leading-man. The -same Harrington May who had fled from the field of honour—to return -later, as a fly returns to a pot of jam. - -Everyone has supper with everyone else on the provincial stage. It is -one of the best and friendliest traditions of the Road, and Eliphalet, -born and bred of the Boards, would have thought no ill to find her -entertaining one or a dozen men at any hour of the night. But this was -different. It was not the friendly little repast with its scrambled eggs -and rattle of theatrical shop; it was frankly a carouse. There were -empty tinselled bottles on the table, and those down whose throats the -liquid had passed were drunk—Harrington May dully, and his wife -stupidly. She had her head on the man’s shoulder, and was laughing in a -loose, trumpery way. - -It was useless to talk to them, for May was not in a state to -distinguish between flattery and abuse, while she was in a mood to say -things no man would desire a third person to hear. Accordingly, he -postponed his observations until next morning, and when that came it -appeared she had the more to say. With bitter emphasis she stated that, -as a husband, Eliphalet fell far short of her ideals. Apart from the -miserable salary he earned, which, in itself, was an insult to a woman -who was earning a larger one (for Blanche was playing the villainess and -he the juvenile, and in those days virtue was cheaper than crime), she -abhorred his studious nature, his ridiculous name, and his attitude -towards life in general. She was of a lively temperament—a temperament -calling for plenty of sparkle and sunshine (he had thought of those -empty bottles downstairs), and accordingly had decided to leave him for -good. - -Eliphalet offered little or no opposition. He had known for a long while -that sooner or later their ill-assorted union would come to an end. - -“Very well,” he had said; “I won’t stand in the way of your happiness. -You shall have a divorce as soon as it can be arranged.” - -Instead of regarding this as a token of goodwill, Blanche had reviled -him. It was obvious, she cried, he had no love for her, and merely made -her his wife for the sake of the better salary she earned; and—now he -seized the chance of a divorce in the hope of wringing heavy damages -from Harrington. - -“I want no damages,” he replied. “Maybe I shall find my reward without.” - -Eliphalet did not have a speaking part in the scene that followed. His -first line was “Thank God,” and that was after the door had slammed. - -So Harrington May assumed responsibilities for Eliphalet Cardomay’s -matrimonial obligations, and when the decree _nisi_ was made absolute, -he took “Miss Blanche Cannon” to be his lawful wedded wife. - -How the union had turned out Eliphalet never knew, since from the hour -she left his house he had met neither the one nor the other. Indirectly -he heard that as fruit of their love a daughter had been born—and that -was the only thing for which he envied Harrington May. He might have -saved himself the trouble, for poor Harrington, possibly from ecstasy at -the sight of this miniature edition of her faultless mother, shortly -afterwards gave up the ghost. Blanche, whose appreciation for a change -of diet had not waned with his decease, took unto herself a lover, and -fades from view in a mist of misguided emotions. - -“Dear me! Surely I am not mistaken—it is Mr. Cardomay?” - -At the sound of his own name Eliphalet’s mind came back to the present -with a jolt. - -Standing before him, leaning on an ebony cane, stood a middle-aged -gentleman, faultlessly dressed and of aristocratic bearing. - -Eliphalet rose. “I am,” he said, “but for the moment——” - -“No—no—no,” hastily interposed the other, “you could hardly be -expected to remember me. Both you and I, Mr. Cardomay, in our separate -spheres, are engaged in catering for these.” He made a slight gesture -toward the passers-by. “We met but once, and that on the occasion of -your very admirable performance of Cellini.” - -Eliphalet blushed at the words, although no undercurrent of satire was -conveyed. That same “very admirable performance of Cellini” stood for -him as a door that barred him from London theatres for all time. - -“Yes, yes,” he said, to hide his confusion, “I do remember you. Mr. -Bridge Deansgate, who owns the Mall Theatre, is it not?” - -Mr. Deansgate smiled affably. - -“But please don’t stand,” he begged. “And, if I may, I will sit beside -you. That’s better. Yes, yes, yes; I often wonder why we see so little -of you in town, Mr. Cardomay—but perhaps your presence here -betokens——” - -“No,” came the hasty assurance. “I am spending a few weeks’ holiday -before my next tour.” - -“Indeed. I understand your recent production was a great success—great. -You are stopping in Mayfair—near the Park—yes?” - -“I have some rooms in Camden Town.” - -“Ah. I have often heard it spoken of as a most healthy district. For the -moment I forget the nature of the soil—gravel, I believe. And so you -are taking a few weeks’ immunity from work? Umhum! Yes—yes. Now I -wonder—but still, if you are resting, perhaps not.” - -“You were about to suggest?” - -“Nothing, nothing. A fleeting idea, that is all, prompted by this happy -encounter. As doubtless you have heard, we are producing ‘Hamlet’ for -four weeks, and it occurred to me—but perhaps I should offend you. We -have an admirable cast, and in many ways it would be a pleasant -engagement. You see, nowadays it is so hard to find actors who still -understand the grand old method.” - -He inclined his head gracefully to Eliphalet, who bowed in response. - -“I am disposed to be interested,” he said. - -“For the Ghost, now, where is a manager to turn? That very thought was -possessing my brain when I chanced to look up and see you. If you are -not otherwise engaged, how would it be to stroll to the Corner and pick -up a hansom? They have a _chef_ at the Garrick with a true appreciation -of how a Châteaubriand should be cooked.” - -The upshot of this conversation and an excellent lunch was to find -Eliphalet Cardomay, at three o’clock the same afternoon, discussing -terms with the business manager of the Mall. - -“I never talk about money,” Mr. Deansgate had said. “Tell Dawson to give -you what you want.” - -Winslow Dawson was an agreeable little man, who had the habit of paying -less than you intended to accept, at the same time conveying the -impression that you had bested him all along the line. He carried his -hands permanently in his trousers pockets, from whence they never -appeared to emerge, even when a door had to be opened or shut or a -contract signed. He performed these functions, so it seemed, by some -balancing feat of prestidigitation. He had a habit of balancing on his -heels and contemplating his patent-leather toes. He would remain thus -during a long discussion, then look up with the sunniest of smiles and -say, “Then that’s settled, isn’t it?” - -When Eliphalet left the theatre it was in a very happy mood. After all, -he would appear in London again, and—what was better still—in a part -regarding the rendering of which he could scarcely be at fault. - -Mr. Deansgate had said, “Do just as you like with it, my dear Cardomay; -we have every confidence in you.” - -In honour of the occasion he stood himself tea at Fuller’s and ate quite -a large piece of walnut cake. - -“A delightful management,” he reflected. “This is better than a holiday, -old boy.” - -Perhaps he felt a shade awkward at the rehearsal next morning to find -the stage thronged with so many unfamiliar faces, but for the most part -they were a friendly company, and very soon he was quite at ease with -the men. - -The ladies he found difficult, being so totally dissimilar to the -homely, good-natured souls who played with him on his hundred tours. - -There was a Miss Helen Winter, who played the Queen and whose -personality caused him alarm. She seemed far more like a duchess than -the real example he had seen in the Park. Her clothes were severe to a -fault, and she used lorgnettes with awful precision. Somehow the sense -of these instruments pervaded her even in the Castle of Elsinore. - -When they were introduced she said: - -“How do you do, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay. I have heard so much about you.” -Then departed quickly, as though fearing he might be tempted to tell her -more. - -For Ophelia one of London’s younger emotional actresses had been -secured. Her emotions were more acutely demonstrated off the stage than -on, for it appeared, despite a healthy exterior, she was racked with -torments arising from an ailment described as “my neuralgia.” She spoke -of her neuralgia as others might say “My Mother.” It was indeed her most -cherished possession, and only through the good offices of -smelling-salts and aspirin was she able to encompass the calls made upon -her artistry. - -Eliphalet, having made the acquaintance of the young lady and her -neuralgia, and being attracted by neither, sought for someone to talk -with during his long waits. In so doing he espied Miss Mornice June. - -Mornice was absurdly pretty. She had big black-lashed eyes and a mass of -whitey-gold fluffy hair. She played the part of the Player Queen, and -held sway over the hearts of the small-part young gentlemen and those -engaged as “extras.” - -They gathered about her in the wings and sought the favour of her smile. -Neither did they seek in vain, for Mornice had a quality of -responsiveness that caused all who came in contact with her to believe -themselves vital to her well-being. Did they come with jests, her -laughter was light-hearted and unstinted; did they come in sorrow, she -was quick to sympathise, and real tears would moisten her lashes. An -extremely sensitive person was Mornice, who answered every vibration -about her—be it grave or gay. Not in mood alone but in outline, her -entire being seemed to impregnate itself with the spirit of the moment. -She would break off suddenly in the merriest laugh to respond to a bar -of music wailing pathetically from a hidden violin. - -“Just listen! Isn’t it wonderful!” she would say, transformed into a -picture of rapt adoration. Then in a second she was back again to her -faun-like merriment, exchanging jokes that a properly brought up young -lady would have failed to understand. - -“Who is the little lady yonder?” Eliphalet asked. - -Miss Helen Winter threw a flickering glance in the direction of his -gaze. - -“I _really_ couldn’t tell you, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, for I don’t know. A -nice little thing, no doubt, but hardly a lady. She gives me the -impression of being on the stage for the purpose of earning a living.” - -This was too subtle for Eliphalet, and he asked for an explanation. - -“I mean she has no people—no money. She acts for a livelihood. Of -course that is purely a surmise, but I am sure I am right. The stage is -full of young girls who are trying to earn their living. It is very sad, -when one comes to think of it.” - -Being herself a dweller in Park Street, with no real occasion to act, -Miss Winter was one of the rapidly increasing class who make it -impossible for the really needy to find employment. - -Eliphalet was blissfully ignorant of the methods London managers had -begun to use. He did not know that it had become quite _de rigueur_ to -engage society ladies to play leading parts, irrespective of talent and -merely for the sake of the smart friends they attracted. It is the Box -Office that counts, first, last and always. Remember that, some of you -clever young ladies, before you abandon the typewriter or the -comfortable certainty of the Insurance Office. - -“To me,” he said, “that stands to her credit. She strikes me as a most -charming little girl.” - -“Oh, quite—quite, _dear_ Mr. Cardomay, but provincial—very, very -provincial.” And having delivered this two-edged thrust, she sailed away -to pastures new. - -So Eliphalet asked the same question of Polonius. - -“Mornice June, her name is. Something in her, I fancy. Forget who told -me she’s been earning her living since she was fourteen. Her people were -a bad lot—deserted her—so they say.” - -Eliphalet did not need to introduce himself, for the very next day -Mornice marched up and gave him a cheery smile. - -“Do you mind if I talk?” she said. “You look so homish to me. I can’t -get on with these London people a bit.” - -He made room for her on the roll of carpet, and she sat beside him. - -“Yet, my dear,” he answered, “you seem to be very popular.” - -“With those silly boys, yes! But even they are different. I say, I’m -sure you know all about playing in Shakespeare. I do wish you’d be an -absolute dear, and hear me my lines. I’m certain I shall get a fearful -‘bird’ from his Nibs.” (His Nibs was her name for the eminent producer.) -“It’s the blank verse that does me. I’ve never tackled verse before, -except ‘I am Lily, called the Flowers’ Queen, the goodest, sweetest -fairy ever seen.’ You know—you flip up through a star trap and get it -off your chest, where the white limes meet.” - -She delivered the cheap couplet with perfect mimicry of pantomime style, -then clapped her hands and laughed gaily. Eliphalet caught the infection -of her spirit, and laughed too. - -“But you will be a dear, and help me, won’t you?” she appealed, picking -a speck of fluff from the knee of his trousers. “I say, you didn’t brush -yourself very carefully this morning, did you?” - -“I stand corrected,” said Eliphalet; “but my dresser is away on his -holiday.” - -“Aren’t you married, then?” - -“No—not now.” - -Mornice’s face became serious at once. - -“You poor dear, I am so sorry. Is she——?” - -But Eliphalet took the book from her hand. - -“Come,” he said, “let us hear those lines. We will go down this -corridor, where we shall be undisturbed.” - -As a rule, when you hold the book for someone who is almost a stranger -they are anxious and awkward, but it was not so with Mornice. - -“It’s just here where she enters with the Player King. There! Got it? -Right-o.” - -In a second she flung herself into the spirit of the scene. Gesture, -voice and feature were alike unchained to the emergency of the -situation. At the right moment she dropped to her knees and with -outstretched arms poured forth the protestations of undying fidelity -with ringing vibrations of emotion. When she had finished, she sprang to -her feet and exclaimed: - -“There! that’s the best I can do!” - -Eliphalet was amazed. Never before had he seen anyone more liberally -endowed with natural ability. And yet he knew this ability was -misguided—that Mornice June suffered from a fatal facility. - -Spontaneous ease of obtaining effects is perhaps the most dangerous -asset an artist may possess. You will find it in legions of draughtsmen, -who will dash off what is seemingly the cleverest sketch and actually a -mere tangle of inaccuracy—wrong in every line and detail. They are born -with a box of tricks—any one of which may be drawn from its docket at a -second’s notice. - -Reach-me-down art—and as unlike the real thing as a city tailor’s -ready-for-wear garments to the creations of a Savile Row expert. - -It was beyond Eliphalet Cardomay’s skill to point out the fundamental -fault in the girl’s acting, and it was beyond his skill to indicate the -fortune to which her facile skill directed her. Had one of those wise -and energetic gentlemen been present, those gentlemen who project their -three-reel productions upon a white screen and who speak of “Close-ups,” -“Eyes that register well,” “Panoraming the Camera,” and so forth, he -would have recognised at once the great future awaiting Miss Mornice -June in the broad estates of Filmland. - -“I have nothing but admiration,” said Eliphalet. “You must have studied -hard to do so well.” - -“Studied! I just swotted up the lines, that’s all. How does one study?” - -“By considering the relative values of what one is saying and inflecting -the lines accordingly.” - -“Oh, I should never be able to do that. I just get a thing, or I don’t -get it. But d’you really think it’ll do?” - -“I imagine it will do more than well.” - -“Oh, you are a dear! I was sure you’d give me the ‘bird.’” - -“Tell me: you have been on the stage for some long while?” - -“Um. Donkeys’ years; but I’m thinking of chucking it.” - -“Giving it up?” - -“Yes; for the ‘movies.’” - -Eliphalet was aghast. To him the Cinema was a very degrading profession. - -“I think, my dear,” he said, “you would find that a very poor -alternative to our beautiful art.” - -“But I love the ‘movies,’ and I’m sure I should be able to blink myself -to fame. I can cry like old Billy-oh when I want to—and the wet-lash -stunt is half the battle, y’know.” - -Just then one of her many admirers came down the corridor. He was a -smooth-haired, self-satisfied looking fellow, who played the Second -Player. - -“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “We shall have to go on -in a minute.” - -Eliphalet moved away and left them together. - -“You are a rotter, Morny, to talk to that old blighter and leave me in -the lurch.” - -“He’s a duck,” said Mornice, “and I love him.” - -“I think you love everyone except me.” - -“Darling,” she exclaimed with outstretched arms, “I love you to -distraction. Without you the world would be a desert track, or tract, -whichever it is.” - -“Then for God’s sake give me a kiss!” - -Mornice considered the proposition in pouting perplexity. Then she -laughed and said: - -“Don’t be such a stupid little fool, Ken.” - -“You always say that when I come to the point.” - -“Avoid the point then, darling, and you won’t get your pretty little -puds pricked.” - -“Look here, will you come out to lunch with me?” - -“Will I—will I? No. I won’t, but I’ll come to tea instead, and pay my -own share.” - -“Won’t you let me kiss you? I’m in deadly earnest, Morny.” - -“If you’re in deadly earnest you shall kiss me. Oh, but not now. You -shall kiss me on the back of the ear when it comes to the cue for the -kiss in our scene.” And so saying, she ducked her head and bolted down -the corridor as fast as she could run. - -During the fortnight of rehearsals Eliphalet saw a great deal of -Mornice, and they became inseparable friends. She told him her name was -really Alice May, but she couldn’t endure Alice, so had achieved Mornice -from the deeps of her imagination. She had elected the riper month of -June instead of May because it sounded jollier after Mornice. Of her -people she scarcely ever spoke. Once, in the course of conversation, she -chanced to remark: - -“Oh yes, he did a vamoose—like mother.” - -“What is a ‘vamoose’?” he asked. - -“When you skip off and leave everything to look after itself.” - -“And that is what happened with you?” - -“Umps! I’ve been on my own since I wore pigtails.” - -Eliphalet was silent, thinking of the risks to which this child must -have been exposed in her struggle for a living. Intuitively she read his -thoughts, and said: - -“I can look after myself, though. Don’t you worry!” - -“I am quite confident of that,” he replied. Then, after a slight -hesitancy, “But aren’t you a shade unwise to encourage the admiration of -all these young men? That Mr. Kenneth Luke, for instance?” - -“Oh, Ken’s all right. He went to Oxford College, so he ought to know how -to behave.” - -Eliphalet smiled and shook his head dubiously. It seemed to him that her -reasoning was not quite conclusive. - -To tell the truth, Master Kenneth had been a little too importunate of -late, and Mornice had been considering the advisability of “choking him -off.” However, since her one scene had to be played with him, she had -thought it better to keep on friendly terms. - -Eliphalet Cardomay was more than pleased with the notices the press gave -him after the first night. “A rendering full of the best traditions of -Shakespeare,” said one. “Mr. Cardomay’s beautiful voice was heard to -advantage,” said another. - -It was gratifying to hear his “beautiful voice” spoken of as though the -whole world knew of its existence. He began to regain some of the -confidence lost after his last London appearance. He fell to wondering -what they would have said had he appeared as Hamlet instead of the -Ghost, and concluded, erroneously, the papers would have been equally -flattering. - -He had never played Hamlet, and the idea of doing so on some future tour -possessed him. Little Mornice June should be given the part of Ophelia, -and would certainly outshine the neuralgic young lady in her rendering. -All she needed was guidance. - -Eliphalet had quite made up his mind to engage Mornice on a long -contract, not only for her talent, but because he could not endure the -thought of losing sight of her. Somehow she filled an empty space in his -heart that long had craved for a tenant. It is good for a man to have -some interests in life outside his work, and he had none. - -There was something in Mornice that awoke a queer familiarity with -another episode of his life, but when he tried to place the impression -it would not develop. Was it perhaps with scatter-brained little Eunice -Terry, whom he had disillusioned about the stage? No! For beyond the -“Nice” at the ends of their Christian names there was little enough -semblance. Mornice had her head screwed on the right way, whereas Eunice -had nearly had hers screwed off. - -One morning a rehearsal had been called for some minor alterations, and -Eliphalet was sitting with his back against a scene-flat, when he heard -Mornice’s voice on the other side. - -“Poor Ken,” she was saying. “Oh, dear, what a sad and gloomy face!” - -“You know how to cure it,” came the answer. - -“I? I only seem to make it worse.” - -“That’s true. You’re playing with me, Morny, and I’ve had enough of it.” - -“Well, if you’re too old to play, go and sit in the corner with a book.” - -“For God’s sake chuck fooling. After all, you can’t afford to turn me -down like this, and I’m not the chap to put up with it for ever.” - -It was a graceless speech, and Eliphalet was astonished at the girl’s -answer. - -“You old silly, I don’t want to turn you down. I’d like you to be happy -as the rest are.” - -“Well, make me happy, then.” - -“’Course I will—if I can.” - -“If you can! Look here, Morny; come and have supper with me after the -show to-night.” She did not reply, and he went on: “Why, hang it, you -must have been out to supper scores of times.” - -“Yes, I have—scores and scores.” - -“Will you come, then?” There was more than eagerness in his tone. - -“I may as well, I suppose. Very well, then—yes.” - -“At last! And that’s a bargain, isn’t it? There’s no going back now? -Where would you like to go? Cecil?—Savoy? Just say, and I’ll ring up -for a room at once.” - -“A room! What for?” - -“We shan’t want to be disturbed.” - -“Shan’t we? Now look here, Ken; if I come to supper with you we sup in -the main restaurant, or not at all.” - -“Oh, yes, I know all about that. You can safely leave the arrangements -to me.” - -“Right; I will. And I’ll leave you the supper, too.