LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1361, 25 June 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

AN ARISTOCRATIC ADMIRER. By Artiute W. Pinero. We have many tales of Aristotratic Admirers —we of the Theatrical Profession, I mean—stories of innocence betrayed by the fashionable rove , the young lord, the squire’s son, the captain with his whiskers, &o. All our sympathy s are, of courpc, with the fair (and subsequently frail) ones, and so I expect to encounter some animadversion in taking up the cudgels on behalf of the Aristocratic Admirer. But I have quite another version of the old story, and you shall hear it, if you care to listen. Tufton Softleigh was the son of Sir Maxwclton Softleigh, of Dawfoot. The Softleighs are the beet known family in Clogshire. Sir Maxwelton (dead and gone now) was an enormously rich man, of unimpeachable pedigree, and distinguished manner. He married the second daughter of Lord Tolkingfalk (the old Worcestershire Tolkingfalbs), and Tufton was the only child. So you see there is no doubt about the social position of my hero. Pray bear this constantly in mind, for upon this depend the point and moral of my tale. About thirteen miles from Dawfoot (reckoning by the high road) is the town of Chucksford. It is mainly composed of factories, but possesses a High street, a Town Hall, a redbrick Infirmary, and, above all, a Theatre. (A Rink has sprung up lately, I am told, but that will be turned into baths and washhouses next spring.) The Theatre at Chucksford formed one of young Tufton’s principal pastimes. He used to drive over from Dawfoot in the afternoon, put up his trap and dine at the Red Lion, and repair to the Theatre at night, always occu pying what was known as young Mr Softleigh’s box, which was not larger than a tragedian’s travelling basket. There he sat, usually alone, gazing vacantly upon the stage. For Tufton was not at all a brilliant personage, either in appearance or demeanour. He was a small, fair man, with slight downy whiskers and blue eyes, and an unconquerable tendency to blush. But it isn’t the loudcs' speaker, or the handsomest man, that has the best heart, and therefore —but you shall hear. As one certain Christmas time drew near great preparations were afoot in the ittle Theatre at Chucksford for the production of the Pantomime of ‘ B auty and the Beast; or, The Old Worn m of Dawfoot.’ The Chucksford folks remember that Pantomime to this day. The special engagements that were made! ‘Miss Rosie Mountchestnut, from Covent Garden, London’ (the manager mean! the theatre, not the market) ; ■ the fascinating dansevse, Signora Araminta Belladonna, from La Scula, Naples and a host of others, in eluding the Great Little Piccalilly, who‘invented* the comic scenes. In fact, the manager said, both before and after the production, that the affair would rival any in the United Kingdom, and I don’t doubt his word, though he himself was bankrupt in the following year. It is a matter of history that the Pantomime was produced, and the Chucksford people went mad with delight. Now—this is where the interest of my story positively commences —in the company of the Chucksford Theatre was one Nellie Thompson, a friendless orphan and a novice—two heavy disadvantages lor any lady to labour under in our profession. She had been ‘walking on’ during the earlier portion of the season, and therefore was amply compensated by a weekly salary of fifteen shillings. It is true she had no other means, and a very scant wardrobe ; but, remember, she only ‘ walked on.’ However, as the Pantomime time approached, so came the prospect of something better than walking on for Nellie. The manager was hard up, for a Fairy Queen, and one nigh,t iho part was thrust into her hand with instructions that she was to‘wake up’ over it. * Not a very courteous message, you’ll say ; but stop a minute till 1 fell you all. On the following Saturday Nellie’s salary was raised from fifteen shillings to an entire pound. Oh, there was enterprise about that Chucksford manager 1 Well, out cam? the Pantomime, and there wrs Nellie Thompson, as the Fairy Queen, dispensing all sorts of blessings and removing all sorts of curses, with the wand of Polonius silvered for the occasion. She looked charming ! I never saw a real fairy, but unless the legitimate article turned out very like Nellie I should complain about it. She was dressed in white muslin, and red roses, and green shiny seaweed. Her beautiful brown hair fell loosely about her shoulders, and—there, I can’t do Justice to her. She was not a perfectly beautiful girl, but she was so simple and modest, and her eyes were very large and bright, and yet sorrowful. She couldn’t act a bit. I am compelled to admit that. In spite of the liberality of the Chucksford manager, she had not succeeded in ‘ waking up.’ She walked about the stag a listlessly — I think, speculating op the probable amount of next Saturday's bill at tbo lodgings. For whj,n a young lady has to purchase satin shoes, and silk stockings, and a hundred little extras, out of her own income, even an entirely weekly pound—poor Nellie! Airs Markham (the old woman) said she wag good looking enough, but a mere puppy on the stage (meaning pnnpe'Q. The younger ladies of the company thought Nellie was deeper than Are looked, and hoped fervently that she wouldn’t come to any harm. And this bore reference to certain bouquets which, fell, almost nightly, at the feet of the Fairy Queen. There! I hav? let the cat out of the bag at lust, Nellie Thompson had an aristocratic admirer. Already you are beginning to wax indignant, your fists involuntarily clench themselves, and you mutter under your breath, ‘ Shame on him 1 * The aristocratic admirer, of course, was 'd'ufton Softleigh. No longer did he drive over from Dawfoot in the afternoon. He had regular apartments at the‘Red Lion.’ Sir Maxwelton thought the boy was scouring Chucksford in the inrerests of archaeology,

