'l'm sorry, of course, for the poor girl's accident, my boy, said the worried manager of the 'False Friend' Company. 'Even a slight sprain is an ugly thing. I'm awfully sorry for her, but why the deuce couldn't our villainess manage to keep her sprainings till the tour was ended ? It's really too bad - most inconsiderate. Don't you ever go into management, Graham; it'll be the death of you - don't try it.'
'Not If I know it, old fellow,' laughed the tall, handsome fellow addressed, Mr Bransmere's leading 'juvenile' and unmistakably a gentleman. 'But seriously, Brans, is it quite impossible for Miss Hayworth to play tomorrow night ?'
This was about ten on Sunday morning, in a large provincial town, where for a week Bransmere's touring company, always a good one and sound, had been playing a new and strong drama by a well-known dramatist. So completely and beyond expectation had the 'False Friend' caught on, both as to the play and the acting, that the manager had at once arranged to stay another week by sacrificing his next - a smaller - town, the following week at the Theatre Royal being vacant.
'Not she,' replied Bransmere, dolefully. 'I'm glad you looked in, for I was coming across to you. She tripped on something, you see, at her lodging last night, and the doctor she called in at once came over to me from her to tell me about it; it was near midnight then. I rushed to the station and wired to Miss What's-her-name, who I luckily remembered wasn't engaged. I'm waiting reply now - sent Jenkins to wait and bring it. And, by Jove, here it comes!' as a man came in with the. familiar yellow envelope.
'Only just come, sir,' he remarked, and retired.
Bransmere eagerly tore open the cover, and read aloud -
'Am now starting. Arrive at midday.'
'Gloriat!' cried the relieved manager, spinning up the telegram; 'she'll be quite ready for a rehearsal tomorrow morning, and at night will play up to you and your wife. You go back and tell her, my boy.'
For the actor's beautiful and clever young wife was Bransmere's leading lady. ' But I don't yet know our new Lady Hilda's name said Julian Graham, laughingly; 'Who is she?'
'Bless me! didn't I say it then? No? Well, she is Miss Clementine Danby. '
Whew-w!''went Julian under his breath, with a rather blank look and a half-laugh of serio-comic consternation. 'That's just a trifle awkward, by Jove!'
'Why, what's up? What is awkward? Good lord, no new difficulty, I hope?' exclaimed the poor manager, facing up much like a baited bull.
'My dear Brans, don't go off at a tangent. No difficulty at all,' said the other, obliged to laugh ; 'it isn't I who'll care a rush, but she - Miss Danby - might perhaps feel it a little awkward. Bah! No, she must have forgotten and care as little as I do, or ever did, for it is nearly four years ago.'
'Oh! not long before you were married?'
'That's it; but I was engaged, and certainly never had, or have, a thought apart from my Cecile, as you know, Brans' - the two were old friends despite the score of years between them - 'but no one in our company knew I was engaged (that was - - Co., touring in the States that Autumn). Clementine Danby and I had the secondary lovers' parts, and there was more than the usual idiotic chaff, especially as to her acting. They said at last, right out, “Oh, yes, it is real enough; any fool could see that she means it,'' ' Graham said in disgust at the whole thing, and colouring up.
'I got wild at last at the coarse nonsense and to stop it a bit took occasion openly to mention that I was engaged to a rising young actress. After that, well,' said he with a half-laugh and a shrug. 'I tell you, between ourselves, I was deuced glad when the tour was done.'
'Ha! ha! poor fellow, yes. '"No hate like love to hatred turned," ' quoted his friend lightly.
'H'm! queer sort of love, though,' returned the other drily ; ' but I suppose even her vain, jealous temper has put a fancied slight amongst bygones now. Dine with us today, Brans - half-past six.'
'Thanks ; with pleasure, indeed. Till then, au revoir, and say pretty things for me to your wife.'
'All right,' laughed the younger man, and went off.
'H'm!' muttered the shrewd manager, 'if I can't read all that your fineness left out, my boy, I'm a nigger, I am. Danby was madly in love with you, and took care to tell you so without much reticence. Whew! But now to secure rooms at the hotel for her, and meet her by the 1 30.'
By which train the lady duly arrived, and was escorted to her hotel by Bransmere, who lunched with her, explained matters, and was quite charmed and relieved by the easy, pleasant way she spoke of again meeting Mr Graham and his wife. What splendid notices they had in the Era, the Stage, and so forth - she was so glad. Finally she was left with her part, and promised to be letter perfect for a rehearsal at eleven next morning.
It was perhaps only natural that Mr Bransmere, as he proceeded to the theatre next morning, should feel a trifle anxious as to how Miss Danby would meet Julian and more especially Cecile Graham. But he kept his slight uneasiness to himself; it was only for a week, when surely Helen Hayworth would resume her place.
A little after eleven Clementine Danby arrived, and found the company in groups about the stage, the manager and Graham talking apart at the back, and the woman's black eyes flashed as both saw and crossed to her, the handsome actor holding out his hand with a frank, easy greeting.
'As lovely as ever, Miss Danby, and having the gods' charm of eternal youth. How good of you to come to our rescue.'
'I see you haven't forgotten how to flatter,' said she, laughing and shaking hands with both men.