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I’ve taken a very intense dislike to you. I think you are an absolute -low little rotter.” - -Eliphalet, on the other side of the piece of scenery, murmured a prayer -of thanksgiving. - -“You do?” said Kenneth. “Well, if that’s so, you won’t be disappointed. -I may not be great shakes in the company, but I can promise to make it -none too pleasant a place for you—unless you say you are sorry.” - -It was all very ill-conditioned and childish. - -“The only thing I’m sorry about,” said Mornice, “is that I didn’t smack -your face days ago.” She marched off, the picture of outraged dignity. - -And Eliphalet, as a student of nature, reflected that the young man had -received a more valuable lesson than all his ’Varsity training had -provided, and, when the rancour had abated, would profit very greatly -therefrom. - -It is always disappointing when one’s opinions prove to be at fault. -Possibly this in some measure added to Eliphalet’s cold fury at what -took place that evening. - -He had gone down earlier than usual and was standing in the wings, -watching the Play Scene. Mornice and Kenneth Luke as the Player King and -Queen, with arms interlaced, came on to the stage within the stage and -began to speak their lines, and there followed the most paltry piece of -meanness Eliphalet had ever beheld. A deliberate effort to “queer” a -fellow-player. - -Seemingly Kenneth Luke had profited nothing by his lesson of the morning -and was determined to take it out of his mentor by the unkindest method. - -He ended his first speech with so inconclusive an inflection that it was -well-nigh impossible for her to speak her lines. Not satisfied with -this, he introduced long pauses in the wrong places and when she, -believing he had forgotten his part, began to speak, he spoke also, with -the result that the words jumbled together unintelligibly. - -Mornice did her best, but had lost the thread of the scene and broke -down. So Kenneth prompted her audibly, and no sooner had she started -than he essayed to “queer” her afresh. But that was not all, for when, -in the course of the scene, he lay down for his afternoon repose, or -“secure hour,” he contrived to lie upon the train of her gown. Certainly -he did it very discreetly, and none but Eliphalet saw. It appeared from -the front to be mere carelessness when Mornice, in backing from the -stage, stumbled, tried to recover herself and fell noisily down the -rostrum steps. - -The effect of a roar of laughter in that part of the play can be -imagined. The act, in the vulgar parlance, was “dished.” - -Even through his make-up of ghostly green Eliphalet Cardomay went quite -purple. - -To trifle with one’s art was to him an unforgivable offence—but when -that trifling was done in a Shakespearian production, a London theatre, -and as a piece of sheer malice against a young girl——! - -The muscles of his hands knotted convulsively. This was a matter that -could be dealt with in only one way. He made a movement toward the back -of the stage, then checked himself. He would be wanted for his last -scene in a moment. He must wait until after that, and then——! - -It is to be feared that Eliphalet Cardomay’s countenance did not wear -that expression of seraphic benignity it should when he appeared behind -the gauzy curtain and Hamlet spoke the lines, “Look here upon this -picture and on this.” He contrived to impart the full measure of appeal -into the final words, “Speak to her, Hamlet,” then hurried from the -stage, stripping off his draperies and breathing through the nose. - -On the first dressing-room landing Mornice was standing, and before her, -looking very different from his usual placid self, was Mr. Winslow -Dawson. - -“That sort of thing may do for the provinces,” he was saying, “but it -won’t do in the Mall Theatre. I have never seen such an exhibition.” - -“I didn’t forget my cue,” said Mornice pathetically. “Really and truly, -I didn’t—and it wasn’t my fault I fell down.” - -Mr. Dawson made an impatient gesture with his head. - -“Mr. Luke,” he said. Kenneth Luke stepped out of the shadows, “you play -the scene together—what have you to say?” - -“Well. I certainly noticed Miss June seemed rather all over the place, -and——” - -“One minute,” said Eliphalet, steering into the middle of the group. - -Mr. Dawson turned. - -“We are rather busy,” he began. - -“And so am I,” said Eliphalet, “and my business won’t wait.” Then, -addressing Kenneth Luke, “Now, you—put up your hands.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Put them up. I’m going to give you a thrashing. Do you understand -that?” - -“No, I don’t,” replied Kenneth insolently. “And what the devil are you -interfering for?” - -“For the pleasure of doing that,” said Eliphalet, and hit him with -surprising vigour on the end of the nose. - -“Damn!” roared the youngster, and drew back his arm with intention of -countering. But somehow it entangled in his cloak and before he had -freed it, Eliphalet had pranced in and rained upon him a veritable -tornado of blows. More by luck than judgment one of them took Kenneth on -the point of the jaw, and put him to sleep behind a curtain of falling -stars. - -“I say! whatever is all this about?” exclaimed Mr. Dawson. - -“A—piece of—just retribution and N-nemesis. Tell him, my -dear—I—I’m——” - -Then very gracefully, as he was graceful in all things, Eliphalet -Cardomay tottered and collapsed across the body of his prostrate foe. - -It is not a wise proceeding for a man on the wrong side of sixty to -engage in a rough-and-tumble. The results are apt to produce cardiac -disturbances. The doctor, who was called in, said afterwards there was a -time when he doubted whether Mr. Cardomay’s heart was equal to the task -of adjusting itself. Certainly the old actor was in a sorry way when he -was placed in Mr. Deansgate’s private brougham and driven off to Camden -Town under the guardianship of a very anxious Mornice. She had explained -how the circumstances came about, and Mr. Deansgate sent a polite -request to Kenneth Luke to call at his office before leaving. - -The result of this interview was significantly betrayed by the presence -of Kenneth Luke’s “card” in the following Thursday’s issue of the _Daily -Telegraph_, with the words “At Liberty” following his name. - -Mornice and the landlady put Eliphalet to bed and tucked him in as -though he were a child. He complained of being thirsty and very tired, -and hardly seemed aware of his surroundings. - -“I shan’t leave him to-night,” whispered Mornice. “Perhaps you’d give me -a comfy chair, Ma dear, then I can watch restfully.” - -And as the good Mrs. Albion liked being addressed as “Ma dear,” she -produced her best armchair (a forbidding affair of varnished walnut, -American cloth and brass-headed nails), and set it beside the bed. She -also put a match to the fire and, on the principle of “If you’re not -going to sleep, you must eat,” cooked up “a bit o’ supper.” She did not -leave the room until satisfied that Mornice had done justice to the -grilled herring and jug of hot coffee. Then she gave her a “nice” kiss -and a whispered good night. - -Mornice lowered the gas, and, taking Eliphalet’s hand, sat beside him. - -The Old Card was very restless, and rambled in his mind and speech. -Fragments of disjointed sentences and long out-of-use quotations came -from his lips. Once he snatched away his hand and cried “Put them up!” - -Very gently Mornice soothed him and regained his hand. - -“I’m sure I was right—a blackguard,” muttered Eliphalet. “And she -little more than a child—clever—dear child! With a little training, a -little care—‘Have you a daughter? Let her not walk in the sun.’ I’ve no -daughter—no child—nothing. That’s so, old boy; that’s so.” - -“Ssh!” whispered Mornice. “You must go to sleep. Ssh!” - -“Who’s that?” He spoke in a startled tone. - -“It’s me—Mornice.” - -“‘Me, Mornice’—No—‘I,’ Mornice, ‘I’—a little training—a little -guidance.” His voice trailed away into silence. When next he spoke it -was to ask: - -“What’s the time?” - -“Three o’clock.” - -“Three at night—and that was a woman’s voice, I don’t understand. Who -are you?” - -She told him again. - -“Three o’clock at night—No, not Mornice—you’re Blanche—poor old -Blanche! And yet so much seems to have happened since—and Blanche—I -don’t know!” - -Mornice started violently. - -“Why do you call me Blanche?” - -The quick sound of her voice roused the old man from his wanderings, for -he turned, rose on his elbow, and looked at her. - -“What’s the matter, my dear?” he said. “Why are you here?” - -“You’ve been ill,” she replied. “Don’t you remember?” - -“Ah, yes, yes, I remember now.” - -“Tell me,” she begged. “A moment ago you called me Blanche.” - -“I did!—good God, yes! That’s where the resemblance lies.” - -“Who were you speaking of?” - -“Blanche Cannon. Before you were born she was my wife.” - -“But she is my mother. Then am I——?” - -Eliphalet had taken her hands and was looking at her with wide-opened -eyes. - -“How I wish you were!” he said. “But you came after, my dear.” - -“Then,” said Mornice very positively but very tenderly, “whether I am, -or whether I’m not, whether you like it or whether you don’t, I’m going -to be your daughter—See!” And she kissed him as a daughter should. - -At the theatre a week later the Lady of the Lorgnettes addressed She of -the Neuralgia. - -“My _dear_,” she said. “Have you heard the news? _That_ Mr. Cardomay has -taken _that_ Miss Something-or-other June to live with him. _Really_, it -is extraordinary what these _stage_ people will do.” - -And She of the Neuralgia was constrained to take two aspirins in rapid -succession to recover from the tidings, while the Lady of the Lorgnettes -turned aside to congratulate _that_ Mr. Cardomay on his speedy recovery. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - A REVERSIBLE FAVOUR - - -A certain old actor, whose spirit had passed above the flies, once -remarked, referring to “Hamlet,” “This delightful profession of ours is -ruined by perennial productions of that most gloomy play.” - -Such an observation is, of course, indefensible, nevertheless the -magnetic charms of “Hamlet” are, to a certain extent, margined. Without -exception it delights the actor who plays the title-rôle, and almost -without exception it fails to delight those members of the cast who play -the minor parts. Another section of the dramatic world who eye this -drama askance are those indispensable gentlemen whose money is reposed -in theatrical enterprise. - -A syndicate, as a rule, is composed of unemotional persons, whose love -of art is subordinated to a love of profit, and with this aim in view -they are apt to rebel against the devotion of their capital to -presentations of Shakespearian masterpieces. - -This, in fact, was what occurred when Eliphalet Cardomay gravely -announced this intention at the Round Table of his Supporters. His -appearance in town in the character of The Ghost inspired the idea, and -he had thought it over very carefully and decided it was good. Little -Mornice June was to appear as Ophelia—a revival of “The Night Cry” -would be postponed, and it only remained to impart his intentions to the -four commercial gentlemen who composed his syndicate and receive their -sanction and blessing. - -“You will agree,” he said, “to an actor of my calibre a career cannot be -regarded as complete if he has failed to appear as the Moody Dane. We -have been in the best accord in our past dealings, and I am confident of -your approval in this matter.” - -For a while no one spoke. Mr. Albert Shingle, owner of a large Drapery -Emporium, with branches in several Midland towns, looked furtively at -Mr. Thomas Combermare, dealer in dry-goods. But Mr. Combermare only -picked his teeth with a tram-ticket and shook his head. - -“Well, I don’t know so much,” said Mr. Shingle, at last, expanding his -globular waistcoat. “What do you say, Mr. Wardluke?” The gentleman -appealed to was a retired doctor, who had done extremely well by opening -small surgeries in the poorer parts of Bradford. - -“I’d like to agree with Mr. Cardomay,” he said, “for, on the whole, he -has done extremely well by us—but—well—‘Hamlet.’ You see what I mean? -One must consider the public.” He put a pencil in his ear, stethoscope -fashion, as though seeking to learn how the heart-beats of the multitude -responded to so extreme a test. - -“I am all against it—all against it.” - -It was an angular little man who spoke. His name was Wilfred Wilfur, and -he had inherited more money than his talents would have earned. His own -opinions he valued highly, and was alone in this respect. - -“We are here to make money—make it, Mr. Cardomay, make money—not to -lose. Now I, personally—and I suppose I count—I’m one of the public, -you know—I don’t like ‘Hamlet.’ I’ve never read it—never seen it—and -I don’t like it.” - -“I am suggesting,” said Eliphalet, patiently, “that in this case you -consult my views rather than your own. On examining past records I find -you have never made less than eight per cent. each year on the capital I -have controlled; in many cases far more. This justifies me, I think, in -demanding a certain latitude of action.” - -“That’s not business, Cardomay,” said Mr. Shingle. “That’s sentiment, -that is, and sentiment’s no good. I put you a plain straightforward -question. Which’d make most money—‘Hamlet’ or ‘The Night Cry?’” - -“Money is not the only consideration.” - -“It is with us—it is with us,” chirped Mr. Wilfur excitedly. - -Eliphalet fidgeted with his cane. - -“Financially, in all probability, ‘The Night Cry’ would show better -receipts, but——” - -“Exactly. Then that settles it—we will put up ‘The Night Cry.’” - -Eliphalet compressed his lips and rose. - -“It is not settled so easily,” he remarked. - -And for the first time in their mutual association there was a scene. - -It was decided if Eliphalet desired to retain their services he must -adjust his views to theirs. He, as a counter, produced precisely the -same terms, and the result was a lock-out. Art _versus_ Commerce. The -meeting broke up with generally distributed feelings of grievance and -dissatisfaction. - -Eliphalet Cardomay took some rooms in Trafford Park and sat down to wait -until such a time as they should realise their folly and withdraw the -opposition to his demands. - -He was never really happy when not working, and even the pleasant -companionship of Mornice failed to dispel the gloom of the days that -followed. They were both bitterly disappointed. He at the lack of faith -shown by his syndicate, and she at losing her first chance of a big -part. - -It had hurt Eliphalet more than he believed possible to break the news -to her after the meeting. - -“Oh, never mind,” she had said. “I should have been very dud as Ophelia. -Anyway, I shall be in ‘The Night Cry,’ shan’t I?” - -When he told her “The Night Cry” was indefinitely postponed, her -distress was evident. - -Mornice was wholly centred in getting on, and sitting idle in the -Trafford Park lodgings was almost more than she could endure. Very -discreetly she hinted at being allowed to try for a Cinema engagement to -fill in, but on that subject Eliphalet was severe in his disapproval. - -“Cinematograph acting is not art,” he would say. “Trust me, and sooner -or later you shall have your chance. My syndicate will come to their -senses before long.” - -And the weeks dragged by, but no word was received from Messrs. Shingle, -Wardluke, Wilfur and Combermare. - -He made an effort to find a new syndicate, but oddly enough no one rose -to the fly. Then Mornice approached the subject again on different -lines. - -“It’s all nonsense,” she said. “I’m costing you a fearful lot.” (This -was not strictly true, for their weekly bills rarely exceeded two -pounds.) “And there’s not the slightest reason why I should. Do let me -try and get a teeny part in a film. There are two companies in -Manchester, now, and if you give me an introduction I’m sure they’d have -me.” - -Eliphalet refused, but worried over the matter exceedingly. After all, -he had promised to help her, and instead he had done nothing beyond the -entertainment of his own society and the provision of a very -bread-and-butter existence. He reflected that she must be considering -herself worse off now than before they had met, and was probably -reproaching the impetuosity that led her to play the part of daughter to -an old man. It was not fair she should be pilloried on his account. So -he lay awake at night and sought for a solution and when he found a way -to make good his promise he set about it with characteristic zeal. From -the bottom of a theatrical basket he produced a bundle of old -plays—Veterans of the Road, with expired copyrights. These he sorted -over, collected half-a-dozen, and dropped them into Mornice’s lap. - -“Read them carefully,” he said, “and tell me which one you would like to -play the most.” - -In great excitement Mornice read them all, and decided on a play of the -“Sweet Nancy” order. - -“Good! You shall play it.” - -The next move was to secure a few bookings from small Number 2 towns. -This proved rather difficult, since he offered old material and an -unknown cast, but by accepting very low terms the dates were secured. A -company was engaged, some stock scenery hired, and three weeks later -Miss Mornice June, flushed and triumphant, was starring in the “Smalls,” -in a comedy “Presented by Mr. Eliphalet Cardomay.” - -Presented was an appropriate word, since the receipts were so -infinitesimal that it cost Eliphalet about fifteen pounds a week to keep -the tour running. - -As he was earning no salary at the time, he moved to a humbler lodging -off the Palatine Road, and there continued the silent and unsuccessful -freezing out of his syndicate. - -There was no real occasion for Eliphalet to economise to the extent he -was doing, for his banking account showed a comfortable credit (fruit of -many years’ saving). To do so, however, was no great privation, for the -provincial actor knows better than any other man how to live, and live -well, on nothing a week. Better circumstances had brought little change -in Eliphalet Cardomay’s mode of life. Joints appeared on the table with -great frequency, perhaps, and he did not deny himself a dish of crumpets -when the bell of the muffin-man sounded in the street. But these little -extras he now excised, and gave further outward evidence of poverty by -walking the streets with melancholy mien. - -He missed his Art and missed Mornice, and altogether he was ill-content. -The delights of prominence so obsessed Miss Mornice that letter-writing, -after the first week, showed a pathetic decline. He had to satisfy -himself with postcards of which “Having a lovely time—You are a dear” -was a fair sample. - -One day when meandering down Oxford Road, Eliphalet was heartily -accosted by another old actor of the name Sefton Bulmore. Bulmore had -once been a popular comedian, but had lost much of his hold upon the -public. After eking out a precarious existence with special performances -and short tours, he had the good fortune to obtain some fairly regular -work with Eastlake’s Exclusive Cinema Company, and had given them -satisfaction. - -He was a breezy, go-as-you-please old fellow, who would borrow a -shilling or lend you a pound with equal good-nature. - -“Hullo, Cardomay! Dear old boy, old man—how’s things?” he hailed. “You -don’t look too grand. Haven’t seen your poster about lately. Where are -you showing now?” - -“I am not, at the moment,” replied Eliphalet. “But won’t you step along -and take a cup of tea?” - -As they walked toward the lodging Sefton Bulmore did most of the -talking, but this did not prevent him from casting sidelong glances at -his companion. - -“Must have come a cropper somehow,” he reflected. - -The sight of Eliphalet’s very humble apartment and the modest fare -offered strengthened this impression. Discreetly as possible he tried to -discover how matters stood, but his masked inquiries failed to produce -the required information. - -“Well, I must be getting along,” he said at last, with a hearty -hand-shake. As he touched the handle of the door an idea flashed into -his brain, and he turned: - -“Just occurred to me—I’ve come out without any ready. You might lend me -a couple of ten shillings.” - -Eliphalet hesitated. “I haven’t so much on me,” he answered, “but I -daresay——” - -“Lord love you, I don’t want it—only a joke—pulling your leg, that’s -all. Ha! Well! Must be going, old man. Bye-bye.” - -Sefton Bulmore had learnt what he wanted to know—or thought he had. As -he walked down the street he muttered to himself: - -“Tch, tch! Bad business! Poor old Card! Tch-tch. Getting old—losing -ground—hipped—stony!” - -On the stage, more perhaps than in any other calling, there exists a -wonderful unity and fellowship. You will never appeal in vain for help -for one player to another. The hat that goes round empty is always -filled before returning. - -Sefton Bulmore worried over Eliphalet Cardomay all night, and the -liberal supply of whisky he absorbed failed to dispel his anxieties. It -would be no good offering money, even if he had it to offer, for the Old -Card was far too proud to accept charity. He would have to devise some -means of helping him, and, by hook or by crook, he meant to do so. The -opportunity arose sooner than he expected, for the very next morning -brought an offer by post from Eastlake’s Exclusives of a long part in a -Three-Reel Drama, and the terms proposed were thirty guineas. - -Then Sefton Bulmore knew that his prayer had been answered, and -rejoiced. He donned his brightest clothes, swallowed a hasty Guinness, -and sallied forth to interview Mr. Eastlake of the Movies. - -“Ha, Bulmore!” that gentleman greeted him. “So you got our letter, eh? -Going to accept?” - -“Sorry,” replied Bulmore, “very sorry, old boy, but I can’t.” - -“What’s the trouble? Terms?” - -“Busy, old man; busy.” - -“That’s all rot. You’re just the man I want, and I don’t know where to -find another if you turn us down.” - -“Turn you down! Wouldn’t do it. Matter of fact, I am making you a -present by refusing. ’Cause I can put you on to a fine proposition -straight away.” - -“You can?” - -“Yes, and fix details _ac dum_.” - -“Well, let’s have it,” said Eastlake a shade warily. - -Sefton Bulmore cast a suspicious eye round the office, as though about -to expose a secret of awful moment. - -“What would you say to Eliphalet Cardomay?”