LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2082, 26 October 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE STRINGS LOVE OF A " STAR ’’ ACTKES9.

[Abridged from the “ 7he it re. ”j

I am a star of about the third magnitude —that ia my. designation as an actress. Some few years ago I arrived, one hot Sunday afternoon in May,' at the notable inland town of Fluehington, which my Bradshaw told me had over a hundred thoneand inhabitants, and which I knew to be quite a commercial centre in its way ; but which was apt to tm somewhat to stagnation during the London season, as regarded the drama generally, and my especial forte —the legitimate—in particular. It was my first visit to this town, and I was announced to play twelve nights. Manager Rowe met me at the station, and conducted me to the qniet lodging he had recommended to the whole firmament of former “ stars ’’

A tall, stontish, good-looking man of fifty, Betterton Rowe rejoiced in a manner which I can best describe as wavy ; this action, of which he nsed a good deal even in private life, being all rounded like the periods of bis rather grandiloquent speech. He gave you at once to understand tbit, whatever else he might be, he considered himself first and foremost a gentleman. If he was not altogether right in his assumption, it was doubtless to his credit that he made this his chief aim in life. He waved me from my second-class carriage as I alighted, and into the fly which bore ua from the station ; he waved me out it when it stopped, and be treated the cabman to a wave off as he gave him his fare, seeming as he did so to consider it at least equal to an extra sixpence. Entering my room, I sat down. Mr Rowe deposited his hat on the sideboard, and striding straight to the rag, struck what I afterwards found to be his pet attltnde, both on the boards and off them one arm akimbo, the other on the mantle piece, one leg advanced bnt not crossing the other, and both kness rigid. We had never met before, bnt I had heard of him long and frequently. Ido not think in al! my varied life I ever met a person who, on further acquaintance, proved so absolutely like hts reputation or so complete a confirmation of a first impression as manager Betterton Rowe. In money matters I msy sum him up by saying that he not only pass his com pany if the money comes in, bnt that even if it does not he gives them some of his own if he has any. True, he generally has none. On this occasion I was not guaranteed anything whatever, bnt was to share after fifty pounds a week, and to have a half clear benefit on the second Friday. ‘ How have yon been doing ?’ I inquired. • Why, the fact of the matter is, they won’t come ont at Flushington to see trash. Larry Bullion was announced for last week, and his agent telegraphs to me the last minnte—“ He’s in bed with the gout ” Bo I was obliged to do the beat I oonld with the stock; but they wouldn’t have it at any price. See, here is the bill Yon'll find yonrself underlined at the bottom.' Of conrse, as is always the case when there is absolutely nothing to seo, the b.ll was headed—“ Enormous attraction. Two great dramas I ‘ Dumb Man of Manchester ’ and ‘ The Raging Ravager of the Rhononoco ; or. Trickling Tears from the Torrents of Torridneto.’ ”

* Yon see—nothing, absolutely nothing, unless we could hope for an audience of schoolboys or sailors from the North Pole. Bnt I have hopes that yon, madam, will pal! the money In for me. I’vs had yon well paragraphed in all the dailies and, two weeklies as well ; and besides—besides,’ he added mysteriously, 1 well. I’m a man of resource. The fact is, things have been going from bad to worse for some tione, and it’s the hoar for a stroke of genius, I think I’ve hit it.’

‘ What on earth do yon mean?’l cried, half fearing that bad-basiness-on the brain—that common complainant of managers —had made him mad.

‘Seek not to know,’he said, laying his fingers on bis lips ; ‘ enough that I have left no stone unturned to wake them up th s coming week for yonr sake as well as mine. You do yonr very best, as I am sure you always do, “leave all the rest to me ” Betterton Rowe is but mortal, yet a man of resource, do ye mark me? —a man of resource.’