and was perfectly easy in his mind. Lady Softleigh was away in Worcestershire with a branch of the genuine Tolkingfalka. And so every evening, in the Chucksford Theatre, the sole occupant of young Mr Softleigh’s box, sat young Mr Softleigh, waiting for the advent of the Fairy Queen. Tufton knew Nellie’s ‘ cues' as well, it not bettor, than she did herself. He trembled (as she did) when the jerky trap sent her upon the stage. He shivered with fright and clutched his strawcoloured hair as she whs drawn up to the Realms of Bliss in the straps and irons. The landlord of the Red Lion began to grumble, in bis sleeve, at Tufton’s loss of appetite—for love creates an appetite peculiar to itself, for kisses, not soups and joints. Of course Tufton had written to Nellie, not once, but many, many, times. His notes were at first disregarded, but at length came a request that he would cease to trouble her. His letters were innocent enough on the surface—mere expressions of respectful admiration. ‘ Would she grant him an interview ? Would she accept the enclosed locket, or the accompanying bouquet ? Would she glance upon him in his little box ? ’ And one evening she did bestowa look upon him—such a look ! All the sorrow went out of her large eyes, and nothing but unmistakable indignation and contempt reigned there. Tufton walked up and down the High street all that night, perfectly beside himself. Then he wrote her one more letter, in which ho expatiated on his honorable intentions, Honorable intentions from the son of Sir Maxwelton Softleigh toward a poor little utility lady of the Chucksford Theatre! I have read Nellie’s reply—this is it, written evidently by trembling hand ‘ Sir, —Unless you cease your unmanly persecution, I shall bo compelled to seek for protection. I return you your locket and ring. ‘Ellen Thompson.’

Short, tmt not sweet, and, although Tufton did cease his active persecution, he still eat in his box nightly, looking very white and ill. His straw-coloured hair grew lank, and he discontinued shaving, so that absurd little sprouts sprung up on his chin.

Now it was at this time that the red-brick Infirmary, which had just reached completion, was to be opened by the Mayor of Clog, two Town Councilman, and a somebody from London. The Ohucksford High street went in enormously for bunting, and Chinese lanterns and paper roses were at a premium. Moreover, to give a proper finish to the day’s festivities the aforesaid Mayor of Clog, two Town Councilmen, and somebody from London had arranged to pay a state visit to the Chucksford Theatre to witness ‘ Beauty and the Beast; or, the Old Woman of Dawfoot.’ The excitement at the Theatre knew no bounds. The Great Little Piccalilly ‘invented’ some new comic business for the occasion. The manager had his dress suit cleaned and pressed, that he might not suffer by contrast with the somebody from London. Nellie’s muslin skirts were despatched to the wash at the Manager’s expense. (Oh, there was enterprise about that man !) The ballet ladies were requested to conceal any‘ladders’ in their silk hose —as if silken ‘ ladders’ were not a fitting accompaniment to fairy ‘steps.’ (This is the Great Little Piccalilly’s joke, made at the time.) To crown all, the local poet (young Todhunter, the butcher’s son) composed some appropriate lines, eulogising the red-brick Infirmary, and bringing in the names of the distinguished visitor's—rhyming, very awkwardly, ‘the Mayor of Clog ’ with ‘fog’—which were to be delivered by the Fairy Queen, as she hung in straps and* iron, on the high road to the Realms of Bliss. Tiro day arrived, the doors of the Infirmary were thrown open, and the distinguished visitors retired to a noisy collation at the Red Lion, very much to the annoyance of Tufton Softleigh, who had a sick headache on the second floor.