—he had dropped his voice to -a penetrating whisper. - -“Who?” - -“Eliphalet Cardomay.” - -“Never heard of him.” - -“Never—what? Come, come, old man, old boy, that’s too rich. But you -can’t be born yet if you haven’t heard of _him_.” - -“I may have heard the name, but not in our line of business. What about -him, anyway?” - -“Only this—I can—get—him—to—play—the—part. Now then!” - -Mr. Eastlake did not appear half so impressed as he should have been. - -“Hum!” he remarked. “Would he be any use?” - -Bulmore cast his eyes ceiling-ward in mute despair. - -“Use! Now look here, old boy, I tell you frankly, if you are going to -play round with the notion I shall call it off.” - -“Well, what’s he doing now?” - -“Resting.” - -“At liberty—eh?” - -“No, resting; and there’s a big difference between the two. Resting -means you are not acting because you don’t want to act. At liberty means -you want to act, and would at any price, but can’t. Got it?” - -“I see. Well, send him along, and I’ll look him over.” - -“You don’t understand—you don’t know what you’re saying, old man. Why, -he wouldn’t walk to the end of the street to look for jobs, for the -simple reason that half the town is coming his way to offer ’em.” - -“Like that, eh? Well, I suppose I must take your word, Bulmore, and risk -it. For your sake I hope he doesn’t let us down, that’s all. What’s he -like, now—is he funny?” - -Bulmore stretched his imagination to the fullest. - -“You should just hear them shriek at him.” - -“And about terms? Would he take a bit less?” - -“That’s the one difficulty, old man. I mentioned what you’d said, but he -held out that thirty-five guineas was the lowest he’d accept.” - -“Well, it’s the highest we’d pay. Tell him that.” - -“Well, we’ll let it go at thirty-five, and if you’ve a sheet of paper -handy I’ll sign an acceptance form on his behalf.” - -Sefton Bulmore’s cherrywood cane, which he spun in his hand as he went -whistling down the street, was a peril to the neighbourhood. He did not -allow himself to be oppressed in the smallest degree that he had turned -over to his friend a sum of money of which he was in great personal -need. He felt himself amply repaid by having brought the interview to so -successful a conclusion. Great is the balm descending upon him that -giveth. - -Without losing any time he hastened to inform his old colleague of the -news, and with truly dramatic sense did not dull the point by -approaching it too directly. - -He found Eliphalet Cardomay taking a modest luncheon, and sat down to -join him without waiting for an invitation. - -“Doesn’t seem right to see you out of harness,” he began, his mouth well -filled with cheese and pickles. “What’s more, I can’t believe it agrees -with you.” - -“One feels the difference, of course,” Eliphalet confessed. “However, it -is my own choice.” - -Bulmore took this statement as a piece of pardonable pride. - -“Still, I wonder you don’t do something as a fill-in. Now, there’s quite -a decent income waiting to be picked up with the Cinema, y’know.” - -“The Cinema!” Eliphalet’s eyebrows arched disapprovingly. - -“That’s it. Growing concern, old man, getting a bigger hold on the -public every day.” - -“The mushroom season is a short one,” commented Eliphalet drily. - -“Well, they both do best in the dark,” said Bulmore, with a laugh. “But -the Cinema has come to stay, laddie, mark my words; and it’s up to you -and me to have a dip in the pie.” - -Eliphalet Cardomay rose and assumed a position of importance by the -fireplace. - -“It is up to you and me, and all those who treasure the traditions of -our noble calling, to manifest our disapproval of this mechanical device -for—what shall I say?—for potting our artistry, by leaving it severely -alone.” - -Bulmore, who was expecting his old friend to embrace the opportunity he -had come to offer, was wholly unprepared for so hostile an attitude. He -kicked himself, metaphorically, for introducing the subject in this -roundabout way instead of walking straight up and saying, “You’re broke, -old man; here’s a job for you.” But having chosen his means he had no -other course but to continue on the lines of his beginning. - -“Agreed,” he said. “Still, there are times when we must tone down our -ideals a bit and take what pickings lie around. Matter of fact, I was -talking to Eastlake this morning—Eastlake’s Exclusives, y’know—and he -gave me to understand he’d be very glad of your services.” - -“I am sorry to disappoint the gentleman, Bulmore, but my views on this -subject are too pronounced to allow me to relax them on his account.” - -This was pride with a vengeance, thought Bulmore, and he stumbled badly. - -“Money’s good,” he said. “Thirty-five pounds for two weeks’ work can’t -be sneezed at, y’know.” - -“If I allowed money to influence me,” responded Eliphalet, “I would -never be able to hold up my head again.” - -“But—Well! I mean—I hardly know what to say next, old man.” - -“Say nothing. We have so many topics in common, it is a pity to pursue -one in which we are at variance.” - -Bulmore ran his fingers through his thin hair. - -“It’s this way, old man,” he said. “You—you’d be doing me a real favour -by accepting this shop—a real favour to me.” - -“Forgive me asking, but how can that be?” - -This was clearly a moment for invention, and Bulmore wrestled with his -ingenuity before answering, and finally produced: - -“Because I want to make a favourable impression with the firm. If they -saw I was a friend of yours, it’ud do me a piece of good.” - -“But why not ask for the part yourself?” suggested Eliphalet, by no -means displeased with the compliment. - -“I did, but they won’t have me. They are dead-set on you, and no one -else will do. Now, as a pal——” - -“No,” replied Eliphalet firmly; “it is asking too much of friendship. -Please let us drop the subject.” - -Then Bulmore played his last card. - -“If you refuse, you’ll do for me absolutely, because—well, I—I made -’em a solemn promise in your name that you’d take it.” - -“Surely not!” - -“I did, old man—and signed a contract for you into the bargain.” - -For a moment Eliphalet’s indignation was too great for expression. He -took several turns up and down the little room, tossing his head and -ejaculating “tchas” of displeasure. - -“Too bad! Too bad altogether. After all these years, Bulmore! You should -have known me better! To prostitute my art in this way! Too—too bad!” - -“I’ve done it now,” muttered Bulmore, with hanging head. “And I suppose -you’ll do me?” - -There was pathos in every line of the little man’s figure, for he could -act very realistically when he chose. Eliphalet saw, and could not -ignore, the silent appeal. With an effort he walked over and laid a hand -on the bent shoulders. - -“And you should know me better than to think that,” he said. “I never go -back on my friends, whatever the cost. You may tell Mr. Eastlake I am -pleased to accept his offer. And now let us say no more about it.” - -As Bulmore walked down the street there was no swinging cane to mark the -gaiety of his mood. He felt bruised and disappointed. The affair had -turned out so differently from expectations. - -Sefton Bulmore, in fact, was suffering, as so many others have suffered, -from doing a good turn without positively labelling it as a good turn -beforehand. - -“I would have liked him to have been pleased,” he murmured. “But he’ll -earn the money, and that’s what matters.” - -The open doors of the Lion lured him to enter. In the saloon he met an -acquaintance, and touched him for ten bob and a cigar. - - * * * * * - -There are peculiar qualities required in film-acting to obtain good -results. Being denied speech as a means of expression, you are forced to -seek other alternatives. Facial expression and gesture will not suffice. -There remains but one solution—you must think right. Do this, or, in -other words, let your thoughts be in accord with the scene you are -required to play, and you will find automatically all the emotions will -have portrayed themselves. Also you must have a good nerve, for to many -the rotation of the operator’s hand and the precise tick-tick-tick of -the camera produce an even more disconcerting effect than does a -first-night audience. - -If you are fearless, clear-brained and receptive, put on your best bib -and tucker, and sally forth to Wardour Street, the G.H.Q. of Filmland, -for there a fortune is awaiting you. - -To a certain extent Eliphalet Cardomay thought right, and his actions -were always graceful; but he could not conquer embarrassment of the -camera. His performance was marred by nervousness, and nervousness shows -with alarming fidelity on the screen. From this cause many promising -scenes had to be re-taken again and again, and the producer, an American -who savoured of pistols and the Wild West, danced in indignation. - -“I ask you, Mr. Cardomay,” he implored, “not to look at the camera as if -it were loaded. We’re trying to get stuff into the machine, and not out -of it. Now, once again, please. Ready, Cable? Go, then!” - -The operator would start to turn, Eliphalet to enter, and the producer -to talk, all at the same time. - -“Down stage a little, please. That’ll do. Take out your penknife—cut -the string so. Raise your chin—a little more, more—don’t look at me!” - -Then Eliphalet would throw down the penknife and exclaim: - -“I really cannot act if you will talk.” - -“Stop turning, Cable. There goes another eighty feet. Now why in hell -did you leave off? Pardon my language, but oblige me with an answer.” - -“I cannot act if you talk.” - -“I’m here to talk—wouldn’t be a film if I didn’t. How can you hope to -keep the audience from beating it unless I put a bit of variety in your -positions?” - -“But your talking interferes with my acting.” - -“Don’t want you to act. Want you to cut the string of a parcel and put -the knife back in your pocket. You wouldn’t have straw down on the -sidewalk before your villa, if you were doing that at home.” - -Eliphalet was mortally offended, and only loyalty to his old friend -prevented him from throwing up the engagement. - -Considering the ceaseless irritations he was subjected to, his behaviour -throughout was exemplary. - -It was in the comic scenes he appeared at his worst. Seeing no humour in -them himself, he registered nothing beyond the suggestion of outraged -dignity upon the film. - -When Mr. Eastlake saw Eliphalet’s comedy—for he was in the habit of -having the day’s work projected for his approval each evening on a -miniature screen—he was exceeding wroth. Consequently he visited the -studio next morning and engaged the old actor in conversation. - -“Seems to me,” he said, “your comedy is not a strong point. Now, Bulmore -told me you could be screamingly funny when you like.” - -“Funny!” echoed Eliphalet. “I have never been funny in my life.” - -“Well, that’s what he told me, and on the strength of it I made the -engagement. Sorry to bother you, but if this film is to be released, you -really must whack a bit of fun into your part.” - -“I will do my best,” said Eliphalet loftily. “But ‘every tree is known -by his own fruit. For of thorns men do not gather figs, nor of a -bramble-bush gather they grapes.’” And having delivered this dictum, he -bowed and walked away. - -It is doubtful whether Eliphalet’s efforts to be funny would have given -amusement to a village idiot. He was frankly at sea with the -ridiculous—at sea in an unexplored ocean, and his flounderings were -pitiful to behold. - -So Mr. Eastlake and the producer held a conference and decided it was -useless to proceed. - -“We’ll burn the lot,” said Eastlake. “Pay him off and start afresh. That -fellow Bulmore fairly sold us a dog.” - -Next morning Eliphalet was politely informed that his services were no -longer required. No reasons were given, nor any reproaches made. Film -companies conduct their business on business lines. There is no -“incompetent” clause in their contracts. When a performer has failed to -give satisfaction, he is paid in full, and another is engaged. Eliphalet -received a cheque for thirty-five guineas, and a polite “Good-day” from -the cashier. - -While he was buttoning his coat in the hall he heard Mr. Eastlake’s -voice sounding through his office door: - -“No, Bulmore—and we are not likely to have any more work for you -either.” - -“But why, old man? Why?” - -“I might ask you why—why you told us those wonderful tales about your -clever friend. He’s let us in for a couple of thousand feet that aren’t -worth the price of fixing salts.” - -“Whew! That’s bad! I thought he’d be all right—straight I did.” - -“But why turn him on to us if you wanted the job yourself?” - -There was a pause; then Bulmore’s voice: - -“He was dead broke, and I wanted to do him a good turn.” - -“At our expense.” - -“And my own, old man, by the looks of it.” - -Eliphalet waited for no more, but flushing for shame, slipped out into -the street and hurried away. - -“I made a favour of doing it,” he muttered. Bulmore’s money in his -pocket burnt like a hot coal. - -Awaiting him at home was a statement of the week’s account from the -manager of Mornice’s tour. The expenses were twenty-two pounds in excess -of the takings. He also received a postcard from Mornice saying she was -dreadfully miserable that the tour was finishing the following week, but -it would be lovely to see him again. - -“She’ll never be happy unless she’s acting,” he thought. - -He wrote some figures on the back of an envelope, figures which showed -that her tour had realised a loss of eighty pounds. Eighty pounds. He -had earned nothing for the last ten weeks save—and he looked at the -cheque for thirty-five guineas—money defrauded from a friend, and -ill-earned at that. - -“This is no good,” he argued, his thoughts resting on the cherished wish -to play ‘Hamlet.’ “No good—and after all, blessed is he that humbleth -his pride.” - -So he sat down to write, addressing the letter to Mr. Shingles, Chairman -of the Syndicate. A reply was received two days later, and he duly -entrained for Bradford to attend the meeting. - -His reception was chilly. - -“I have re-considered my views, gentlemen,” he said, “and withdraw my -proviso with regard to the ‘Hamlet’ production.” - -“I knew we’d starve you out,” squeaked Mr. Wilfur, rubbing his bony -hands. “Oh, yes, money always counts—money wins, money does.” - -“Not always,” said Eliphalet, thinking of Bulmore. “With some men -friendship stands on a higher plane.” - -“Well, I may say, Cardomay, that you have strained friendship almost to -a breaking-point,” commented the obese Mr. Shingles. “Here’s half the -autumn gone, and nothing done. Still, if you have come back admitting -yourself to be in fault—well—— But what do you say, Doctor?” - -“No good harbouring ill-feeling. We may as well carry on, but since -we’ve lost so much time and all the best dates, the question of reduced -percentage asserts itself,” said Mr. Wardluke. - -And thus the thin edge of the wedge implanted itself daintily into the -future fortunes of Eliphalet Cardomay. When he left the meeting he had -lost ground, and what was left before him was perilously insecure. - -On arriving home he sent a letter to Bulmore asking him to supper, and -spent the time of waiting purchasing and laying out a really sumptuous -spread. In his breast-pocket there was a bulge of banknotes, -representing the cashing of Mr. Eastlake’s cheque. - -“Ha, ha!” he cried when old Bulmore, looking rather down and out, came -into the room. “Here’s the man who brought me luck. Congratulate me, my -dear old fellow, for I open again in my own management in a month’s -time.” - -His tone rang with enthusiasm, and all through the meal he held forth -upon the advantageous terms he had arranged with his syndicate and the -big success forecasted for the play. - -Poor Sefton Bulmore could hardly fail to feel rather out in the cold, -but he did his best to reflect the cheerful mood of his host. The effort -was pathetically transparent, however, as Eliphalet noted with -satisfaction. - -“Yes, yes, and to tell you the truth, Bulmore, I was a bit low. That -thirty-five guineas you put me in the way of earning was a godsend. But -now! they can’t do enough—insisted on my accepting a big advance.” And -he flourished a wad of notes before Bulmore’s hungry eyes. - -With all the will in the world, the old fellow could not help wishing -his friend would be a trifle less arrogant about his finances. It is a -severe test on a man who has nothing in his pockets to resist envying -one who has so much, especially when he knows that but for a flash of -generosity some of that money would have been his own. - -Eliphalet Cardomay might not always have shown genius in his portrayal -of emotions, but he understood them very thoroughly, notwithstanding. - -Eventually Bulmore could endure the ordeal no longer, and rose to take -his departure. At the hall door he halted indecisively, shuffled his -feet and cleared his throat a good deal, but he said nothing. So -Eliphalet took the bull by the horns. - -“Yes, I am very grateful indeed,” he repeated for the twentieth time, -“and if there is the slightest thing I can do for you by way of return, -I shall take it as unfriendly if you fail to name it.” - -“Thank ye,” said Bulmore huskily. “I won’t forget.” He descended one -step, then turned. “Matter of fact,” he admitted with rather a dry -tongue, “I am just a wee bit short of ready at the moment, and a -sovereign or two——” - -“Why, my dear old friend, I wouldn’t insult you with such a loan. Here, -take”—and he produced the roll of notes—“take these. No, no; I -insist—please. There! that’s right. Not a word—I beg you. After all, -we are friends, and between friends—— But what a moon! Wonderful -night—wonderful night.” - -“Old man!” said Bulmore, wringing his hand in silent gratitude and -sniffling suggestively. “Dear old man!” - -For some reason Eliphalet sniffed too. - -“We’re a couple of fools, Bulmore,” he said, at last; “a couple of old -fools.” - -“No, actors, laddie; actors.” - -“That’s it—actors. Sometimes I think it is a very great thing to be an -actor. Good night.” - -“God bless you, old man.” - -And, tucking the money in his pocket, he shuffled down the street. - - - - - CHAPTER X - THE DEAR DEPARTED - - -If Eliphalet Cardomay never pretended Mornice June was his own daughter -he certainly never checked her from calling him Father, or any other -such title her fancy devised. A man on the very wrong side of sixty, who -has never been so called, finds the sound of that name comes very -sweetly to his ears. - -When he met her at the station on her return from the tour, she halloed -“Father” from the carriage window, and leapt into his arms before the -train had stopped. - -Usually Eliphalet was a ceremonious man under the eye of the public, but -on this occasion he returned her embraces with a warmth equal to her -own. - -“Dear me!” he said, as arm-in-arm, the gust of welcome having subsided, -they walked from the station. “Dear me! I wouldn’t have believed I could -be so happy and excited. I haven’t been kissed on a railway platform -since——” - -“When?” - -He hesitated. “Oh, a very long while ago.” - -His thoughts strayed back over a chasm of years, to the time when this -girl’s mother, in the first flights of their courtship, embarrassed him -grievously by the publicity of her affections. - -“I was thinking of your mother,” he said at last. - -“Oh!” replied Mornice, who was hoping for a more spirited confidence. - -“You know,” he went on, “when I see you, I sometimes wish I had been a -little more tolerant. It is a wonderful possession—a child of one’s -own.” - -“You might not have liked me so well,” said Mornice gaily. Her face took -more serious lines. “I was only fourteen when she cleared out and left -me on my own—but it wouldn’t have been any good—I can see that. She -wasn’t a bit nice, I’m afraid.” - -There was a quality of frankness about Mornice. She invariably spoke her -mind. A bad mother was none the better for being her own. Mrs. -Harrington May, late Mrs. Eliphalet Cardomay, _née_ Blanche Cannon, was -not a lady to inspire affection in other than masculine hearts, and even -there not a quality to endure. - -“Then you do not miss your mother?” - -“Not a bit.” - -“No,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully; “and no more do I. Well, well; I have -arranged with the syndicate—yes, I had to climb down about playing -‘Hamlet,’ and now we are going to put up ‘The Night Cry,’ after all. The -cast is engaged and we start rehearsing here this week.” - -“Oh, that’s fine,” said Mornice. Then with a shade of nervousness, “And -who have you got to do my part?” - -“Yourself, of course.” - -“Me?—Oh, but, Pummy, I can’t. Didn’t I write and tell you? Thought I -had—at least, I didn’t think I had, exactly, but I meant to.” - -“Tell me what?” Eliphalet looked genuinely startled. - -“Oh, Daddy fatherums, don’t—don’t look so serious, please. It’s—I—— -Well, I met a young man—a boy—a gentleman—oh, yes, always the perfect -gentleman. No, but he’s a dear, really; I mean, he’s awfully nice and -_very_ clever, and—— Well, I didn’t want to be a drag on you, and you -never actually told me you were going to open, so I didn’t see how I -could very well refuse—could I?” - -Eliphalet stopped dead, with: - -“Good God, what are you talking about?” - -“Yes. I knew you’d disapprove, and I knew if I waited to ask you, you -wouldn’t let me; so I took my courage in both hands, shut my eyes, and -said, ‘Yes.’ But it’s only for six weeks.” - -From his tail-pocket Eliphalet drew a large silk handkerchief and mopped -his brow. - -“What is only for six weeks?” he managed to ask. - -“I told you—this Cinema engagement, of course.” - -“Thank you,” he said faintly. “If you don’t mind, we will go into this -dairy and take a glass of milk.” - -Not until they had seated themselves at the small marble-topped table, -with two china beakers of milk and some sponge-cakes on white saucers -before them, did he speak again. - -“One should never mystify one’s audience: that is a first principle in -our profession. Remember it, my dear, and you will save people from many -unnecessary shocks. Now, about this engagement?” - -So Mornice told him how one Ronald Knight, who was “really awfully -nice,” had seen her playing at Colwyn Bay, and had come round “after the -show” with a most alluring offer. - -“They are a new firm, and, just think! they are going to pay me a pound -a day—and I’m to play lead in the film. Oh, Daddy fatherums, I’m to -play the Village Maid!” And, kissing the tips of her fingers, she dabbed -them on the end of the old man’s nose. - -Taking into consideration Eliphalet’s strong distaste for the Cinema—a -distaste rendered more poignant by his own recent unsuccessful exploits -before the camera—it is surprising that he did not at once quash the -whole idea. The fact remains, however, that he did not. He knew in -honesty to his ideals he should have taken up a very severe standpoint, -but instead he caressed the end of his nose lovingly, where the sense of -the kiss she had dabbed upon it still endured. - -“Well, well, well!” he said. “There is no better way of learning a -mistake than by experience—and that I am not justified in denying you. -But after the six weeks, Mornice, you will return to me.” - -“Oh, you darling, to let me!” she exclaimed, delightedly. “And of course -I’ll do whatever you say I must.” - -He seemed to ponder for a while, and presently said: - -“What was it you called me a moment ago? Some quite odd name.” - -“Daddy fatherums?” - -“That was it—yes.” - -“Do you like being called that?” - -“Yes, I do,” he confessed, after the manner of an expert tasting a rare -wine. “I do. It is very foolish of me, no doubt—idiotic—but I like it -notwithstanding.” - -An old man will do a great deal for a girl—that is sufficiently -obvious; and so, for that matter, will a young one. - -To avoid losing any of her society Eliphalet shifted the scene of his -rehearsals and all the cast to Chester, in which town, on account of its -historic surroundings, the film was being taken. - -His theatrical lodging-book showed no addresses of the landladies of -Chester, but Mornice promised to drop a card to Ronald Knight to arrange -rooms and meet them at the station. - -Ronald Knight, it subsequently appeared, was not the manager of the film -company, but the manager’s son. He was a young man of dramatic -enthusiasm and ambition. - -In Mornice’s conversations he recurred with great frequency, under such -titles as Ron, Ronny, Spud, The Boy—or Pyjams. (The latter being -arrived at by a kind of inverted reasoning, _sic_. -Knight—Knightie—Nightie; and since the masculine of nightie equals -pyjamas, hence Pyjams.) - -Eliphalet was somewhat hard put to it to recognise a single personality -under so many alternative names. He gathered that Mr. Knight was well -placed in the esteem of his protégée, and on that account suffered -mildly jealous pangs. These he was not too subtle to betray—when -Mornice would tactfully remark: - -“The boy is frightfully anxious to meet you. He just thrilled when I -told him I was your sort-of-daughter.” - -“Yes, yes, that is very likely,” said Eliphalet, ironically; but he was -none the less pleased by these nosegays of speech. - -So the whole cast of “The Night Cry” were entrained for Chester, where -in due course they arrived. Mr. Knight was waiting on the platform, and -sprang to open the door of Eliphalet’s compartment. - -“Here’s The Boy,” cried Mornice. “Now, Spud, be polite, and shake hands -with Mr. Cardomay.” - -Ronald Knight was naturally polite, and did as he was bid, with “It’s a -very great pleasure to meet you, sir.” While Mornice, in the background, -gratuitously supplied, “I call him Daddy fatherums, and sometimes -Pummy.” - -Eliphalet frowned a little. An old man does not care to have his pet -name hung on the line for all to behold. - -“Oh, she’s boasting,” said Ronald, with some neatness, who, reversely, -as a young man, was charmed to have been called “Spud” in public. - -“Mornice tells me she has asked you to find us some accommodations,” -said Eliphalet. - -“Oh! I forgot to,” gasped Mornice, in instant contrition. Then: “Hold -out your hand, Morny!” - -Ronald laughed as she inflicted punishment upon herself. - -“I know a few addresses, Mr. Cardomay. Or perhaps you will stay at the -hotel?” - -“I prefer rooms—they are more homely.” - -A couple of addresses were written on the back of an envelope (“No, not -that one.” Eliphalet recognised Mornice’s writing, and smiled), and -armed with these, he and she and their more portable assets climbed into -a cab. - -Ronald was a shade disappointed at being left behind, but he had told -Mornice they would want to see her at the office by five o’clock. To -which she replied: - -“I’ll be there at four, then, and you can do me a tea beforehand. By-oh, -Ron,” as they rattled over the cobbles of the station yard. - -“Now,” said Eliphalet, “we have a choice between Mrs. Devon and Mrs. -Montmorency. Which shall it be?” - -Mornice voted in favour of “The West Countrie” as being less -high-sounding than Montmorency. Accordingly they addressed themselves to -Mrs. Devon’s knocker. - -Alas! but the good lady’s rooms were already engaged. Yes, she had heard -of Mrs. Montmorency, but could claim no actual acquaintance. - -“I think,” she hazarded, “she’s been abroad a good deal. But there! it -doesn’t do to say anything, and there isn’t any reason to suppose she -won’t make you comfortable—but still! That’s the house at the -corner—Number Six. The one with the funny blinds.” - -So they crossed the road and attacked the bell of Number Six, and after -a decent pause the door was opened by a middle-aged woman with an apron -but no cap. - -Eliphalet addressed her as “Madam” and enquired if she were Mrs. -Montmorency. - -“No,” came the reply, with a touch of pride, so Mornice thought. “No, -but I do for her. I’m Emma. What might you want?” - -“We are requiring two bedrooms and a sitting-room.” - -“Y-es. We could do that. Are you theatricals? But there! I needn’t ask, -for it’s stamped on your faces as plain as the words on a wall.” - -Eliphalet remarked that the doorstep was inhospitable, and suggested -they might be invited to inspect the rooms. - -“You shall see them,” said Emma, adding, “Such as they are.” She led -them within. “There—this’d be the sitting-room, if you was to take it.” - -“But it is, in any case,” said Mornice with a twinkle. - -Emma shook her head discouragingly. - -“Well, come!” said Eliphalet. “This is quite comfortable.” - -It was the twin of every other theatrical parlour, with its ponderous -wallpaper, plush upholsterings and curtains, palm pedestal in the window -and draper’s paintings on the walls. - -Emma nodded gloomily. - -“I suppose it’s all right,” she allowed. “If you want to see the -bedrooms, you’ll ’ave to climb the stairs, for there’s no other way.” - -She led the procession to the floor above, and revealed two reasonably -well-kept bedrooms, with blue linoleum on the floors and scarlet Paisley -eiderdowns on the beds. - -“I think this should suit us very well. Er—what about terms, now?” - -Emma straightened a little doormat with the dilapidated toe of her shoe. - -“’Ardly know what to say about terms. You see, she’s funny about ’em. -Tries to get all she can—but she always takes less.” - -“Perhaps I could speak to her?” - -“No, no, you couldn’t, not very well. Y’see, she’s out—Saturday!—You -know what I mean. You must arrange with me or not at all.” - -“Certainly, as you please.” - -“What about twenty-five shillings, then?” - -Eliphalet hesitated, on principle. - -“We should probably be here for three weeks,” he observed. - -“Then you’re not playing in the town?” - -“No; rehearsing.” - -“That’s a pity, ’cause I’d ’ave asked for a seat Friday. ’Sides, if -you’re r’hearsing, it’s unlikely you’d be able to afford twenty-five.” - -“We could afford a great deal more,” said Eliphalet, with a touch of -silly pride. “But one does not pay more than a penny for a penny bun.” - -“But even then you may get a stale one,” replied Emma philosophically. -“Well, I should think twenty-five shillings ’ud be enough, then. ’Tis -enough, as a matter of fac’—plenty.” - -“Very well; we will leave it at that.” - -“All right. I ’spec’ she’ll raise a rare to-do about it, but one can’t -help that. Pity she wasn’t ’ome ’erself—but there, it’s Saturday, and -you know what that means! ’Ave you ’ad your dinners?” - -“No,” said Mornice; “and we’re dreadfully hungry.” - -“Well, I suppose a chop each ’ud do, for liver’s very dear, and I don’t -suppose you want to spend much.” - -“A chop will be excellent.” - -“Then I’ll leave you to wash your ’ands. There are some bits of yellow -in the soap-dishes, but if you’ve brought your own, I’d use it.” - -At the top of the stairs she turned and addressed Mornice. - -“You may as well be warned. The ’andle of the water-jug in your room is -only stuck on with fish-glue, so you’d better lift by the sides when -you’re pouring out. Three people ’ave paid for that ’andle already.” - -“Thanks awfully,” said Mornie, trying not to laugh. - -“Thought I’d tell you. Not but what you’re sure to forget; then you’ll -make the fourth.” And with this melancholy foreboding Emma descended -toward the kitchen. - -Emma’s cooking of the chops was of more attractive quality than her -conversational manner of introducing them. She further supplemented the -meal with a sweet omelette, expressing a doubt, while serving it, that -the price of the eggs used would probably “put them in a state” when -they had to settle the bill. - -Mornice was enchanted with Emma, and gave a graphic performance of her -voice and manner for Eliphalet’s after-dinner delectation. - -“She’s lovely,” declared Mornice; “and I only hope Mrs. ‘Montblancmangy’ -will be half as funny.” - -The lady in question did not arrive home until after Mornice had set out -to meet Ronald Knight. It was about five-thirty when Eliphalet heard the -click of a key in the front door and the sound of footsteps in the -passage. Apparently, the owner of the house was a clumsy person, for a -great rattling betokened a collision with the umbrella-stand. There -followed the noise of objects falling, and Eliphalet undertook to -surmise that the three plush-backed clothes-brushes had been flung from -their brass hooks to the floor. A certain amount of scuffling ensued, -and then a female voice, speaking in detached tones, said: - -“Dash the things! Let ’em lie!” - -Acting on this resolution, the footsteps continued their way down the -passage, and a door at the far end banged. - -“H’m!” said Eliphalet Cardomay. - -Emma came from the kitchen and entered her mistress’s parlour. - -Mrs. Montmorency was seated in a wicker chair, and her head moved from -side to side in a rhythmic measure. On the floor beside her lay various -belongings—a bag, an umbrella and a pair of gloves. Upon her lap was a -large brown-paper parcel, suggestive of the wine merchant, and this she -grasped securely by a small leather handle. - -She was a largely-built woman on the wrong side of fifty, and the -clothes she wore would have befitted better a less advanced age. Large -plaques of jewellery shone from her expansive bosom and implicated -themselves in the lace and trimmings of her blouse. Across her shoulders -was a fur cape, which, in conversational periods, she styled as “My -mink.” An elaborate hat, at the moment somewhat awry, reposed upon her -butter-coloured hair—hair dressed _à la pompadour_. Her face was a fine -shade of purple, the intensity of which had been somewhat toned down by -a liberal application of powder. - -“I’ve let the rooms,” remarked Emma. “Theatricals—an old chap and ’is -daughter.” - -“Decidedly!” replied Mrs. Montmorency, her head still moving and -increasing the raffish angle of her hat. “Decidedly! I should think so, -indeed! Why, good gracious me, yes!” - -“If you know all about it, there’s no call for me to tell you.” - -“None whatever—decidedly not! What did you say?” - -“Oh, you’re—you’re Saturday!” said Emma. - -Mrs. Montmorency stiffened. - -“Any sauciness, and out you go—bag and baggage, lock, stock and -barrel!” - -“You wouldn’t part with the barrel—not if you thought there was -anything in it,” returned Emma, with asperity. - -“I think, Emma, you forget who you’re speaking to. Now, what did you say -about the rooms?” - -“Let ’em, that’s all. Twenty-one shillings a week for the two upstair -fronts and the sitting, and they’ll stay three weeks like as not.” - -“This comes of my going out!” declared Mrs. Montmorency. “It means that -I can’t go out, and that’s what it _does_ mean! Who, may I ask, please, -have you let my rooms to at such a price?” - -“Old fellow and his daughter.” - -“Daughter, indeed! Decidedly, I should say so. A nice thing altogether. -Well! it’s what I expected—no more, no less.” - -“You can tell ’em to go if you’re not satisfied—I ’aven’t sheeted the -beds yet.” - -“That’s at my pleasure, and one more piece of sauciness and you’ll be -the one to go. But I’ll charge them for the cruet—ninepence a week, and -any breakages will be double—double. And now, please, what are the -names of the precious pair?” - -“Didn’t ask.” - -“No, you wouldn’t—decidedly not. You’d turn my house into a warren for -all the rag-bag and nameless vagabonds in the town. I’ll see them -myself, and you can be sure I’ll have my say, too.” - -“Then I should take off my ’at and straighten up a bit first—for you -look for all the world like a needle in a hay-stack.” - -Emma walked from the room and slammed the door. - -Mrs. Montmorency rose from her chair and, approaching the mirror on the -mantelshelf, Narcissus-fashion surveyed her own loveliness therein. -Seemingly she found Emma’s counsel good, for she removed her hat and -cast it upon a chair, where it was crushed in the emotional crisis that -followed. Her hair she pawed and patted into some pretensions to -order—her face she enriched with a fresh crust of powder. From a -scent-spray, convenient to hand, she directed a jet of some -heliotrope-coloured fluid upon her bosom. This done, she straightened -her figure and passed out into the passage, with primmed lips. - -To avoid the impression that by letting a room she sacrificed the -privilege of entering it at will, she turned the handle of Eliphalet’s -door, without knocking, and walked inside. - -It happened that the old actor had closed his eyes for a few moments and -was sleeping—his back toward her. Mrs. Montmorency sniffed, but, -failing to awaken him, circumnavigated the table until his features, lit -up by the cast-down glare of the incandescent gas, confronted her own. - -For a moment she looked and then, with a curious throttled cry, turned -about and fled. - -Eliphalet sprang to his feet and arrived in the passage in time to see -the door at the far end swing to with a bang that shook the house. - -“How very curious!” he said, and returned to his chair. - -“God! It’s Cardy,” gasped Mrs. Montmorency, panting breathlessly against -the mantelpiece. - -She rang the bell furiously, but when Emma arrived waved her away with, -“No—no—I want nothing. I’ve had a shock, that’s all; but I can -manage.” - -She managed uncommonly well, and it must be considered as providential -that her purchases that afternoon had included two bottles of brandy -whereby the ill effects of the shock were capable of being warded off. -By the time the first bottle was at half-tide, she was able to review -the situation less fearfully. - -Here was her first husband—the man who divorced her—living under the -same roof as a guest, and with him was a grown-up daughter. - -What would be the result of this intolerable coincidence? As a late -member of the Boards herself, her imagination supplied many startling -solutions. The conventional idea was that Eliphalet, realising what he -had thrown away, would implore her to take pity and return to the -shelter of his arms; the dramatic, that after years of anger and dull -hatred, the sight of her would cast him into such a frenzy that murder -would be done. In support of this theory came the memory of how once he -had called out his man to fight with pistols for the sake of her honour. -It was all very irritating and tiresome, coming as it did at the time -when she had settled down to peaceable ways of living. As fruits of many -affectionate years, she was left with money enough to buy the small -lodging-house, and a matter of fifty pounds per annum over and above to -guarantee a convivial Saturday at the end of each week. This was not -affluence by any means, but it sufficed to make life endurable. It was -impossible that Eliphalet would be in so good a position, and was it not -more than likely that if he discovered her, his first thoughts would be -to negotiate a loan? - -This latter theory caused Mrs. Montmorency more uneasiness than any -other. Generosity was not a strong point, beyond the latitude she -allowed herself for personal indulgences. Clearly, then, Eliphalet -Cardomay’s propinquity was not to be encouraged. - -Once more she rang the bell for Emma. - -“What terms did you ask these people for my rooms?” she demanded. - -“I asked ’em twenty-five.” - -“And they beat you down?” - -“Oh, yes,” said Emma, who was sick of the whole affair. - -“I thought as much. And where are they playing?” - -“Nowhere. They’re r’hearsing.” - -“Indeed! And who ever heard of letting rooms to an actor who was -rehearsing?” - -“They’ve got to sleep somewhere while they’re doing it—haven’t they?” - -“They are not going to sleep here—not after to-night, or to-morrow at -the latest. That I _have_ made up my mind to. This house is not a -charitable institution; whatever else it may be, it isn’t that.” - -“A truer word never passed your lips,” said Emma, and escaped before the -inevitable warning about sauciness found expression. - -Mrs. Montmorency drank soberly for an hour to lubricate her reflections. -She heard Mornice come in about eight o’clock, and was fired with a -desire to go into the passage and denounce her. This project, however, -she abandoned for want of material for the accusation. She decided that -a dignified letter would be the best means of being rid of the pair of -them, and this she set about to write. But, chiefly due to the error of -dipping the wrong end of the pen into the ink, the dignity failed to -appear on the page. Even in her semi-bemused condition she realised that -Eliphalet could hardly be expected to fathom the meaning of her -shadow-graphs, and so decided to leave the matter unsettled until the -morning. That being so, it was obviously a slight on her maker of cognac -to leave the bottle unemptied—and, after all, it was Saturday. - -She was singing some little trifle of song when, about ten o’clock, she -perilously mounted the stairs toward the oblivion of her bed-chamber. - -With the arrival of the day Mrs. Montmorency was able to approach the -problem with a clearer headache. She recollected, with a start, that -only a few inches of brick and plaster separated her from her one-time -husband. - -Emma did not offer her breakfast on Sunday mornings, for to do so was to -incur a rebuke for sauciness—and so, when dressed, nothing prevented -Mrs. Montmorency from getting to work at once upon the eviction of her -tenants. - -For a long while she sat with the pen in her mouth and her brows -contracted in thought. To tell the truth, she was not gifted with a high -standard of literary attainment. As a girl, she could dash off as many -as you please of the “My own darling boy” sort of letters which ended -with “tons of love and kisses,” but this severer kind of exchange -presented abundant difficulties. With the exception of Eliphalet, none -of her husbands, or those who had passed as such, was of a scholarly -turn. Harrington May, Mornice’s father, on whose account Eliphalet had -divorced her, though by no means a fool, had not troubled to obtrude his -erudition upon her. Similarly, none of the other hands through which she -had passed had used their skill to mould her intellect. - -At last, however, she contrived a letter which gave her every sort of -satisfaction. It ran: - - SIR,—_My Emma in my absence let you rooms at terms - unsatisfactory to myself. Mrs. Montmorency is a lady who does - not take in lodgers without good credenshalls. This is not to in - any way say that your credenshalls may not be all right, but as - I have no knowledge of you she feels the let is not - satisfactorily. It would be necessary under such a state as - yours for payment to be made for the whole time of three weeks - in advance. As it is not likely under your present state you - could do this or be able she feels obliged to ask you to go - elsewhere without trying to be impolite._ - - _I beg to remain_, - _Yours faithfully,_ - MRS. B. MONTMORENCY. - -Mornice had brought Ronald in to lunch, and this letter was handed to -Eliphalet simultaneously with the apple-tart. He frowned a little as he -read it, and remarking “Extraordinary woman!” handed it to Mornice. - -“Oh, it’s sweet!” cried Mornice. “Read it, Pyjams.” Then to Emma, “Do -ask her to come in.” - -Emma had been schooled in what to say should this request be made. Her -manner of putting it was: - -“She’s in bed. Bit funny to-day! You know what I mean.” - -“I will reply later,” said Eliphalet. When Emma had left the room, he -picked up the thread of the former conversation—his familiar views upon -the degradation of acting for the Cinema. - -“Yet, sir,” said Ronald, who had listened very politely, “I am sure Miss -Mornice June would have a great future in the film. My father agrees -with me.” - -“There is no future for the film, my boy,” corrected Eliphalet. “Now, -for the stage——” - -Ronald Knight agreed heartily that the art of the stage ranked on a far -higher plane, and expressed his own very proper ambitions in this -direction. - -On the whole, Eliphalet was pleased with the young man, and lost his -sense of jealousy when Mornice “Ronnied” and “Spuddied” him. - -After he had gone and Eliphalet had replied for about the nineteenth -time, “Certainly he is a very agreeable young fellow,” he turned to the -matter of the letter again. - -“It is very curious,” he said, after reading it a second time, “but -there is something familiar about the composition and handwriting of -this note.” - -“Now you say so, it strikes me too,” said Mornice. - -He laughed. “Then I am sure it is merely imagination on my part. But -that is unimportant. This is very offensive, and I am seriously disposed -to ask for the bill and go.” - -Mornice dissuaded him. Emma made her laugh, she said, and her bed was a -dream without lumps. Probably the poor thing was hard up, and it was -just a try on to get money in advance. - -“Well, if that is so, and you are satisfied, there is no reason why she -should not have it.” - -Accordingly he sat down and wrote: - - MADAME,—_I am in receipt of your letter and hasten to applaud - the spirit of caution that inspired it._ - - _It has not been my habit to give credentials when taking rooms, - since I believed my name to be a sufficient guarantee of - probity. However, since this appears to be a condition you - require, I enclose five pounds, three guineas being for rent and - the remainder towards current expenses._ - - _Awaiting your acknowledgment and receipt_, - - _Yours faithfully_, - ELIPHALET CARDOMAY - (with a flourish beneath). - -“Well, is he going? Was he wild?” demanded Mrs. Montmorency when Emma -brought the note. - -“Neither, by the looks of it.” - -“Oh, dear! Give me the letter, then, and don’t stand there looking as -if—if——” She could think of nothing, so opened the envelope instead. - -The sight of the five-pound note gave her astonishment and perplexity. - -“Isn’t it like him!” she exclaimed, when