And expressing a fervent wish that the theatre-goers of Flushington were keeping their money for me, and stating apropos of nothing that he had twice played Macbeth to Helen Fancit, this great shade of George IV. waved itself from my presence. I opened the following night in the ‘ Lady of lyona.’ There was a farce at seven, and I wondered who sent me the beautiful flowers at a quarter to eight. I had not expected much, bat my spirits sank when I saw the wretcned emptiness of pit, gallery and dre?s circle. Strange to say, the private boxes, of which there were six—three on each side of the stage, a large one on the pit-tier and two above—bore a refreshing contrast to the re t of the house, both the large ones and the upper one on either side being peopled. The sole occupant of the top one on the right side was a lady in black, apparent y of great age —at least eighty-five, £ should say; and I wondered at so very old a dame coming to sit for boars at a theatre withoat a companion of some kind. Below her were a party of three or four, but they were evidently in deep mourning, or for some other canso anxious to preserve a strict incognito, as the thick lace cu-tains were so closely drawn that they might as well have been away for anything I saw of them save that they were there. In the top box to the left the moat conspicuous object was what I confidently declare to be the moat lovely—the most fault leas white arm I ever beheld, surmounted by a single large diamond bracelet, apparently of great value, which flashed and dazzled all over the house. Whether the lady’s face was not so beautiful as her arm, or whether she was as shy of showing it as she was evidently anxious to display the latter fair possession, certain it is that, with the exception of that member, she remained well concealed behind the curtain, through which I could only distinguish that she was apparently young; that she wore a wreath of white camellias, and that her deep cut, square, and very low bodice waa of acme light blue material, probably satin. She had a playbill hanging over the cushion on which her arm—oh, that arm I—rested, but she never seemed to consult it. At the back of the box stood a man, middle-aged as far as I could see, who evidently avoided the light on account of his eyes, which were guarded by a pair cf green goggles. If this lady and gentleman conversed it must have been most quietly, for not a whisper ever reached me, and I have the sharpest ears in Christendom. Finally, in the large st»ge-box beneath them, there sat, in full view from the stage, bet so as to he only partially visible to the audience, what I then thought—before I had had bitter experience of his coldness and neglect—by far the handsomest man I had ever seen or dreamt of. His dead yet rich paleness was relieved by masses of silkyblack hair, a thin moustache a few shades lighter, and eyes—well, to use a hackneyed phrase, “description fails mo.” Yea, but fails me utterly. I thought so then, and I say so now, that never man had eyes like his, circles of soft fire, of mingled genius, passion, a tiger’s courage and a lamb’s tenderness; but nay, it is useless, I will not attempt to paint them. He waa faulfessly attired in evening-dress, and his hands, small almost to effeminacy, were in the neat st gray gloves. He had that obtrusive repose which only accompanies the b 1 ucst blood. Before him lay a large bouquet, bound in old lace (real), and which my experienced eyes at once coveted and hoped for. Besides this costly piece of fragrance lay a gigantic pair of opera glasses. My heart, hitherto unsubdued, though oft besieged, went forth to him from the first glance, and I felt if ever I played the love-sick Impassioned maiden of Lyttou’s fancy it should be to-night. My first glance on re-entering after a short exit, was for the large box on my 1 ft Alas ! He was g‘ ne ! Had I then failed to please him ? Could he he ill ? Oh joy 1 he will return, for there are the glasses, and there the—his—my (?) bouquet. The lady with the arm had now retired to the back of her box, and the respectable owner of the goggles had taken her place, To my right all seemed unchanged. A few more people had come in at half-price, and wo nearly took the call at the end of the act, but did not do ai in order to make more effect by responding later on. It is in Act 111. that Pauline has her beat scene, and great was my chagrin to find my Lara—at I bad christened the

handsome unknown —was still absent. I was much applauded, however, and Manager Rowe came round from the front of the house to my dressing-room door on purpose to congratulate me. * Ithack you very much, 1 I said; ‘and how math is there in ?’ ‘ Pardon me,’he replied; ‘you have, of course, every right to know ; bnt may I ask you, as a special favor, to withhold the returns for a night or two. It is for your own sake as well as mine. My dear mad am e, grant me this mark of confidence. 1 What oonld I say ? I was preparing wt remonstrance, bnt he waved it down, *As you will, ’ I repeated; * but pray, Mr Rowe, who are those people in the private boxes ? Thera is—was—a gentleman, to the left ’ I had not heard anyone call ; but when I had got so far Mr Rowe suddenly turned his faca so one side, and shouting, ‘ Yes, all right I [coming,’ with a moat business-like countenance, hurriedly beaged me to exensa him, and waved himself away. (To be continued .)