The day having arrived, of course the night followed, which concerns us more nearly. The distinguished took their seats in the Theatre as the curtain rose. Tufton, indifferent to the gay scone, sat, headache and all, in his little box. Rosie Mountchestnut and Araminta Belladonna surpassed themselves, and somebody was seen to applaud with his own hands. The Manager, in very large white gloves, did nothing but loom. Oh, it was a night! At last (as any one might have guessed from young Todhunter’s anxious aspect in the pit) came the time for the delivery of (he appropriate lines. The Mayor of Clog, who had been warned, advanced proudly to the front of his box. The Councilmen glared at him as if they knew something against hie private character. Somebody looked at the Ci iling and pretended to be indifferent. And Nellie —never had she appeared so lovely 1 Midway between the flies and the stage, she seemed more like an angel than anything earthly. The Chucksford laundress had done her duty bravely, and the muslin skirts were as immaculate as their weather. The first few lines were almost inaudible, and she trembled so violently that (ho straps creaked and the irons rattled. The Manager loomed threateningly' at the wing. She gained a little courage as she proceeded, and Fog and Clog told wonderfully. Then she came to Todhuntcr’s grand effort on the rod brick Infirmary. Every ear was strained, and when she spoke of ‘ the blessing to the sick and poor,’ you might have heard, a pin drop. But the appropriate lines wore destined never to arrive at an appropriate conclusion, and Somebody’s nams never passed the Fairy Queen’s pretty lips. Retire to your home, young Todhunter, a disappointed butcher. And, above all, let shame and remorse haunt the pillow of that Chucksford laundress! Look down, evil washerwoman, from your lofty seat in the gallery—look upon your work, and starch no more!

It was the fault of the muslin skirts, which, fanned by the wi :dy current of the old Theatre, flattered upon a flickering gas jet. Ere the Mayor of Olog had finished bowing and scraping, and while Todhunter’s fame hung in the balance, the poor Fairy Q.ueen was wrapped in, a sheet of cruel fire. There was a great shriek from every woman and a shudder from the men. The Mayor beat a hasty retreat. Tul'ton leaped wildly upon the stage, but was kept back by the carpenters and workmen, who rushed forward as the curtain fell. Piccalilly provoked no laughter that night, the audience slowly dispersed, speaking in whispers. They could gain no information about the Fairy Queen—one man, in a canvas jacket, said she was dead. But while this was' going on Tufton Softleigh, with a face as white as those muslin skirts once were, and with great tears streaming from his eyes, helped to carry poor Nellie to the red-brick Infirmary. And so the pretty Fairy Q.ueen, the first sufferer to cross its threshold, christened the new building with her moans and cries. Nellie didn't die, but, she lay wavering between life and death for a long, long time — not alone, but with many poor companions who soon joined her in suffering. And her fresh beauty had llown, never to return, for her poor neck and face were terribly scarred by the flame. What did Tufton d" ? R-turn to Dawfoot as speedily aa possible, cured of his love for the once pretty Nellie? Not a bit of it. 5. you don’t know Tufton yet. What ho did was to change his quarters from the lied Lion to the Turk’s Head, right opposite the Infirmary doors, lie was unceasing in !us attentions to the poor sufferer. When she was in danger lip sat up with the hallporter all night so that he might he near her. He sent in enough wine to intoxicate every patient in the Infirmary. The nurse told him that Nellie had lost all her good lo ks. “ Indeed,” he said, with as much concern as ho would have shown at the information (hat the cat had had kittens. Anti, at last, when Nellie had started or* the road to recovery, he was admitted to her bedside, as a faithful fripnd who hod suffered with her. In the presence of the good old doctor, she saw him and thanked him with a broken voice, and it was then he asked her to bo his wife. He said very simply, M Don’t talk about your locks; you are beautiful to me, as you ever have been. I should love you just the same if you had no legs, I should, indeed.” The story is now virtually over; but I may as well add that they were married shortly afterwards. Of course there was a frightful stir with Sir Maxwelton and Lady Softleigh, as much on account of the indignant Tolkingfalks as anything else. But Nellie Thompson is now Lady Softleigh, and reigns supreme at the big house at

Dawfoot. (Sir Maxwelton died, a year after his son’s marriage, in a fit, in the Chucksford High street.) The surrounding gentry grumbled loudly at the hospitality o' ! the big house being dispensed by a woman who had been an actress (vlut arrant humbug !) but finding that a great deal of eating and drinking depended upon their surmounting this difficulty, they overlooked Nellie’s disqualification with graceful condescension. Nellie is very happy. She wears a high frill round her neck to hide the ravages of the fire. After all, she is still very pretty, I think—Tufton says, as beautiful as over. So you may listeu, as often as vou please, to tales of innocence betrayed by the fashionable roue, the young lord, the squire’s son, and the captain with his whiskers, bat there are two sides to the picture, and you must, you really must, make way and bow before my specimen of An Aristocratic Admirer.