she had read what he had to -say. “Prosy old fool!” - -“Eh?” inquired Emma. - -“I was not addressing you.” - -She bit one of her short, podgy fingers, and thought hard. “Wish I could -see him for a moment.” - -“Why don’t you?” - -“Because you’ve let all the front room windows, like the fool you are. -That’s the worst of a house without a basement.” - -“Go and see ’im in his room—’e’s there.” - -“I won’t, and I don’t want any saucy suggestions from you, either.” She -tapped her foot and fingered the five-pound note indecisively. “You’ve -been in the provinces all the while I’ve been abroad. Have you ever -heard of Eliphalet Cardomay?” - -“’Course. Who ’asn’t? Runs his own companies, doesn’t ’e? I suppose -anyone who’s heard of Queen Anne ’as ’eard of ’im.” - -“His own companies? What sort of theatres?” - -“Big drama houses.” - -“Oh! Oh! That’s the worst of being out of the swim so long. H’m! Wonder -if it ’ud be a mistake——” She took a pen and wrote a receipt for five -pounds. “With Mrs. Montmorency’s compliments, please, and tell him she -is satisfied.” - -Emma placed it on the arm of Eliphalet’s chair, saying: - -“All right! You don’t ’ave to go, after all.” - -Eliphalet Cardomay’s five-pound note had created a profound impression -on Mrs. Montmorency. That he, at his age, could produce so large a sum -without protest or difficulty argued that he must be in a singularly -sound financial position. A man who could do so much could probably do -more—and if that were the case—— - -She had worked out her life on strictly practical lines—the margin for -enjoyment being limited by her tangible assets. It was purely motives of -economy that only allowed the indulgence of a single “Saturday” in the -week. With a little more capital a “Saturday” might also occur on -Tuesday. Her “mink” might cease to be a substitute and become mink. -Scented soaps, patchouli, and many other nose-offending delicacies might -spring into being about her. A cellar, even, might be started, and a -silver mirror added to her gradually-dwindling toilet appointments. -Clearly, it was not advisable to cast Eliphalet forth without first -plumbing his resources. That grown-up daughter was rather a -stumbling-block. Daughters are unsympathetic creatures, and it might -very well be that she would stand in the way of her father’s generous -impulses. The main thing to do was to find out exactly what their -position was, and meanwhile to lie low. - -For three days Mrs. Montmorency digested her plans and took great pains -to avoid meeting her guests. This necessity resulted in some very near -shaves; in one case driving her to take refuge in the cistern-cupboard. - -Emma was valueless, since she declined to interrogate either Eliphalet -or Mornice on the matter of their private affairs, and it was only by -accident that Mrs. Montmorency learnt that Mr. Ronald Knight, who -visited the house nearly every day, was the gentleman who had -recommended them to her tender graces. - -This was a happy windfall, for it provided an excuse for offering him -her thanks and at the same time drawing from him a little private -conversation. - -The following afternoon, which was too wet and dark to be of use to the -film folk, Mr. Knight returned with Mornice and entered the house. - -No sooner did Mrs. Montmorency hear his voice in the sitting-room than -she opened the front door and passed out. - -There was a broad-minded pastry-cook’s at the corner of the street, -where cherry-brandy and sweet wines were dispensed to nervous ladies, -and, using this as an observation-post, Mrs. Montmorency sat down to a -pleasant hour of waiting. - -“Mr. Cardomay out?” said Ronald, warming his hands before the fire. - -“Yup. They’re doing the second act—he won’t be in till five.” - -Ronald bore the tidings with fortitude. - -“You’re going to be awfully good in that film, Morny,” he said. - -“Think so?” - -“Sure so! If it gets released and well booked they’ll be after you like -flies—all the big firms.” - -“Bon!” said Mornice, who could throw a spice of French into her -conversation. - -“Morny!” - -“That’s me!” - -“I suppose dozens of men have adored you?” - -“Oh, yes. We’ll take a tram to-morrow, if you please, and look at their -little graves.” - -“Have you ever loved any of them?” - -“All of them.” - -“Any _one_ more than the rest?” - -“Yes; but not so’s you’d notice.” - -“It wouldn’t be very original of me, then, to say I loved you?” - -“It would be if you didn’t.” - -He scarcely knew how to take that, but he tried: - -“D’you want me to be original?” - -“If you can’t be natural,” she said. - -“If I were natural,” said Ronald, with a deep breath, “I should ask you -to marry me—when I’ve got on and have a good position. Will you?” - -“Well, come, Ronnie,” said Mornice, who was used to protestations of -love but a stranger to proposals of marriage; “it’s a sporting offer, -isn’t it?” - -“Do you take it, then?” - -She bit her pretty little mouth into all manner of tantalising and -absurd shapes. - -“Well, I’d like to have it by me to think about and enjoy all by my -lonesome.” - -“You want me to go away? I will!” - -“Norrabit! You stop. I’ll let you know some day. The matter shall have -our serious consideration,” she added, and laughed provokingly. - -He got up and stood beside her. - -“Morny, it’s awfully difficult to stop without wanting to—to——” - -“Yes?” - -“To kiss you.” - -“Well,” said Mornice, “and what’s to prevent you, please?” - -“You might not like it.” - -“But I’m certain I should.” - -She pouted up into his face, and he kissed her, and she kissed him—and -very proper, too. - -There is a deal too much nonsense talked about kissing; it should be -encouraged, for all that bacteriologists say to the contrary. Reliable -young people, with properly ordered minds, ought to kiss each other far -more frequently than they do. It is a delightful, frank and wholesome -pastime—and does any amount of good all round. Of course, if you are a -prude and attach an absurd significance to a kiss, there is no more to -be said, and it is your own look-out and your own loss. But if you take -it as a seal of good fellowship, and expression of the youthfulness that -sings in every decent heart, however old, it is right and good and -proper. Besides, no one will mind, that way. They will slap you on the -back and say you are a jolly good fellow, and she’s a dear, sweet, -natural girl, and your wife will kiss your own particular pal’s husband, -and she will snuggle none the less close to you on that account, nor -will you press his hand with any the less warmth. If we abandoned -kissing the people we don’t want to kiss, and only gave our caresses to -the ones we do, the world would be an ever so much jollier little globe -to live upon. - -Ronald was in a very glorified frame of mind when he came down the road, -and, seeing him, Mrs. Montmorency rose from her fourth cherry-brandy and -debouched from the confectioner’s. - -“I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Knight,” she said. - -He raised his hat. - -“Yes,” he said; “but forgive me if I——” - -“I am Mrs. Montmorency. You were kind enough to recommend me to my -present guests.” - -“Ah, yes! So I did.” - -“It was so kind of you, and I wish to say how grateful I am.” - -“Oh, not at all—delighted! Good afternoon!” For Ronald was very happy -with his thoughts. - -“I am stepping your way, Mr. Knight, and if you don’t mind, we’ll walk -together.” - -What could he do but acquiesce? - -“It is rather a delicate thing to say,” she went on, “but—well, I’m -rather particular, and I’ve been abroad for a good many years.” (She -branched aside to give a few impressions of the Antipodes.) “So, you -see, I’ve rather lost touch. What I do want to know is, are the -Cardomays quite nice people?” - -Ronald supported them hotly and enthusiastically. He represented -Eliphalet as a delightful personality who, professionally, was second -only to Sir Henry Irving in the hearts of the public. - -This was encouraging, but Mrs. Montmorency had not gained all the -information she required. - -“And the dear young lady—such a sweet girl, I think—she’s entirely -dependent on the old gentleman, I suppose?” - -“No, indeed,” returned Ronald. “She’s playing lead in an important film -production at a very substantial salary.” - -“How nice! Nothing I like better than to hear of young people getting -on. I’m an old pro. myself, Mr. Knight; used to be quite a star in my -day. But, dear me! I’ve passed my turning. Thank you so much, and good -afternoon.” - -“Good afternoon,” repeated Ronald, delighted to be rid of the lady of -haunting odours. - -“That settles it,” said Mrs. Montmorency to herself. “It wouldn’t be -fair to me if I didn’t take the chance.” - -At breakfast next day Eliphalet found a note on his plate stating that -Mrs. Montmorency would be highly honoured if he would favour her with a -call in her private boudoir at six that evening. He sent a reply to the -effect that he would be pleased to come at the time stated. - -Meanwhile Mrs. Montmorency was rehearsing the reconciliation scene from -every possible mental angle. She decided to adopt the attitude of a -tired woman, sick of the world and its frivolities—a woman who yearned -for tenderness and the warmth of a home fire. Contrition there should be -in plenty—a hint of many privations, bravely borne, and a show of still -amply-filled wells of affection wherefrom a man might fill his bucket -with joy. - -She ransacked her wardrobe and produced a peignoir constituting a cross -between a kimono and a Nottingham lace curtain. This garment, she felt -sure, would lay siege to any heart. With her own hands she ironed and -prepared it, then laid it aside upon the bed until the hour for dressing -should arrive. Naturally, these exertions called for stimulant, and a -bottle of brandy was broached with beneficial results. From a hidden -recess she unearthed an early portrait of Eliphalet, and this she placed -in a frame, occupied by some more recent tenant of her affections, and -hung it on the wall in her boudoir. Emma was despatched, not without -protest, to procure half-a-dozen arum lilies and half an ounce of -cachous. The lilies were bestowed in vases on the mantelshelf, and the -cachous fought a losing fight with the brandy-fumes. - -All being in readiness, she mounted the stairs, abandoned her corsets, -donned the peignoir, and made what little improvements to her face were -expedient with creams and powder. - -“I can’t imagine what she wants with me,” said Eliphalet, “but” he -glanced at his watch—“I soon shall.” - -Throwing Mornice a smile, he went down the passage toward the private -boudoir. There was no answer to his knock, so he turned the handle and -walked inside. Mrs. Montmorency hung over the bannisters above, and -watched him enter. - -Finding himself alone, his first thought was to retire, but an innate -curiosity caused him to look about him first. The lilies attracted his -attention, or rather diverted it from the garish vulgarity of the other -decorations. His eye was caught by the photographs on the walls, for he -recognised several old faces among them. All theatrical lodgings are -plastered with portraits of the various actors who have distinguished -them with their presence, but there was something in the sequence of the -portraits that seemed oddly familiar. Somewhere, on some past wall, he -had seen the same picture gallery assembled. Where? He turned and found -himself face to face with his own portrait—his portrait as a very young -man; written across it in ink, autumnal-brown with time, were the words: - -“To my dear Blanche—Eliphalet.” - -“Good God!” he whispered. - -Then said a voice behind him, speaking in trembling accents: - -“I’ve been so miserable, Cardy. All these years I have never known a -moment’s peace and quietude.” - -He revolved slowly and confronted the woman who had been his wife. Her -hands outstretched toward him. He did not move, but looked her over -gravely. Dolled up, painted, and smelling of half-a-dozen cheap perfumes -that strove in vain to subordinate the reek of still stronger -waters—she was all that his fancy pictured she would be. - -“So it’s you, Blanche,” he said. - -“Yes, me—what’s left.” (He nodded at that.) “If you knew, Cardy, what I -have gone through—what my conscience has suffered for the way I served -you, you would take pity. That’s why——” She made a gesture as though -to say, “Behold the wreckage”—“And you—you so young-looking, so -handsome, and with a beautiful grown-up daughter! Oh, Cardy, it’s too -much to bear. You must forgive me and take me back.” - -Sobbing piteously, she fell into his arms. - -Eliphalet let her sob for as long as he could hold his breath; then he -placed her in a chair and seated himself as far away as possible. - -“Need you envy me so acutely?” he said. “You married again, and bore a -daughter after you ceased to be my wife.” - -“That’s true,” she nodded, dabbing her nose, which sprang to a bright -purple at the touch; “but it’s cruel to remind me.” - -“Why?” His voice was courteous, but unsympathetic. - -“She—Oh, and she was such a pretty, dainty little thing. I can’t speak -of her, Cardy. I can’t.” - -“Why not?” - -With a choking voice she replied: - -“She was taken—taken——” - -“You mean she died?” - -“Died; yes. Only fourteen—getting on so nicely, too; beginning to earn -her own keep, like the one you’ve got. But there, you’ve always been the -lucky one.” - -“By God,” he said, “I think I have.” - -It was an awkward remark to counter, so Blanche kept up her pathetic -wail. - -“It would be like the touch of my own child, just to see your daughter.” - -“You shall,” said he, and walked to the door. - -This movement was ahead of its cue, so she hastened to exclaim: - -“Yes, but not now—wait till I’m myself again. Cardy, can you—will you -let me come into your life again?” - -“We can discuss that later, I wish to show you my daughter first.” - -He went straight to his sitting-room. - -“Mornice,” he said. “Our landlady—she—she’s your mother. I want you to -come with me.” - -Mornice gasped, but made no articulate reply. Hand in hand, they entered -Mrs. Montmorency’s boudoir. - -It occupied a full five seconds before Mrs. Montmorency grasped the -situation; when she did, she sat bolt upright and exclaimed, “O God!” in -the most colloquial way imaginable. - -Mornice said nothing, which in the circumstances was the best thing to -do. - -“Well,” said Eliphalet, “is there anything to be gained by continuing -the scene?” - -Mrs. Montmorency rose and gave herself away. - -“Well, you were earning a good living, weren’t you?” she demanded of -Mornice. “My—er—friend didn’t like children, and I had my own way to -make. Then when I met Mr. Montmorency abroad, and told him about you, he -couldn’t be bothered.” - -“Yes, I quite understand,” said Mornice. - -“Girls should be made to look after themselves.” - -Eliphalet cut in with “I think all that is necessary has been said.” - -Blanche breathed desperately through her nose. She had lost ground, and -saw no hope of regaining it. As a last cast—a final appeal to the -emotions, she volunteered to faint. - -“I’m going off!” she cried. “Quick—brandy!” Her faltering gestures -indicated the cellarette very concisely. - -Eliphalet poured a measure into a convenient glass, and she gulped at it -greedily. - -Then the faint—an unconvincing affair of eyelid work and -hand-twitching—took place. From a kind of innate chivalry they waited -until such a time as she thought fit to recover. - -“We will say good-bye, Blanche,” said Eliphalet. “Your daughter and I -have our packing to do. Is there anything else you wish to say to her?” - -“No, there isn’t,” came the uncompromising reply. - -“Good-bye, then.” - -“But I’ll say this to you, though,” said Blanche. “You are a pig—that’s -what you are—an old pig!” - -They went out, closing the door as her similes climbed the ladder of -abuse in a ringing crescendo. - -Later, as they drove through the cool night air, toward the hotel, -Eliphalet thoughtfully said: - -“You were right, my dear; it wouldn’t have been any good. But it’s a -pity for you.” - -“Why?” she answered, laying her warm little hand in his. “I’ve got a -Daddy fatherums, haven’t I?” - - - - - CHAPTER XI - CLOUDS - - -“The Night Cry” was a failure—and a melancholy failure at that. Why -this should have been is hard to understand, since, as a play, it -compared favourably with many successful productions in Eliphalet -Cardomay’s repertoire. Perhaps the truth was that Eliphalet was getting -old. The most skilful tricks of lighting and make-up failed to conceal -this obvious fact. - -“He ought to retire,” said the wise playgoers, as they passed -sorrowfully from the theatre. “A fine old chap, but he’s stopping too -long.” - -There is nothing in the world destroys confidence more quickly than this -kind of talk, and nothing is more easily destroyed than an actor’s -reputation. People repeat such phrases for want of something better to -say, and slowly but surely it comes back to ears that are ever attentive -for a hint of the kind—attentive because their owner’s pockets are -affected. - -For the last five seasons Eliphalet’s receipts had shown a gradual, -almost imperceptible decline, but it was not until the production of -“The Night Cry” that the fall was considerable. And it was considerable! -The vibrations set in motion thereby automatically were felt afar and -closed the purses of the four commercial gentlemen who formed his -syndicate. - -Eliphalet was distressed at the want of success, but philosophical. He -reflected with gratification that it had not been his wish to do the -play. He had asked for support for a production of “Hamlet,” and had -been denied; thus, not unreasonably, he conjectured this might prove a -lesson to his syndicate for the future to respect his judgments. Besides -which, a certain percentage of failures was inevitable, and in all his -career that percentage had been very low. - -Every Christmas he and the syndicate met to discuss the past year’s work -and make future plans, and this was always the occasion for a little -ceremony. Eliphalet brought with him four boxes of Half Coronas, and one -of these he solemnly presented to each member of the board. They, -although offering no tangible return, would express a surprised -gratification and a vote of cordial appreciation for his artistic -energies exerted on their behalf. A luncheon-party would follow, which -broke up with handshakes and good and seasonable wishes. - -But on this particular year Eliphalet felt, no sooner he had entered the -room, that there was a strange atmosphere. Each of the four gentlemen -showed embarrassment and disinclination to meet his eye. The cigars were -presented and accepted, which appeared to heighten the general unease. -Then the chairman rose and called upon Dr. Wardluke to address the -meeting, as his own powers of speech were affected by a recent cold. - -So the doctor, after some rustling of papers and a deal of pulling at -his waistcoat, came to his feet and spoke. - -It was, he said, a great pleasure to them all to observe that Mr. -Cardomay had been spared to attend another of these pleasant annual -meetings, and he was sure that none of them contemplated the fact that -this was to be the last without sensations of regret. Their association -had been more than pleasant—it had been cordial; but sooner or later -the best of things came to an end. - -“Mr. Cardomay has been a loyal colleague to us, Gentlemen, and I venture -to say we have been as loyal to him. But what was it that Æsop said -about the bow?” No one appeared to know. “Well, I can’t recall the exact -words, but they go to prove that you must not strain anything beyond its -limit. It makes us very happy to reflect that, mainly through our -support, Mr. Cardomay must now be in a comfortable financial position, -and it will be pleasant to think of him spending his autumn years in -some quiet little nook, standing back from the road.” He resumed his -seat to an encouraging salvo of “Hear, hear!” - -Then Eliphalet Cardomay rose, and he looked a little white and drawn. - -“I take it,” he said, “by all this preamble, you wish me well, and for -that I express my thanks. I was not aware you intended to break up our -partnership, and perhaps it would have been more business-like and -kinder to have informed me beforehand. However, that may pass. -Doubtless, from your point of view, Gentlemen, I am an old pair of shoes -to be thrown aside as outworn, but I would remind you that this”—and he -pointed with his stick to a play-bill of “The Night Cry” hanging on a -wall—“this is the first time they have let in the water. I accept my -dismissal, Gentlemen, without demur, but reserve to myself the right to -choose the hour of my retirement to that ivy-clad nook Dr. Wardluke -painted with such eloquent impertinence in his speech. I would further -recommend you to keep an eye on the theatrical columns of your -newspapers, where you may see that these old shoes are still capable of -covering a good many miles of the road. Good day, Gentlemen, and -good-bye.” He swung his hat to his head like a cavalier, and walked -proudly from the room. - -He booked a ticket to New Brighton, where, at the conclusion of her -first film engagement, Mornice had joined him. It had always lived in -Eliphalet’s brain that when he retired it would be to dwell within sight -of the sea in that most delightful of resorts. The circumstances of -staying there at the hour of his dismissal struck him as coldly -prophetic. - -“But we haven’t finished yet,” he said, as the train bore him westward. -“We’ll show ’em there’s stuff in the Old Card still!” No actor properly -realises he has outstayed his welcome until his backers forsake him, and -even Eliphalet was not convinced. - -There was enthusiasm in his voice and fire in his eye. But the train had -not travelled many miles before the enthusiasm died and a queer gnawing -doubt assailed him. Was it possible, after all, these gentlemen were -right? Would it not, perhaps, be better to slip away from the haste and -turmoil of active life and seek out that little villa of his own? After -all, he had fought nobly and successfully, and surely the right to -repose had been well earned? - -There was standing to his credit at the bank enough, and more than -enough, to assure a comfortable competence to the end of his days. -Perhaps, too, he was a little tired. He had run without stopping for so -many, many years. Then he thought of his boasts to the syndicate. - -“We’ll challenge ’em, old boy, and we must make good!” - -There was Mornice, too, to be considered. He had promised her a big -chance, and it was up to him to meet the bill. - -Ronald Knight had come over to spend the day with Mornice (a not -infrequent occurrence), and they rose, apparently from the same chair, -as he entered the room. Maybe they were a shade embarrassed, for neither -one nor the other asked how the meeting had gone, but, instead, gave -themselves over to expressions of almost unnatural delight at his -return. Consequently, tea passed without the subject being mentioned. - -Glancing from one to the other, Eliphalet was conscious of an air of -supreme excitement shared between them. - -“Well,” he asked, “has the Mornice film been—what is the -word?