The Storyteller.

Waikato Argus, Volume IV, Issue 238, 22 January 1898, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

THE UNDERSTUDY'S ROMANCE. t Wkll, gentlemen—the great tragedian's voice shook a little, as he put down his glass in tho silence, —you little know, perhaps, what a string you touched upon when you coupled my name with that of the great dead and gone actor, Franklin Hyde. If I closed my eyes for a moment, I could easily beliove that this was all a dream. When I think of the strange and unexpected incident that sent me up the golden ladder at a bound, and of the man—well, there, gentlemen, I suppose few of you would credit that one night, only 15 years ago, I was upon the verge of suicide. Suicide yes ! Only the man who has beaten back adversity till the fight seems hopeless could understand what a terrible fascination that finality may possess. That night—l supposed I had called upon the managers of a dozen different theatres during the day, with always the same disheartening result—l had to cross the river. And I stopped; it seemed that I had come to the end of my tether. Home—or. ring down the curtain on it all 1 I had my hand upon the bridge parapet. Thank heaven, just as I closed my eyes to do it, the vision of my young wife, listening anxiously at home there to hear my step, came into my mind. If ever a woman had tried to bring light into a man's dark days, she had done it. I went home. " Any—any hopes V she whispered, white with the long suspense, as she rose. " Any—any supper T I said, as I sat down, with a mad laugh. Why, if the room had been a stage, and we two the actors, we should have brought down the house just then.

It was about as black as it could be—partly, 1 own, because my ambition stood in my way. But when a man has studied and dreamed of a telling part in Drury Lane autumn drama, his soul not unnaturally sickens at the thought of reverting to minor roles in second-rate touring companies. That was it. I had been promised the part of Julian Armstrong in that immortal piece " Exiled," and then when it came to rehearsal it turned out that by some strange mistake the part had already been allocated to another man. That man was Franklin Hyde, and I am not sure that I did not hate him on the spot. True, I received a cheque as a set-off, but it seemed that my life-chance had been snatched away, and my debts had mounted up again before I set to work to shake off the stupor of that disappointment. And then I found that I had let many other chances slip. Somehow—many of you who saw it played and recollect the tremendous possibilities it gave will understand why—that part of Julian Armstrong had put a spell over me. I got in at the rehearsal. Standing by, sick with jealousy and longing, 1 watched Hyde's conception ; and, great as it was, I believed my own was greater. And a forlorn hope took possession of me; I determined to " understudy " him. "Who knew ? The drama was down to run until December—might not some chance come in the interval ? I felt—l knew that I could play the part to the life. When, swallowing my pride, I spoke to Hyde of it, he laughed, of course. ' Waste of time and talent, I'm afiaid, Mr Lorrimrr. Still, I wouldn't check ambition. If anything unforeseen should occur, and you are still anxious—well, we might think of you." And for weeks I was crazy enough to go dreaming of that great possibility. I studied the part until I seemed to bo living a dual existence. I would wake up in the night and shout outmy lines; I would go to the theatre just to watch him and sit filled with a hunger of longing that I could never put into words; I would wait hours outside just to see him step into his carriage—for " Exiled " had taken the town by storm, and he had a reputation now to live up to. And here—here was mid-Novem-ber, and my young wife and I living—no, starving—on dreams. We sat there in the dingy room that night, and perhaps there was something in my face, in my laugh, that told her what had l.cen in my mind. For she did a thing she. had not done all through that black time : came suddenly behind mo to put her arms round my neck, and burst into a passion of sobs—sobs that would have frightened me at another time. ' Wilfred don't ! I'll work— I'll do anything ; but don't look so ! . . . Wilfred, it's no use--they will never send to you to play Julian, and you know it. Put it out of your mind, and think of something else. Yos, I know—l know what you could do, and what it might mean for us in the future ; but the people go now to see Franklin Hyde not Julian alone. Oh, if he knew ! .... I don't wish > it, nor do you, but if—if " She stopped short there, as with a sudden instinct. " Wilfred !" she breathed. Why ? Well, queer ideas had been flitting in and out of my overtaxed brain that night, I know I

got to my feet, and hold Maggie away by the arm, and stood staring past her. " Aye," I whispered, "to think that there's only the one ' if' in the way ! I'm not—l mean nothing ; but suppose a little something happened to him one of these last nights ; suppose he slipped, or his horses took fright ! Suppose " Perhaps I had taken a step unconsciously— I don't know; but Maggie gave a little cry and a rush, and stood there against '.he door, white and trembling. «' Stand still !" I recollect her whispering. " You are mad—you will not go oat again to night.