—released yet?” - -Ronald Knight shook his head. - -“N-no, not yet. Matter of fact, we’ve had rather bad luck—very bad. No -one seems to care for the story.” Eliphalet smiled rather cynically, and -the young man hastened to add: “But Morny has made an enormous success. -Terrific! We had a private projection.” - -“A what?” - -“A private show.” - -“Ah, yes! Well?” - -“With big-wigs from the best firms, and they are absolutely unanimous -that she’s _it_.” - -Mornice tried not to look too proud, but the artifice was transparent. -Eliphalet frowned a little. - -“I am glad,” he said. “She is certainly very capable—of better things.” - -“Yes; I know you hate movies,” said Mornice. - -He nodded. - -Ronald started afresh. - -“A success like that, even at a private proj-show, means a great deal, -and——” - -“And,” Eliphalet cut in, “you are now going to tell me she has had some -flattering offers and ask me to let her accept them, knowing very well -that the last time I allowed her to do so was on the undertaking that -she returned to the legitimate at the end of the engagement.” - -Ronald’s reply was unexpected. - -“That’s just what I—what she—what I’m sure we all feel she ought to -do.” - -“I want to, awfully,” exclaimed Mornice; “in something—— Oh, you go -on, Ronny.” - -“It is only that people—people in the show believe there is such big -stuff in her that makes me suggest it.” He hesitated. - -Eliphalet leaned back in his chair and smiled indulgently to help him -along. - -“We all know she is a young Modjeska—a little Bernhardt—eh, Mornice?” - -“You needn’t be saucy, Dads. After all, he’s only repeating what they -think. I don’t know whether I am great.” - -(Very few actors and actresses are absolutely certain on this point, but -most of them have a comfortable conviction, even though they may not -express it.) - -Eliphalet had seen little heads swell large too often to be surprised. -He nodded to Ronald Knight to proceed. - -“Everybody who saw her in that film believed she’d make a fortune on the -legitimate stage.” - -The potential gold-mine, and certainly her mass of hair was in itself a -large enough nugget, was licking jam from a sticky finger like a child -at a school-treat. - -“All right, Ron,” she said. “Go on now about the play.” - -Thus adjured, Ronald drew breath for fresh adventures. - -“D’you remember, sir, a few years ago buying a play?-‘A Man’s Way’ it -was called. You never put it on.” - -“I remember—yes. A fine, vigorous piece of work. I made some -alterations to the text. But somehow it wasn’t satisfactory. But why?” - -“It was written by a cousin of mine. I happened to mention your name, -and he showed it to me. By Jove, it’s magnificent! Now, as it was in the -original form, that play, with Morny as the wife——” - -“Oh, come! A very, very difficult part, my dear boy.” - -“You haven’t seen her on the film.” - -“H’m! Well, I must look it up.” - -“It’s here,” said Mornice. “I rummaged it out of your basket.” She -produced the MS. from beneath a sofa cushion. - -Eliphalet turned over a few pages, stopping here and there. A startling -modernity still seemed to spring from every line. - -“There is no doubt of its worth,” he mused; “but so very modern!” - -“Yes, but, Dads, isn’t that just what it should be? And it is such a -wonderful part.” - -“I doubt if it would suit me.” - -“The wife’s, I mean.” - -“I believe,” said Ronald, “people are getting tired of old-fashioned -plays.” - -“I wonder,” said Eliphalet. “I wonder if that is why——” He stopped, -frowned, and struck the table a blow. - -“What is it, Dads?” - -“Everyone wants to alter the tide of my life to-day.” He rose and -started to pace excitedly up and down the room. “Why is it? You want me -to break new ground, plough fresh pastures; and they, they say I am done -with—finished!” - -“Who said that?” - -“My syndicate. They spoke of a rustic cottage, standing back from the -road, in which to spend the autumn of my life.” - -“How dared they! What did you answer?” - -“I told them to read the theatrical news—that was all.” - -“Bravo!” applauded Ronald, with great sincerity, adding: “Then, by Jove! -if you did this play, starring yourself and Morny, wouldn’t it be a -terrific smack in the eye for them!” - -“I am nearly seventy,” replied Eliphalet, “and I suppose it is wrong and -foolish at such an age, but I would like to show ’em something, I -would!” - -“Why don’t you?” said Ronald and Mornice, in one voice. - -When, some three days later, Eliphalet sought Freddie Manning, wisest -and most energetic of stage-managers, and told him what had happened and -what he intended to do, Freddie spoke up boldly. - -“Don’t you, Guv’nor!” - -“I shall, Manning. It’s a final cast, and I mean to go out with a -flourish. We shall advertise it as a farewell tour. New -scenery—posters—everything.” - -“And who’s backing you?” - -“I am.” - -Freddie cast his eyes above, but held his peace. - -“I shall star Mornice in equivalent type to my own.” - -“Don’t you,” repeated Manning. “If she’s a wash-out, the come-back will -be twice as strong.” - -“I take the risk. I am going to produce ‘A Man’s Way’ in the original -form, and in every respect to rival a West-End production. I shall have -wooden doors, and the scenery will be three-ply instead of canvas.” - -“And I suppose you’ll have a West-End cast as well?” - -Eliphalet shook his head. - -“I had thought of it,” he confessed, “but I cannot go back on the Old -Crowd. There will be only one newcomer besides Mornice, and that will be -Mr. Ronald Knight. For the rest, the Old Cardomay Company will see Old -Cardomay out. As regards booking, I shall accept the best No. 1 towns -only, and shall book a three months’ tour; not at the drama houses, but -at the principal theatres in every case.” - -Freddie Manning tilted his bowler hat to the extreme limit of possible -angles. - -“Guv’nor,” he said, “God alone remembers how long we’ve been together. I -was a super-boy in the crowd when you were playing juveniles; and boy, -man and veteran, we’ve fought side by side in nearly every shack with -footlights from Land’s End to John o’—what’s-’is-name. You’ve stuck by -me fine, and I’ll stick by you to the end and past it. I’ve never openly -countered a scheme of yours, though I may have pulled a few strings on -the quiet; but this time I do, and as man to man, I put it down that you -cut it out—right out. If the advice ain’t wanted, say so and I’ll -buckle on to the new job for all I’m worth; but those are my feelings, -Guv’nor, and I had to speak ’em.” - -“I know, Manning, I quite understand. Likely enough you are right, and -this is a great folly. But I want to do it—I want to make one final -splash.” - -“Good enough,” said Freddie. “I’ll get busy straight away.” - -When Freddie Manning got busy, busy he undoubtedly was. Eliphalet told -him to go ahead with the scene folk, the costumers, the advertising -experts, and two thousand pounds. - -As a general rule, ladies and gentlemen provide their own modern clothes -for provincial tours, but in this case, in the matter of ladies, -Eliphalet departed from precedent and undertook the responsibility of -providing them. To the gentlemen he addressed the following words: - -“I want this production to be memorable, and to that end everyone who -appears in it must appear under circumstances most agreeable to the eye. -In our profession it is not always possible to maintain one’s wardrobe -at a state of perfection, and we are over-liable, perhaps, to run our -suitings beyond the limits of appearance and durability. To encourage -you all, then, to do justice to me and the play, I propose to pay an -additional twenty-five per cent on your ordinary salaries. One more -word, Gentlemen, and I have done. We are all tradesmen, with the trade -at our finger-tips. Let us show that we, of the provincial theatres, can -give, in appearance, intelligence and art, as good (if not better) -measure as our brothers in the capital.” - -Then the rehearsal began. - -At the first reading Eliphalet was delighted. The play seemed to act -itself. He experienced an odd sensation that there was little or nothing -for the producer to do—that it rested with the company to commit to -memory their lines and repeat them from appropriate positions upon the -stage. He had not realised that the true human modern play is almost -automatic, and that its crises arise from the general team-work of the -company, and not by individual effects. - -“If it goes so well while they are holding their books, what will it be -when I have shaped it up?” he thought. - -In the midst of these agreeable reflections he failed to observe a very -obvious change had taken place in Mornice. Since persuading him to do -this play and place her among the stars, she underwent a complete -metamorphosis of manner. She adopted the worst characteristics of a -leading lady. She gave the company good-morning each day with an air of -great condescension. She trespassed into that forbidden Tom Tiddler’s -Ground near the centre of the footlights reserved for producers and the -managerial branch. She devoted less attention to her part than to -criticisms of other people’s renderings. She would follow members of the -company to dark parts of the stage and give advices that were neither -desired nor of the smallest value. - -You who read these pages, do not be too severe in your judgments upon -her. In a scarcely-formed mind certain mental conditions inevitably -result from success or prominence upon the stage too soon. A name seen -by its owner for the first time on the hoardings in three-inch block -type acts as an intoxicant. Mercifully, the condition is transitory, and -you will find that your really successful actor or actress is, as a -rule, the jolliest and least sidey of individuals. - -It was her idea, supported by Ronald Knight, that the women’s costumes -should come from Redfern’s—it was she who had seen the magic three-ply -scenery at Wyndham’s, that does not vibrate when Mr. du Maurier goes -forth and closes the door crisply behind him. - -To do the young people justice, they never for an instant thought they -were doing otherwise than serving Eliphalet an excellent turn by their -exuberant suggestions. - -“He’s a darling, Ronnie,” Mornice would say, most days; “but he is -old-fashioned, and if we are to make the play go, we must modernise -him.” - -But window-boxes on the pyramids will not make them resemble art villas -at Letchworth, and this fact they learnt too late to be of use. - -Naturally, these many preoccupations kept Mornice so busy that the study -of her part was almost entirely side-tracked, but it never occurred to -her to entertain misgivings on that account. - -About this time a slight staleness was discernible in the progress of -the play. Eliphalet could not tell whence it arose or how to combat it, -but vaguely he wished for the services of some virile brain other than -his own to preside at rehearsals. Mr. Raymond Wakefield, for instance, -who had tied him up in such painful knots on the occasion of his -appearance in London. He would have known in an instant what was -required. - -There were legions of tiny but vital subtleties that cried out for -definition, and in all Eliphalet’s bag of tricks there was no machinery -for bringing them into focus. In every scene they bubbled up through the -lines, like vortices in quicksand. A thousand fine points of psychology -that needed assembling, refining and giving prominence. Eliphalet was -bewildered by their numbers; he did not know where or how to start work -upon them, and he sat by the footlights, brows contracted, finger-tips -together, in silent dissatisfaction with himself and the play. On the -seventh day of rehearsals he rose distractedly, and exclaimed: - -“We are not getting on, ladies and gentlemen. I am sure we are all doing -our best, but we are not getting any forrader.” - -Then old Kitterson spoke. - -“I know it, Guv’nor; but it’s devilish hard. How are we going to get big -effects out of these lines? I’m not saying anything against ’em, mind.” - -“It’s so natural, Guv’nor,” complained Mellish, another old-timer. - -Miss Fullar shook her head wisely. “That’s it; too natural.” - -“It is not for big effects we must try,” said Eliphalet, “but for the -little ones. The big effects in this play arise from the little. -Therefore we must try to create a standard excellence.” - -It was, perhaps, the nearest approach toward expressing the essentials -of a modern production he ever made. - -“Yes, but how are we to do it?” old Kitterson questioned. - -“Oh, we shall see,” said Eliphalet, rather feebly, and subsided into his -chair again. - -At supper that night he was rather dejected. - -“Cheer up, Dads,” said Mornice. “After all, you and I have most of the -work to do, and we shall make things go.” - -He answered her rather seriously. - -“I can see what to do with you,” he said, “for you are far astray from -the part. It is the others who perplex me.” - -Mornice was taken back. - -“I know I am not up to the mark yet,” she replied, “but I’ll let myself -go to-morrow.” Then, quite satisfied that her own case was established, -she turned to vital matters. “Pummy! you’ll have to get your hair cut, -you know. You can’t possibly play a smart doctor, and keep it long.” - -“I have realised it, my child.” He looked at her with a queer smile, and -said, “Are you Delilah, I wonder?” - -It is to be regretted that Mornice had little knowledge of the Old -Testament. She asked for particulars. - -“A lady who cut off Samson’s hair. Shorn of his locks, his power -departed.” Then his mind came from east to west with a vengeance. “I am -glad I took you from the Cinema before it was too late.” - -“Too late?” - -“H’m. You are cinema-acting very alarmingly in ‘A Man’s Way.’ Coding, my -dear, coding; I will show you to-morrow.” - -On the morrow he was ready for her in earnest, and realising this, -Mornice flung herself into the part with startling energy. He did not -allow her to go far before holding up his hand. - -“My dear,” he said, “try to remember you are playing the part of a -married woman who is at variance with her elderly husband. Do not -therefore swing an imaginary sun-bonnet, or smile and blink your eyes at -the audience, as though each one was a potential lover. You have three -acts in which to gain their affections—not thirty feet of film.” - -“Oh, you are horrid,” said she. - -“Not at all. Believe me, this—this bright stuff is entirely misplaced.” - -So she came on again, and this time resembled a woman torn by conscience -after rifling a church of its plate. - -“And now you go to the opposite extreme—you will have no emotions left -for the big moment in the last act, if the opening of a door causes you -so much distress.” - -When the ordeal was over, Mornice was a trifle piqued. - -“I don’t think he ought to have gone for me like that before the -company, Ron—do you?” - -But Ronald Knight was an honest lad, and answered: - -“After all, there was sound stuff in what he said.” - -A reply which put him in prompt disfavour for a period of twenty-six -hours, at the end of which time they met, by a kind of mutual magnetism, -and kissed each other with enthusiasm in the dressing-room corridor. - -“You are sorry for what you said?” - -“I am sorry it offended you, but I think it is up to us to do what the -old chap wants. After all, he’s taking a big risk.” - -Ronald Knight was beginning to feel some uneasiness about the wheels he -had set in motion. Having some knowledge of what a well-put-on -production costs, he wondered if Eliphalet’s resources were up to the -strain. - -To do them justice, the company worked like Trojans. It is true, some of -their energies were misplaced, but they were all well-intentioned. Miss -Fullar, for instance, as the duchess, gave the impression that the duke -had married far beneath his social station. This impression was -partially obliterated when the duke himself appeared in the second act, -and gave place to doubts as to how the lady could ever have accepted his -addresses. Mellish played a man-about-town, but had the misfortune to -choose the wrong town, and never once came within the four-mile radius. - -Old Kitterson’s butler was sound—he had specialised in this line for -many years—but the part caused him great disappointment, since there -was nothing to do or say that was not strictly in the way of domestic -service. Not once in any act did he have the opportunity to exclaim, -“God! it’s Master Harry!” followed by a stumble forward, a hand-grip and -a sobbing “Sir—sir!” He asked Eliphalet whether this popular effect -could not have been introduced into the text, but Eliphalet turned a -kindly but deaf ear to the appeal. - -Ronald Knight was one of the bright features, and took his place -becomingly in the general scheme of things. - -One regrets to record that Mornice June was neither “great” nor “it.” -She divided her rôle into small crumbs of individual effect. It was as -though she had installed a mental switchboard, labelled with such -tickets as Anger—Remorse—Sarcasm—Gaiety—Malice—(but never -aforethought). - -Eliphalet Cardomay, although the part was wholly unsuited to his -personality, gave the best and most illuminating performance of his -whole career. It was totally unlike his usual traditional method, and -precisely like it should have been. Quite naturally he seemed to know -what to do and how to do it with the least possible effort. It was a -queer caprice of fate that this simple method that he had viewed with a -kind of disrespectful sour-grapes awe should suddenly have been made -clear to him. - -He played the part, so to speak, with his hands in his pockets, and -marvellous discoveries came his way. For instance, he discovered that -when a man is saying to his wife, “You can go—you can get out,” he does -not of necessity take a position in the centre of the stage and throw a -fine gesture toward the door, but is more likely to scratch his own ear -or perform some other minor diversion. That this mantle of naturalness -should have descended upon him made him all the more sensitive to the -shortcomings of the cast. It was cruel he should have learnt the value -of simplicity too late to be able to teach it to others; for that was -the bitter truth. - -He would lie awake at night, thinking, and his thoughts were far from -peaceful. Supposing, after this supreme effort, the play failed? It -would mean the loss of everything to him. His capital, his nerve, and -his hopes for Mornice would perish at a single blow. “Let it succeed,” -he implored, and the words were a prayer. “I want the little girl to -have her chance.” - -They were not healthy thoughts, and they snatched at him all hours of -the day and night. In the night especially they would prod him into -wakefulness. He would see pictures of the grey, back-street under-world, -where the unwanted actors go. They danced before his eyes like green -spots with scarlet centres. - -The strain told, after a while, and he came to rehearsals haggard-eyed -and irritable. - -There is nothing like irritability for getting the worst out of a -company—not so much because they resent it as because it makes them -nervy and distracts their thoughts. - -On the day he had his hair cut he felt that his strength had departed -indeed. - -He had arranged that there would be dress-rehearsals for a week, that -the company might become accustomed to their clothes. The first of these -depressed him as nothing had ever done before. The women’s gowns had -cost nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, and, beautiful as they were, -they looked woefully out of place on the backs of the Old Cardomay -Company. Mellish, who had done his best to achieve the outward -appearance of a man-about-town, cut a pathetic figure, despite the -variety of his checks. He gave the effect of being arrayed in his Sunday -suit, and wore a buttonhole of daffodils in the second act. Eliphalet -was conscious of something amiss with most of them, but could not lay -his finger on the point of offence. On the whole, the extravagances of -wardrobe seemed to cause their wearers added uneasiness, and a more -ungainly performance he had never beheld. - -“What do you think, Manning?” he asked, tentatively, when the curtain -fell on the last act. - -“Fine,” was the stony rejoinder. - -“That’s a lie,” said Eliphalet very softly. - -“You’re right, Guv’nor; it is.” - -“And the truth?” - -“They’re all adrift—’cept you. They’ll drown you between ’em.” - -Eliphalet seized him savagely by the arm, and cried: - -“We have four days more, Manning. We can’t afford to leave it like this. -I shall get a producer from London—at any price.” - -He rushed to the nearest Post Office and wired to Raymond Wakefield, -begging him to name his terms to attend a rehearsal of ‘A Man’s Way.’ -“If not for terms, then come in pity,” he ended. - -Wakefield wired to say he would arrive next morning by eleven-thirty. - -Eliphalet called a full-dress rehearsal, with lights, for two o’clock, -and met Wakefield at the station. - -Even though several years had passed since their last meeting, Eliphalet -was struck with the same extraordinary appearance of youthfulness borne -by the eminent producer. - -“I’ve come for love, Mr. Cardomay, and because your wire breathed -tragedy. What’s the sorrow?” - -“Second childhood,” said Eliphalet pathetically. - -“Producing ‘A Man’s Way,’ aren’t you? Must say it surprised me a bit. -Plucky of you. Good play. Came to us once.” - -“You know it, then?” - -“Yes; thought of putting it up.” - -“That’s splendid news,” said Eliphalet, with a sudden revival of -confidence. - -“How’s it shaped?” - -“You’ll see,” said Eliphalet; then, with a wail in his voice, “It has -gone beyond my powers, Mr. Wakefield, and I feel so old.” - -“We all do before a new production,” came the cheerful reply. - -“I don’t want anyone to know who is in front,” Eliphalet told Manning, -“but tell the company I look to them to do their utmost.” - -And so the curtain rose and fell on the three acts of “A Man’s Way,” and -when all was over Raymond Wakefield made his way round to Eliphalet’s -dressing-room and walked in, whistling cheerfully. - -“Well?” queried Eliphalet nervously. - -“You old marvel,” said Raymond. “How d’you come to do it?” - -“Do what?” - -“Act like that?” - -Eliphalet flushed like a schoolboy praised for his bowling. - -“It is all right, then?” - -“_You’re_ all right. You’ve forgotten all you learnt in a theatre, and -are playing what you’ve learnt in life. If you were twenty, or even ten, -years younger——” - -“Yes, I’m too old.” - -“’Course you are—and too old for this part. But it’s a work. You’ll get -no gratitude, though, on that account. I’ll tell you what the public and -the papers’ll say. They’ll say you are not serving them with the goods -they’re accustomed to receive, and you’ll get slanged for default as -sure as there’s an agent in Charing Cross Road.” - -“What about the others?” - -Raymond Wakefield’s mouth went down at the corners like a child about to -cry. - -“Won’t do! You’ve committed the unforgivable sin of standing by your -pals—oh, I know you have—and art and philanthropy don’t mix and never -will. My motto is to sack everyone at the end of a run, and then look -round afresh. In consequence, I suppose I’m pretty well hated by every -actor on the London stage, and the best-beloved of the public.” - -“And Miss Mornice June—the wife?” Eliphalet put the question -tentatively. - -“Naughty, very naughty indeed. D’you know what I’d do with her?” - -“She’s my adopted daughter,” said Eliphalet, to be on the safe side. - -“I’d put her in the Cinema business, and live luxuriously on a ten per -cent. commission of the salary she earned.” - -“Strange you should say that. I gave her this part to keep her away from -the Cinema.” - -“Then it wasn’t fair to the theatre public—or the Cinema public -either.” - -“Do you consider our chances of success are remote?” - -Raymond dropped his cigarette to the floor, and twisted it out with the -heel of his boot. - -“God, He knows! It’s all a lottery. You’re of the provinces—you should -be able to say.” - -“But I ask you.” - -“Well, if I had to stake my last farthing in a theatrical venture, it -would not be in this one.” - -“Thanks,” said Eliphalet. “Mine is.” - -“Take no notice,” Raymond hastened to explain. “It was only for -something to say. Well, I must be going.” - -“You—you won’t stop a day or two and rehearse us a little?” - -He shook his head. - -“I value the compliment, but I’m too conceited to reveal my weakness.” - -“Weakness?” - -“Yes, for I shouldn’t be able to help ’em. I’ll let you into a secret. -People imagine I can teach anyone to act. I can’t. All I can do is to -know who would be right in certain parts. Then I engage ’em, and their -combined elements give forth a chemical compound known as a Brilliant -Production. That’s the whole secret. Tell that fellow—Mellish, isn’t -it?—not to wear daffodils in his buttonhole, and to cut his moustache -off if he can’t let it alone—and tell the duchess to let her train take -care of itself when she’s in a drawing-room. God bless you, Mr. -Cardomay, and good luck.” - -He shook hands warmly, and hurried away. - -“Poor old devil!” he muttered, as the stage-door swung to behind him. -One might have imagined that there was an added moisture in his eyes if -the idea were not so absurd. A specialist has no feelings. - -About a week later, Doctor Wardluke met Mr. Wilfred Wilfur in the -street, and the latter gentleman was in a state of unparalleled -excitement. In his hand he flourished a copy of the _Bradford Mercury_, -and he cried: - -“Seen the news? Old Cardomay has come an almighty cropper with that -production of his—knew he would—knew he would!” - -And the two late members of the Cardomay Syndicate congratulated -themselves most cordially on the happy insight that led them to “get out -of it in time.” - -The papers were not kind—they were not even discerning. As Raymond -Wakefield foretold, they were mortally offended with Eliphalet for -departing from his usual routine and cutting off his hair. Because they -were accustomed to see this actor in a “robuster class of work,” they -totally ignored the excellent quality of his acting. “There are plenty -of companies who can provide us with the modern problem play, without -Mr. Cardomay doing so. We look to him to uphold the good old traditions -of the drama, and instead——” etc. - -The rest of the cast were very properly chewed up, and questions were -put as to what reasons existed for advertising a certain unknown and -very amateurish young lady as a star. - -The receipts for the first week were negligible, and the second showed a -substantial margin on the wrong side. - -“We have ten more bookings, and I must play them out,” said Eliphalet -desperately. - -“What are the fines in default of appearance?” suggested Manning. - -But Eliphalet shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “There’s -the company to consider. I promised them three months.” - -“And d’you think there’s a single damned one of ’em who’d hold you to -that?” came the fierce rejoinder. - -“Let us lose like gentlemen,” said Eliphalet. - -And his savings dripped from him like the sweats of fear. - -He was very silent at home those days, and week by week went by without -improvement. He would sit with his hands listlessly down-hanging, and -his eyes fixed in a vacant, dreamy stare. - -Mornice did her best to brighten things up, but she did not understand -very well the workings of his mind. Her belief in her own greatness, -too, was slow to abate, and it was not until a notice appeared in the -_Manchester Guardian_ (most delightfully outspoken of organs) that -illumination came, and she realised her own contribution to the tragedy. -They gave the play one of its few good notices, but of her they spoke -with a frankness that allowed of no misunderstanding. - -Being by nature a good-hearted and dear little girl, she put her arms -about one of the red fire-pails on a dark landing and wept with such -pitiful vibrations that the water spilled over and mingled with her -tears. Here Ronald Knight found her, and transposed her head to his -shoulder. - -“Everyone gets bad notices sooner or later,” he told her. “But listen, -Morny, here’s something to cheer you up. My father has had an offer to -produce for Raphaeli’s Film Company in America, and he wants you to come -out and play _ingénues_, with a year’s guarantee.” - -“D-does he?” - -“Yes, and I should be going too. It’s in ten days’ time he’s sailing, -just after we close here. There! You’re happy now, aren’t you?” - -“N-no,” she sobbed, kissing him to cheer herself up a bit. “I’m -miserable—about him.” - -“So am I,” said Ronald. “Horribly.” - -“He wouldn’t have done it except for me.” - -“Don’t forget that I asked him.” - -“But I made you, Ronny. What’s going to happen, supposing he’s lost -everything. D’you know, I’m beastly frightened.” - -“Let us go and talk to him, Morny.” - -They went. He was sitting in his dressing-room, idly twisting a fragment -of paper that had shown the night’s returns. He looked very old. - -“Well?” he said, lifelessly, as they came in. - -Then Mornice broke out with: - -“Oh, we’re so frightfully sorry—we want to tell how frightfully sorry -we are.” - -He stretched out a hand, and gathered hers into it. - -“Why, my dear,” he said, “you mustn’t take a bad notice to heart.” - -“It isn’t that—I know now I ought never to have played the part—but it -was my beastly conceit that made you do the play.” - -“And I ought to be kicked for pushing it forward,” said Ronald. - -“I’ve watched you when you thought you were alone, and seen how -dreadfully sad and broken you looked, and I know it’s because I’ve made -you lose all your money—isn’t it?” - -A something eloquently full of tragedy and sorrow in her voice stung -Eliphalet to a sudden need to lie. - -“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Whatever put such a fancy into your -silly little head?” - -“Because it’s true.” - -“My dear, dear, dear little girl, you are talking nonsense. I have been -sad, I confess it; but my sorrow was for you—I feared you had suffered -a great disappointment.” - -“D’you mean that?” - -“Surely.” - -“And you’ll be all right after this?” - -He laughed lightly. - -“I shouldn’t worry about that.” - -“But I do—horribly.” - -He disposed himself in a position of some importance. - -“Mornice,” he said, “I have figured now in nearly forty productions, -most of them successful. Think what that means. Am I to be crippled by a -single false move? The idea is absurd. Where is your arithmetic, my -dear? Ask young Ronald here, and he’ll show you the sum on paper. Maybe -I shall have to cut things a trifle finer in consequence of this, but -what of that? No, no, no—my sorrow was all for you, and since yours has -ceased to be, why, then, our sorrow is bankrupt, and we are all glad -again.” - -“You’ve shifted a weight from my mind,” said Ronald, with an outward -breath. - -And Mornice hugged him ecstatically. - -“’T’any rate, I’m not going to be a drag on you any more,” she said, and -told the tale of the American offer. - -“Yes,” said Eliphalet, “I think you ought to accept. It’s a selfish -confession, my dear, and I want you to believe I would have done my best -for you, but I haven’t the energy for much more work. Years tell, and I -doubt if I could stand the strain of another big venture. I mean to do -myself well—luxuriously—in that little cottage with the ivy-clad porch -that stands back from the road. You’d have found it dull there, living -with an old man.” - -“I’d have loved it—with you.” - -“Not a bit of it. No, you’d be kicking the glass to flinders in a week. -I should try a young man instead of an old ’un. I should try him.” He -tilted his head toward Ronald Knight. - -“I wish to God she would, sir,” said Ronald devoutly. - -“I don’t mind,” said Mornice. - -“Then do,” said Eliphalet; “and I shall be left without a care in the -world, to enjoy an affluent old age.” - -“You mean that, Dads?” - -“’Course I do. But don’t go talking about it in the company, or everyone -will be trying to borrow.” - -So they went out, laughing, who had entered in tears. - -“Manning,” said Eliphalet, when the stage-manager, according to his -custom, looked in for final instructions, “what d’you think we could -realise on the scenery and costumes?” - -“’Bout four hundred. Laon’s should be good for that.” - -“H’m! not bad. Tell ’em we’ll sell. Good night, Manning.” - -“G’night, Guv’nor.” - -He turned over the pages of his bank-book, and examined the balance. -“Ought just to see me through,” he muttered; “and then—four hundred -pounds!” - -God sends happy thoughts when most they are needed, and a vision arose -of two young people laughing happily as they passed from the room. - -“We pulled off that scene, old boy,” he said. “Fairly brought the house -down.” - - - - - CHAPTER XII - THE FINAL CURTAIN - - -A keen eye would have failed to detect Eliphalet Cardomay’s real -feelings during the last week of his last tour. Outwardly he presented -the appearance of a man at ease with his conscience and at peace with -the world. - -A lucky public holiday added a couple of really good houses to the -week’s receipts, and the thirty sovereigns that arose therefrom he -presented to Mornice as a wedding gift. - -With many thoughtful considerations he helped her purchase a trousseau -and fixed up details with Ronald’s father. These two elderly gentlemen -discussed marriage and contracts with the cordial gravity such important -matters demand. - -The entire company was at the wedding, and very smart indeed was the -appearance they presented. Eliphalet had given the ladies the Redfern -gowns and added permission for them to be worn at the church. He himself -was most spruce, a white gardenia in his buttonhole and his silk hat (it -had been treated with stout the night before to flatten the nap) -reflected the sunshine like a mirror. - -He gave away the bride with a nobility that kings might have envied, and -at the reception which followed, the little speech he made was full of -the happiest moments. He actually allowed a waiter to pour him out a -glass of champagne, but although the glass was certainly emptied, there -was a strong rumour running that an aspidistra close at hand received -the wine. - -The wedding took place the day before the final performance, and the -happy pair departed in a shower of confetti and a great draught from -waved handkerchiefs, to reappear on the two succeeding nights at the -theatre. - -“I want to say good-bye to you and Ronald to-morrow over a little -dinner,” Eliphalet whispered to the bride. “It will be easier than in -the theatre. It is going to be rather hard to lose you altogether.” - -She and Ronald were sailing for America, and were going straight to -Liverpool after the curtain had fallen. - -Eliphalet made great and tender preparations for that parting feast, and -laid the table lovingly with his own hands. Then at six o’clock he lit -the fairy candles that twinkled among the fruit and smilax, and waited. -And Mornice arrived, dressed in her prettiest trousseau frock—all by -herself. - -“Where is Ronald?” he asked. - -“I told him to stop at home, Pummy. I sort of guessed you want me by my -lone.” - -How many of these exquisitely-prepared little feasts are left untasted? -We are in love—or have to say farewell—and we centre all our -beforehand time setting out rare flowers, fair dishes and delicate -appointments, to show how very greatly we care. And perhaps someone -says, “How lovely of you to do all this to me,” or maybe breaks a white -rose from its stem to keep in memory. - -Then a hand stretches across the table, and another’s takes it, and the -little dishes are all neglected and the fairy candles burn low. After -the long, long silence and unspoken words of love or parting, it all -breaks up into a commonplace putting on of coats, whistling of cabs, or -catching of trains. - -Arm-in-arm and hugging very close together, they walked to the theatre, -and as the illuminated face of the Town Hall clock proved beyond -question they were late, there was nothing for it but to run the last -hundred yards. - -Ronald Knight was at the stage-door and was cheered to see them arrive -breathless and laughing. - -Then Eliphalet stooped and planted a hurried kiss on Mornice’s cheek. - -“God bless you, my boy,” he said almost fiercely to Ronald, and passed -through the swing-door toward his dressing-room. - -He had meant to make a speech on the day he went out of management, and -the company, knowing this, grouped themselves on the stage when the -curtain fell on the last act. Then, quite naturally, he knew it could -not be done. The things about which one really feels have so small a -part in speeches. So, when he found himself confronted by the most -sympathetic audience before which an actor ever appeared, he learnt that -all his art, technique and experience availed nothing. Those dear, -honest, familiar faces dimmed as he looked toward them into a grey wet -mist. Somewhere in his throat a new pulse started to throb—and throbbed -burningly. - -Eliphalet Cardomay shook his head like a child who is lost. - -“I—I can’t,” he said. Then, with a feeble, impotent gesture of -farewell, he turned away. - -“Three cheers for him,” gasped Freddie Manning, his face scarlet with -emotion. - -And Eliphalet Cardomay bolted from the theatre. - -During the performance he had managed to say a few words, individually, -to those old corner-stones of his dramatic edifice who, for years and -years, had worked the provincial theatres under his managership. That -had been hard enough, God knows. Old Kitterson made no bones about it, -and frankly howled when Eliphalet gripped him by the hand. - -Scarcely less reserved was Freddie Manning—the least emotional of -creatures. - -“I’m hating it, Guv’nor,” he said. - -He kissed all the ladies of the company and had a kind word for each, -but Mornice he steadfastly avoided, for there was a limit to his powers -of endurance, and he wished to escape without any show of weakness. - -The last person he spoke to was his dresser. - -“I won’t sleep at night, sir, for worrying about you and your things. -You won’t never be able to look after yourself proper.” - -“Nonsense,” said Eliphalet. “I shall miss you, of course, but it will -come easier after a while. You—you’ve been more than attentive, Potter, -and just a little parting gift——” He pressed a five-pound note into -the dresser’s hand—a note that Potter secretly replaced in his master’s -pocket while helping him, for the last time, into the big fur overcoat. - -Eliphalet Cardomay’s great farewell tour, with seventy-five pounds a -week spent on advertisement, was over and done with, and out of the -wreckage he salved four hundred pounds. - -He did not raise a wail over the loss—he was too game; but in his inner -self was a tiny cry of disappointment. - -He had always cherished the belief that when he retired it would be to -go to the first real home he had ever known. - -The home, as he pictured it, was a little detached villa at New -Brighton. It would face the sea and there would be tamarisk bushes, -forming a guard of honour, from the garden gate to the front door. He -had worked out how each room would look—just what furniture and -pictures there would be—as though it were a scene in a play. Every -detail was cut and dried and ordered in his mind. This was to be his -compensation for the sacrifice of his profession. And now——! - -Four hundred pounds and his lonely self were all that remained. - -For about six weeks Eliphalet Cardomay drifted aimlessly. He had nowhere -to go and nothing to do. Late hours having been the habit of his -lifetime, it was impossible to go early to bed, and the empty evenings -hung like lead upon his hands. - -A letter or two came from America, forwarded from his old lodging, and -these were the only bright spots on a desolate landscape. - -Sunday was a day that bothered him dreadfully. Every Sunday for forty -years he had been accustomed to the rush of packing—of cabs—porters -and long train-journeys. To sit idle in his rooms and read the -_Referee_, which in the past had often seemed a very desirable thing to -do, proved in practice a very trying ordeal. He fretted all the morning -with a sense of important duties neglected, and usually finished up by -walking to the nearest railway station to watch the theatrical trains -pull out. Then he would return and settle down, with a sigh, to an -afternoon of irksome inactivity. - -He had never been a man with a wide circle of friends, and the few -acquaintances he met mostly took their pleasures by leaning across the -bar or hiving round the cheese at a Bodega—a practice which he showed -no disposition to emulate. In consequence he was thrown entirely on his -own resources, and, as a result, there set in a kind of incipient -melancholy. He began to speculate how long four hundred pounds would -last, at an expenditure of thirty shillings a week. - -“And three years of this sort of thing is about as much as we could -stand, old boy,” he said, when he looked at the result of the -calculation. - -So he continued to drift in a melancholy isolation, until one day, upon -a bench in Roundhay Park, he espied a familiar figure. - -It was a man—or, more truthfully, what was left of a man—poor, -shivering, down-and-out. But Eliphalet needed no second glance to assure -him that here was Sefton Bulmore—old Sefton, who had done him a good -turn—old Sefton, squeezed from the boards to make room for younger -blood and fresher funniosities. - -“Sefton!” said Eliphalet, stretching out his hand. - -A pair of watery eyes were raised jerkily and scanned his features. Then -the old fellow came to his feet with astonishing vigour. Lifting his -right hand high in the air, he brought it down whack into the extended -palm, covering it instantly with an embracing grasp from his left. It -was an old stage formula, executed with technical perfection. (Try it -yourself; you will find it is none too easy to do.) - -“The Old Card. By God, it’s the Old Card!” - -There was a world of enthusiasm in the tone—then suddenly his manner -changed to an extremity of confidence. - -“This is uncommonly fortunate. To tell you the truth, old son, I’ve been -a bit unlucky lately. But the Profession sticks together, eh? For old -sake’s sake—and if—if you can’t lend me ten bob, five ’ud do!” - -“Sit down—let’s talk,” said Eliphalet. - -So they sat together on the park bench and talked, and a hundred old -stage memories and old stage personalities were dug out from the -unforgotten past. - -“Aha! ha! fine fellows—fine fellows, all of ’em. ’Tisn’t what it was in -our young days. The Profession’s going to the dogs, Cardomay, old son, -going to the dogs fast.” - -“Fate’s been unkind to you?” queried Eliphalet. - -“Unkind! Ha! I can remember turning up my nose at forty pounds a -week—and look at me now!” He pulled out two empty trouser pockets and -turned the palms of his hands up. - -Eliphalet considered for a moment. - -“Bulmore,” he said, “I have a bit—not much, but a bit, and, old man, -I’m sick for someone to talk to. I worked out that, taking things easy, -I’ve enough to last about three years—alone. Well, one-and-a-half in -company would please me better. Will you share?” - -“Mean it?” - -“Here’s my hand.” - -“By God, the Old Card’s a trump!” cried Bulmore, taking it. - -It seemed that years had fallen away from him in a moment. - -“D’you know,” he went on, “I haven’t tasted solids for a couple of -days.” - -“Tea is waiting at home now,” said Eliphalet. - -Sefton Bulmore rose at once. - -“And I hope that home isn’t far away, either,” he flashed, with a touch -of his old humour. - -During the tram-ride Bulmore’s spirits rose by leaps and bounds. - -“Tell you what,” he exclaimed. “You and I together—tragedy and -comedy—we’ve the elements of a fortune between us—a fortune, my boy. -We’ll write a play—Cinema—pooh!—No good to anyone! We’ll write such a -play as was never written before. And if we don’t knock ’em——! By -God!” - -A light danced in Eliphalet’s eyes—the light of reviving enthusiasm. - -“It’s an idea, Sefton,” he said. “An idea. Perhaps, after all, we shall -be wanted.” - -They bought watercress for tea, and cucumber, sardines and potted meat, -so it is no small wonder that the meal was a success. Sefton Bulmore -fairly expanded under its influence. - -Eliphalet arranged with his landlady for an extra bed to be made up in -his room. - -“And now,” he said, “shall we fetch your things?