. .-. There, there—now you are calmer. Why, Wilfred, whatever were you thinking of T That night I did not close my eyes. I lay staring up at the ceiling. Did I hate him 1 No, no ! But that dreadful thought had come into my head, and it would not go. To think that, should the little accident happen, I might be able to take his place, if only for the once ! The once ! It made my poor brain reel. I felt I must get up and rush away from it, or something would happen, I could see the blazing footlights and the blurred row upon row of pale faces, hear the shouts, feel myself drunk with the triumph, so great the play had proved. You sec, so long I had dwelt on the thought, I could not realise it was not a possible reality. And Maggie —in her sleep she seemed to know. Several times I heard her sob.

All that next day, too, she hung by me like my own shadow ; the least movement on my pirt seemed to frighten her. But I did not realise that diy's doings till afterwards He lived at

Hampstead, in a big, lonely house. I had been to look at it—there was a gravel sweep from the door between two rows of tall evergreens down to the gate. He always stepped into his brougham, they said, at about a quarter, a man ran out from between the evergreens —a man with a knife or something !

. . . . Who would be abld to play Julian then 1 I dared not look into Maggij's eyes. I knew vaguely, although I tried to disbelieve it, that I only waited for her to turn her back one moment—l was mid. Four o'clock came—s o'clock. It had grown dus>k. She had been sewing, while 1 lay on the couch. Presently she put aside her work, tip-toed across, and looked down at me. My eyes were closed, but I knew I breathed hard.

" lie's asleep," I heard her whisper. " Thank Heaven !" and she crept out of the room.

Was it to be ? It seemed so. I remember that I sat up, both hands to ray head, afraid of myself. Next minute, holding my breath, I had taken my hat and slipped out of the house. To do what? I did not know ; afterwards it all seemed like a dream. " Hamp3tead !" A hand seemed drawing me' on, and that one word beat in and out of my brain. I must have obeyed both without attempting to realise. Hampstead was two miles away, but just before tb.3 clocks struck, six, I found myself standing outside Franklin Hvde's house.

His house ! All silent, but soon his carriage would drive out to carry him to the scene of his nightly triumph. Measured steps—a policeman coming ; hot all over, I crouched back among those evergreens. What was I doing ? God know 3. I tried to drag myself away from the fascination —but suddenly a light shot out from a window on the left. Ah, there was a balcony running along that wall of the house, and a shadow kept wavering acro.-s the patch of light. Never pausing to think, I went up the steps, tip-toed along, and was peering between some ivy boughs into the room. The shadow

It was Hyde himself —and alone. A billiard table ran the length of the room, and he was leaning over the far end, his cue-tip feeling the way for some stroke. Ah, that was a minute ! As if it were only yesterday I can seo that picture now ; the green baize, the pointed stick, and Hyde's impassive face craned forward, his wide eyes unconsciously staring straight toward me. . . . Spellbound, without

knowing why, I hung, breathlessly, on the stroke of his cue—and it never came.

He turned suddenly half round, then straightened up. The door behind had opened, and a servant was saying something. Next moment a woman was standing in the doorway, one hand put out as if she were frightened. She pulled the door to, tojk one step, and then lifted her veil. My heart gave oue never-forgotten jump. It was—it was my wife ! ' Oh, forgive my coming !" I heard her say faintly. She had a hand to her breast. *' I I win afraid something might—l—my husband " She broke ofF there, and stood staring at him, as if afraid for what she might have done. "You husband?" Hyde repeated, slowly, " You will pardon me, but I really don't understand." " No," she began. Even at suck a moment my heart went out to her —sho looked so white aud imploring. I could see it all—what she had feared, why she had come. I felt a mad longing to crash through that window and confront him, but mastered myself by a great effort. She had taken another step and put a hand on his arm. "Oh, don't