—and you can settle in -comfortably.” - -For answer Bulmore produced a pile of pawn-tickets and laid them on the -table. - -“That’s the lot,” he answered, “save what I stand up in.” - -Eliphalet went through the tickets to see what most essentially should -be redeemed. - -“You’d like your ulster, eh?” - -“It’s been a good friend to me—still, two pound ten, y’know.” - -“Not another word,” said Eliphalet. - -When they emerged from the pawn-shop Sefton Bulmore was clad in a -fur-collared coat which, despite a shade of wear about the cuffs and -elbows, was a garment any actor might be proud to wear. - -“And now,” said Eliphalet, “we’ll make for home and have our first talk -about the play.” - -There was a note of disappointment in Bulmore’s acquiescence, that -called for a querying eyebrow from Eliphalet. - -“I was only thinking—just to-night—old friends re-meeting—and—as a -little celebration——” He tilted his head suggestively toward the -brilliantly-lighted windows of the Goat Hotel. - -“I never do,” said Eliphalet. - -“No, no, I understand—but—to the success of the play—a couple of -glasses!” - -Eliphalet shook his head. - -“You go,” he said. “Here, take——” And he pressed some silver into -Bulmore’s palm, “I’d—I’d rather not.” - -“It’s sad work drinking alone.” - -“I shall have the pleasure of your company at home all the sooner, -then.” - -It was after eleven before Bulmore returned, and bed was the obvious -prescription. So Eliphalet helped him undress, and listened to a good -deal of maudlin matter, without which the evening would have been a -happier one. - -Next morning they set to work mapping out a scheme for their future. -Being accustomed to work at night, they made their plans accordingly. - -They would breakfast late, partake of their one serious meal at three -o’clock, enjoy a cup of tea about half-past five, and devote the evening -hours to work upon the play. At midnight the traditional Welsh rarebit, -washed down with a jug of good milky cocoa, would be served—then a pipe -and bed. To relieve any embarrassment in giving or receiving, Eliphalet -arranged that each should draw the same weekly sum, and share alike in -all things. - -Thus the terms of partnership were laid down, and together they set -about to write such a play as would stagger the world. - -The plot was everything, they decided, and so to the making of the plot -were dedicated countless hours and an incredible quantity of paper. - -As the work proceeded Bulmore’s spirits grew apace. - -“We’ve got ’em!” he would shout. “There’s a fortune here, old man.” And -so great would be his enthusiasm that it was an all-too frequent -occurrence for him to abandon work in the early part of the evening and -drink copious draughts to their inevitable success. - -These little excesses were the cause of no small concern to Eliphalet -Cardomay. Bulmore would often spend his entire weekly allowance in a -night at the bar; thus, when the day for settling their accounts -arrived, it would be necessary for Eliphalet to draw on his dwindling -principal to make good the deficit. - -Once the plot was finally determined, the actual writing of the play -began. In this Eliphalet did most of the work. Bulmore’s temperament was -such that he could not sit still, and must needs pace up and down, -gesticulating and pouring forth a ceaseless stream of red-hot ideas. - -In itself this method proved a somewhat disturbing factor, and tended to -retard the progression of the work; but Eliphalet strove manfully, and -some eleven months from the day of their first meeting had the exquisite -pleasure of subscribing the word “Curtain” on the final page. - -Then he and his partner gripped hands with a pride too full for words. - -“Read it aloud, Eliphalet, old man,” said Bulmore. “Let’s have it! Let -it go! Here, old man—wait a minute!” He rushed from the room, returning -a moment later with the breathless landlady, Mrs. Wattle, and her anæmic -niece, Annie. These he literally flung (no other word is possible) one -at each end of the plush settee. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned them, -with a threatening gesture. “You are going to hear the finest play that -ever was written—a masterpiece! On you go, Eliphalet, with all your -voice, and all you’ve got. Give ’em a bit of the old.” - -So Eliphalet filled his lungs, and read. Both he and his audience were -in tears when he intoned the final heart-rending passages. - -Then he closed the book and laid his hand upon it—his eyes filled with -the light of triumph. - -“What did you think of it, Annie?” demanded Mrs. Wattle, when she and -her niece were restored to the kitchen. - -“Be-utiful, be-utiful,” replied Annie. “It was just like any drama you -might see on the stage.” - -There was no intended satire in this truest of criticisms. - -The reading had proved altogether too much for Sefton Bulmore, and being -so elevated by the marvels of their achievement, he went forth and -indulged in a debauch, beside which his previous excesses were as -child’s play. - -Eliphalet sat alone with the glory he had created. He turned his eyes to -the level of the gods, and prayed aloud. - -“Be pleased to bless our work, O Lord!” - -Then a cold tremor crept down his spine—brought to existence by the -sight of an unopened letter leaning against the clock. He knew what it -was—a statement of credit from the bank—and had delayed breaking the -seal, until the play should be finished, lest, perhaps, the tidings -should divert his attention from the final scene. But now that reason no -longer existed. So he rose and tore open the envelope. - -Fifty-seven pounds was all that was left between two old men and -starvation. Almost miraculously the rest had melted away. Fifty-seven -pounds—and the Play. - -“_AND_ the play, old boy,” said Eliphalet. He tore the sheet in two and -dropped it in the fire; then, picking up the manuscript, made his way to -bed. - -That night he slept with a fortune beneath his pillow. Of course the -play had to be typed. They were too old at the game to risk spoiling -chances by sending it in MS. form. The bill for the typing was four -pounds—a big lump from a capital of fifty-seven. - -Eliphalet had a long talk with Bulmore, and pointed out the need for -economy during the next few weeks, while managers were considering their -work. Bulmore was quite huffy about it. - -“Seems a sin not to have a good time, with a fortune like this waiting -to be picked up,” he grumbled. - -But Eliphalet was firm, and for the first time a slight estrangement -arose between them. To mark his disapproval, Bulmore went out and got -drunk. - -The three copies of the play were duly registered and posted to the -three likeliest managers. - -“I’m sending the original manuscript to Mornice,” said Eliphalet, “I -would like her to see the part she might have played, had she not given -up the legitimate stage to play in pictures.” - -So he packed it up, with a fatherly little note, and despatched it to -Mornice, c/o Raphaeli Film Company, at some unpronounceable city in the -United States. - -Then, in a fever of excitement, they sat down and waited for the herald -of their fortunes to sound the trumpet of success. - -And quite suddenly Sefton Bulmore was taken ill. The first-class doctor -whom Eliphalet sent for at once, shook his head over the case. - -“The machinery is worn out,” he said. “You can do nothing, Mr. Cardomay, -beyond care and attention. A nurse may be necessary later on. Give him -plenty of light food—chickens, fish, and so forth, and above all keep -him cheerful.” - -“What’s he say?” demanded Bulmore, when Eliphalet returned after seeing -the doctor out. - -“That you must take things easily for a while.” - -“Ha! that’s all very well, but rehearsals will be starting soon, and -I’ve got to be there, y’know—I must be there. Any news?” - -“Not at present. There’s hardly time yet.” - -“A fortnight. Ought to be hearing something soon.” - -“And depend upon it, we shall,” soothed Eliphalet. - -And he was right, for the first copy was returned that evening, with a -curt note of refusal. - -Eliphalet took it into the sitting-room and read it again and again. It -was unbelievable. Power, the likeliest of all managers, had refused his -play. - -“Can’t have read it,” thought Eliphalet. “Can’t possibly have read it! I -mustn’t let Sefton know this.” - -So he put the play in a fresh envelope and despatched it elsewhere, and -to salve his conscience for the deceit he meant to perpetrate, he bought -Bulmore some hothouse grapes and a bottle of calf’s-foot jelly. - -Poor old Bulmore was an indifferent patient—subject to fits of -depression and excitement. The sound of the postman’s knock in the -street brought him to his elbow at once. - -“Down you go, down you go!” he would cry; then when Eliphalet returned -empty-handed, he would work himself into a passion and curse the -dilatoriness of managers or accuse Eliphalet of having addressed the -envelopes wrongly. - -Then, one day, about three weeks after his illness began, two more -copies of the play were returned. In one there was no comment at all, -and in the other a letter stating that a market for such stereotyped -work no longer existed. - -“Oh, oh!” cried Eliphalet, with the tone of a wounded child. “They don’t -understand.” - -“There was something that time,” exclaimed Bulmore, as he slowly entered -the room. “Quick—what was it?” - -“Lambert has written,” he said. “Wants to see me in -Bradford—to-morrow.” - -The old comedian’s body relaxed, and he gave a sigh of wonderful relief. -“Good God! To-morrow, eh? That will be to discuss terms—yes. You’ll -have to be firm—he’s slippery—’ll want watching. Pity I’m like this. -Pity—pity!” - -Then followed a mass of details that Eliphalet must be sure to observe, -and in the midst of them the doctor arrived. - -“You’ll want that nurse,” he said, as Eliphalet conducted him -downstairs. “He’s very rocky—practically living on nervous energy. A -bit intemperate in the past, I should say. Well, well! I’ll send her in -to-night. Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye,” said Eliphalet, and turned into the sitting-room to review -the situation. At the present rate of expenditure his finances could -scarcely be relied upon to last much longer. Yet what could he do? -Bulmore must have everything he wanted, of course, and the lie about the -play must be maintained. - -He re-addressed the two returned copies and posted them, with a silent, -fervent prayer. There were but six managers in all to whom the play -would be of possible use, and half of these had already refused. - -“Even chances, old boy; we mustn’t throw up the sponge yet.” - -Then he returned to minister to his partner. - -“I’ll have some champagne to-day—champagne, a sole, and a dish of -quails. We can afford ’em now,” croaked old Bulmore. “No longer any need -for economy.” - -And to maintain the lie Eliphalet bought all he asked for, and more -besides. - -When the nurse came he told her of his deception, and between them they -kept the story going. Eliphalet invented a wonderful interview with -Lambert, in which he had asked for and been accorded exceptional terms. -Rehearsals would be beginning in a very short while—— - -“And, by Jove, Sefton, we shall have such a cast!” - -And so the poor fraud went on, and twice more the play was returned. - -It was almost more than Eliphalet could endure, but he kept a firm lower -lip, and saw it through. - -About three o’clock one night the nurse awoke him. - -“I think he’s going,” she said. - -Old Sefton Bulmore was propped up in bed, and looked a very sick man. - -“Laddie!” he gasped. “It’s up! Fate’s cheating me—you—you’ve been a -real friend—but I’m paying it all back. Here—under my pillow!” - -Eliphalet drew from beneath the pillow a scrap of paper, scrawled over -with the words, “I bequeath all the interests that will accrue to me -from the play, ‘Right Triumphant,’ to my friend, colleague and -benefactor, Eliphalet Cardomay.” - -“It’s a fortune, o’ man—a fortune.” - -Eliphalet took the drooping hand from the coverlet and grasped it. - -“It is beautiful of you,” he said. - -There was a long silence; then Bulmore stirred slightly. - -“Make it a good funeral,” he whispered. - -“I will, old man.” - -As a final touch of irony, the last remaining copy of “Right Triumphant” -was returned a few moments before Bulmore’s coffin was carried down the -steps. And Eliphalet Cardomay dropped it into the grave beside his dead -comrade. - -It would be profitless and painful to follow Eliphalet through the -job-seeking, grey underworld in which, during the following months, he -drifted. And while he drifted, he lost heart and his pride began to -forsake him. Eliphalet Cardomay disappeared, and left no address. He -lacked the courage to confess his real state to Mornice. One deception -makes another easy, and about the time he had lied to Bulmore about the -play, he had written in answer to Mornice’s constantly-expressed -reproaches regarding his dilatoriness in taking the little house, to say -he had at last secured the villa of his dreams. To make the story good, -he described the decorations of every room from attic to basement, and -even threw in a picture of the tamarisks in the front garden. There had -been a chance then that the play would bring his words to truth, but -that chance had gone, and he could carry on the deception no longer. -Thus with his disappearance the sweet ties that had existed between -himself and his little adopted daughter were severed. - -Somehow or another he managed to eke out an existence—but it was -existence, and nothing more. Only once did he try to obtain work upon -the stage, and the experience was so humiliating he did not repeat it. -Somehow he had managed to preserve his old friends, the fur coat, the -broad-brimmed hat and the cane which had supported him for so many -years. He obtained an interview at a Bedford Street Agency with a -flaccid, swag-bellied Semite, who wore a white waistcoat and check -uppers to his glossy boots. - -“Never heard of it,” said this gentleman, when Eliphalet roundly -pronounced his full titles. “And there’s nothing for your sort here. I’m -looking over a bunch of supers at five o’clock, and if you care to line -up with them you can take a chance.” - -“Thank you,” said Eliphalet gravely, “but I think not.” - -“Then, for the Lord’s sake, get out. We’re busy here.” - -And Eliphalet retired with dignity—as befitted one who had held -provincial audiences for nearly half a century, and was part author of -the finest play ever written. - -Fate was a little kindlier after that, for he found employment in a tiny -Brixton paper shop, owned by a widow. She, poor soul, was so occupied by -her husband’s legacy, a girl of three and two twin boys, that to attend -to the shop was an impossibility. So Eliphalet sat on a kitchen chair -behind the counter and dispensed halfpenny journals, bottles of gum, -penny note-books, and pencils with little tin covers to them. - -In these surroundings he was moderately happy. There were plenty of -theatrical papers to read, for the neighbourhood was patronised by the -lesser geniuses of the dramatic and music-hall world. In a way he became -something of a local character, and many an old “pro” would step in of a -morning to exchange reminiscences. Once or twice he was recognised, but -on these occasions he always begged his discoverers not to disclose his -identity. - -“It is not that I am ashamed,” he said, “but there are many I knew who, -if they heard, would pity me—and pity is a quality more blessed to -bestow than to receive.” - -So his wishes were respected, and for six tranquil months the Old Card -sold his papers and followed in the dramatic columns the movements of -members of his old companies. Thus he learned that Freddie Manning had -abandoned the Road for the business managership of the Royal Theatre, -New Brighton. - -“Good boy, Manning,” he said. “That’s capital. New Brighton, too!” -Rather a twisted smile came to the corners of his mouth, for he could -not help thinking of that Dream Villa, facing the sea. It would have -been very pleasant with Manning so close at hand, dropping in of an -evening, maybe, for a bit of late supper and a chat about old times. -Through the same medium he learnt how Mornice had sprung to Fame as a -Film Artiste and was commanding a truly Chaplinesque salary. - -This was a matter that gave him less pleasure, for, although rejoicing -in her success, he could not conquer the underlying conviction that the -Cinema was the bastard child of the stage, and an ignoble art. - -“I wonder what she thought of my play,” he ruminated. “I would like to -have known.” - -One day there burst into the shop a little music-hall comedian named -Dwyer. He was one of the very few who had recognised Eliphalet, and -something of friendship had sprung up between them. - -“Seen this week’s _Foot-Lights_?” he demanded. Then, without waiting for -an answer, “They’re advertising for you.” - -He produced a crumpled periodical, flung it on the counter and pointed -to a certain passage with a nicotine-stained forefinger. - -“If Eliphalet Cardomay will call upon or communicate with Messrs, Newman -& Stranger, 108A, Henrietta Street, W. C., he will hear something -greatly to his advantage.” - -“Good gracious!” said Eliphalet. “I wonder what that means. I must step -round there this evening.” - -“You’ll step round now, old cock.” - -“I can hardly leave the shop——” - -“That for a tale!” yelled the little comedian; then, making a megaphone -of his hands, he shouted, “Mother!” at the very top of his voice. - -In response to the call the owner of the shop appeared, a baby in her -arms and the little girl towed along by her skirts. - -“He’s come into a fortune—see this! Mustn’t wait a minute—You can -spare him. Tell him to get his hat! Shop’ll look after itself!” - -Infected by the excitement of the moment, Mrs. Nelson said he must go at -once. Furthermore, she gave Eliphalet the baby to hold, while she -brushed his hat and coat and polished the knob of his stick. - -“I’ll stand a cab,” said Dwyer, “for I won’t let you out of my sight -till I’ve heard the best.” With which, he half swallowed two fingers of -his right hand and produced a whistle so piercing that a taxi seemed to -spring from nowhere. - -Bread cast upon the waters returns after many days. There was a certain -quality in “Right Triumphant” which, even though the stage desired it no -longer, was still of an order to find favour in the hearts of cinema -audiences. - -The manuscript copy of the play, sent to Mornice, was read, at her -request, by Mr. Raphaeli, who at once realised, with her in the leading -part, a film version might be played with every hope of success. - -Mr. Raphaeli was seldom wrong, and on this occasion he was “righter” -than usual. Eliphalet Cardomay had disappeared, and enquiry failed to -locate him, but to his credit, on a ten per cent. royalty, a sum of -three thousand pounds had accumulated. - -“She looked after your interests pretty closely,” remarked Mr. Stranger -of Henrietta Street. “I think you may rely on that sum doubling itself -before the interest on the film expires. By the way, here’s a bundle of -letters from her addressed to you.” - -Eliphalet Cardomay was wonderfully calm during the interview, and did -not betray by word or gesture the slightest excitement, but his fingers -trembled a trifle as he took the letters. He received the address of a -firm of solicitors, who were looking after the money on his behalf, -shook hands, and walked from the office. - -On the pavement outside he conveyed the news to the little comedian who, -in his enthusiasm, performed a war-dance which drew toward them a -massive policeman, complete with warnings. - -“But you don’t look half pleased enough,” he gasped, when Eliphalet took -his arm and drew him away. - -“I am—I am—very pleased and very grateful. It’s just a shade of -disappointment that the play should not have made its success on the -legitimate stage.” But the cloud faded almost before it came in the -bright blue horizon of the future. - -A twinkle showed in his eyes. - -“Dwyer,” he said, “in all my life I have never yet borrowed from a -fellow-artist, but I am wondering now if you would lend me a sovereign.” - -“Whatever you want, old man; whatever you want.” - -“Simpson’s is just over there, and I was thinking—an undercut from a -saddle of mutton—you and I together-a little celebration, what?” - -“Fine!” echoed Dwyer. “Take what you want out of this——” producing a -fiver from a Friday night envelope. - -As they turned into Bedford Street there were a few old down-and-outers -of the profession, leaning disconsolately against the wall of an agent’s -office. - -Eliphalet jerked his head toward them. - -“Would you mind if I did?” he questioned. - -“Better still!” shouted Dwyer enthusiastically. So Eliphalet crossed the -street. - -“Boys,” he said, addressing the group, “will you take a bit of lunch -with me? Just to talk over old times.” - - * * * * * - -Eliphalet Cardomay has the pleasantest villa in New Brighton, with -tamarisks forming a guard of honour to the front door. The rooms inside -are just what you would expect—cosy, warm, hospitable. Sir Henry -Irving’s signed portrait, as Thomas à Becket, hangs over the fireplace -in the parlour, and there are many others of great-hearted, if less -celebrated, performers dotted about the walls in comforting disorder. - -Prominent in the centre of the mantelpiece is the portrait of a baby, -and scrawled across one corner in Mornice’s go-as-you-please hand is -written “Eliphalet to his grand-dads.” Probably this photograph is his -most cherished possession, and he is justly proud that so bold a name -should rise afresh in a new generation. Mornice even on the occasion -when she and Ronald and the baby came over from the States and spent a -glorious three weeks at New Brighton, never divulged the secret that -this wonderful child was ordinarily termed “-Potkins.” - -To minister to his wants are Potter, his one-time dresser, and Potter’s -wife—she was wardrobe-mistress in the company for many a year. Between -them they look to it that the Old Card is kept out of draughts—has his -socks scrupulously darned—his sheets aired, and is served only with the -dishes he likes best. - -You may see him any day you care to look, walking up and down the parade -with a firm step and his hat at a fearless angle. Under his arm is the -ivory-knobbed gold-mounted cane of quaint design, and he shows a marked -favour for fur coats, of which he possesses more than one. - -It is rare indeed for a Saturday to pass without Freddie Manning looking -in for an hour after the show. And whether it be a supper of tripe, -cooked in milk, a Welsh rarebit, or a dish of sizzling liver-and-bacon, -it all goes down with equal appreciation, to an accompaniment of happy -reminiscences that mostly begin with: - -“Remember that time in ’93—we put up ‘The Silver King’ the following -season——” And somewhere each evening as regular as clockwork—— - -“Say what you will, the stage isn’t what it was, Manning; it isn’t what -it was.” - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected -without note. - -[End of _The Old Card_ by Roland Pertwee] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD CARD *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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