ask me what or why," I just caught. " I thought perhaps -nothing, nothing ! Only be careful of yourself, sir, going to and from the theatre !" That was it. I saw him start, and look slowly round. « What do you mean V he said, looking down into her poor eyes. " Careful of myself 1 Your husband, you said. Do 1 know him ? . , , . Ye?, I insist. You come here—what did you fear 1 What is his name ?" 'Lorrimer !" she must have whispered. ' Lorrimer—ah !" I shall not forget soon the way he turned round, his finger to his lips, as if intensely struck. " Why, that's the man " he turned back to her—"and you thought he w^s —here ! Why " He was interrupted by a choking gasp. She had seen mc—seen my face pressing close against the glass, —and stuod with dilated eyes. There was no time to run, or even to realise ; the window was thrown up, and Hyde had me—yes, by the throat, Into the light he dragged me like a thief, had his stare, and then his grip relaxed. <•' Oh !" he breathed, with half a sneer. "So this is how you understudy me, i.« it ? You —what were you doing there 1 Or shall I send for the police V I neither spoke nor moved ; I could not. He stepped back. I suppose that the turn of my whole life, for better or worse, hung in the balance at that moment—and it was Maggie who turned the OS scale. Her woman's quickness saved me—for this moment. There were two outstretched arms between him and that door. Maggie !

' Oh, Mr Hyde, if you know but the half, you would weep for him !" She s;iid that, and he, who had seen 30 many women play a part to him, seemed held to listen in apite of himself. " Think ! he was to have played the part; it seemed that his ambition was to bo suddenly crowned—he believed he could idealise it. And then all his hopes to be crushed in a moment ! Yes, think ! Go back to you own struggling days ; stand where he stands now. Night and day he has been tortured by the thought of what he might be today—by the foolish hope that he might be able to take your place for one night. Oh, no, it wa? not professional spite; it was only a human longing to do himself justice. If that is not to be, at least you will let him go as he came, and I will answer for the rest, One day—one day my husband will succeed. 1 know it—and then he will thank you !" And Hyde, stupefied, looked from one lo the other of us, hesitated, and closed his eyes a 3 if to shut out the sight of her close, imploring face. Then, drawing a breath, he turned to me, without the sneer, but incredulously. " And so you think that you could play Julian—such a Julian, I mean, as would stir that crowd hurrying west at this moment V ' Try him !" she put in, in a thrilling whisper. Unconscious she had s*id the cleverest thing she could have done —if only because it spurred his curiosity, ' Quick !" he said, suddenly, glancing at his watch. " I have barely half an hour. For a moment you shall be Julian—with an audience of two. Now, without a pause—the lines at the mine. Enter Sabroff, cracking his whip : ' His wife ! Is he mad 1 Tell him sentiment dies a natural death here in Siberia V "

Aa if it had boon a challenge—as if my personality had been transformed while the words were on his lips—l took him up. It was the telling speech of the play—the part in which Hyde obtained his greatest triumph night by night. How I delivered it I cannot say. I only know that my whole soul seemed to go out in the words, and that when I had finished my wife stood there like a statue, and Hyde's own lips were parted. There was a queer silence in the room for what seemed minutes. Then then I looked and saw his hand put out. 'Mr Lorrimer," he said, " I take back that word ; you have understudied me—you hive created your own conceptions.

Ho stood awhile, his hand to his forehead. Then he sat down, tore a slip of paper from his note-book and wrote something off impetuously. " There," he said, " I'm not going to ask why you came here—l kuo"/. And I'm doing something for you that not many men would do in the circumstances. Take that note to my dresser—and play Julian. . . It's quite right, Mr Lorrimer—or will be, I hope. You want your chance —you shall have it, I am indisposed for this one night; you—it liei in your hands tj give the public their money's worth. Take my brougham, and be off; and I'll telegraph to the manager. You will find all you require in my room there. And—one word : if ever you kept your head, keep it now,"

I knew that my wife had kissed me, and that, a few minutes htcr, I was being rattled along the streets —!)ut that was about all. It was not until the very moment when I stepped on to that stage as Julian that I made the effort of my life, ami realised fully how my destiny as an actor was in my own hands. And then —well, I need say no more. Some of you hero will reco!-

lect thit night, and know better than E what it was that made my audience rise at me, and why I have never looked back. As for me, the one thing I remember clearly is that, as I left the theatre like one in a dream, a man gripped my hand and said —something that I shall never forget. That man was Franklin Hyde. . , . . Gentlemen, here's to his memory—God bles& him !