'Ha! ha! but truth isn't strictly flattery, is it?'
True that she was a superb-looking woman, of the style, that well suited her line, above medium height, rather robust, with a rich, warm complexion, coils of glossy, black hair, and brilliant black eyes ; but the full chin and red lips were sensual, and behind the whole face there was something indescribable which Julian had spoken of to Cecile as a 'stormy look.' There was, too, in her features and colouring a distinct, if not outwardly very marked, evidence of Hebrew blood; and perhaps with that Hebrew blood, howsoever remote the original strain, she had inherited, in almost pristine force of evil, the matchless cunning and fierce passions of the East.
'I don't know, I'm sure,' said she, 'But are we all here ? Mrs Graham ---'
'Come and be introduced,' said Julian, and led her over to Cecile, who stood talking to the ' heavy ' of the company. ' Miss Danby - my wife.'
' I am pleased to know you, Mrs Graham,' said Clementine, cordially shaking hands. 'What lovely parts we have. Mine is, I think. When I saw the notices, I thought how I should love to play "Lady Hilda". I hope I shall do well to-night.'
'Oh, you are sure to,' said Cecile; and then Bransmere, who was his own stage manager, called to order, and business began in good earnest. The rehearsal went capitally, the big scene of the play, in the third act, going especially well.
'But,' said Graham to his wife, as he and Cecile walked to their lodgings, 'she has not yet, in the three years since I last saw her, quite got over her old fault, a tendency to overact; her critics have always noticed it; there is an excitedness about her acting - not enough reticence and reservation of force.'
'Exactly; she wants toning down all through. But, Julian, I think the fault is integral; it is the woman herself who wants the reticence, the toning down, dear.'
' Yes, I knew that long ago,' her husband answered thoughtfully; 'so you see that, too, sweetheart, already. It's a pity, for she is , clever, and if she hopes to play and take in London she'll have to be more self-restrained. She was awfully amiable to us both, my dear,' said he, drily.
'H-m, y-s.' The actress glanced up and laughed. ' But I see you don't care about her more than I do. Look you, Julian, she isn't the, woman to either quite forget of forgive.'
'Nor you, dearest, for being my wife. She always did put me rather in mind of a tigress that passes, for tame. Well, I hope she won't spitefully try and spoil some of your best business one of these nights, before she departs. Here we are, at home.'
It is almost needless to say that Bransmere bad taken care to advertise in the local newspapers the accident to Miss Hayworth, and necessary substitution of Miss Danby at a few hours' notice; also he well billed the town, and there was, therefore, little fear of any falling off, but rather the reverse, in the packed houses to which they had been playing all the week.
'You had better rest a bit this afternoon, my dear,' the kind manager said to Clementine as be left her after rehearsal at the door of her hotel. 'Yes, I think I will. Ta-ta!' She smiled, nodded, and ran up to her room, and locked the door.
But not to rest. She paced the room; locking and unlocking her hands, or flinging them out as if stifling for air, her breast heaving, her eyes glittering.
'It maddens me to see them,' she cried; 'I love him - a mad jealous passion of love and hate; but at least it shall at last satiate itself in revenge. Am I the woman to forget or forgive the man who repulsed me?'
She flung herself on the bed, then got up and unlocked a drawer in the bureau.
'It - it will pass for an accident - a mistake; and if not, I care nothing, if I get the revenge for which I have lived.'
She lifted from the drawer something small that glittered brightly in the light, and kissed the cold, gleaming metal in a sort of frenzy of devilish triumph, then laughed - a horrible, mirthless laugh - and put the pretty toy-like thing back.
The theatre was crammed that night from pit to gallery, the crowd being considerably augmented by people who had not meant to indulge in a second (or perhaps third) visit, but whom curiosity had drawn to come again to see how Clementine Danby would play at such short notice.
She had acquired a not inconsiderable provincial fame, but had only played in that town once before, some years ago, in a small part in a second-rate company. Even the stalls and boxes were full by the time the band had played a few minutes, and there was the usual indescribable hum of voices.
'But are these Grahams so clever and handsome and all that I hear?' eagerly asked a young lady in one of the best boxes. She had arrived on a visit to friends on Saturday night, and, of course, here they were in force. 'Oh, quite,' returned the gentleman addressed, amused at her girlish eagerness, 'and as charming and unaffected off the stage as on it.'
'You know them - you really know them, then, Colonel Fane?'
'l have met them in society. Quite a love match, too, I believe.'
'Yes? How delightful! And in "The False Friend" they play lovers, don't they - secretly married?' glancing at her programme. 'My dear!' remonstrated her mamma from the other side. 'Don't indulge her chatter so, Colonel.'
He smiled benevolently. 'I like young folks to enjoy themselves. Yes. The story all hinges on that fact, as you may gather from the synopsis of the acts before you. Lady Hilda, the villainess, is desperately in love with Captain St. Maur, and uses all sorts of machinations to injure him and part him and his Lenore, under the guise of a friend --'
'But then, surely, Colonel, Hilda has the leading part.'
'Oh no - the title role, certainly, but not the lead, as you will see, though Hilda has a lot to do. The lovers baffle her arts, and this leads excitingly up to the grand scene in the third act, where Lady - Hilda, maddened at her failure and the discovery (in a strong scene with St. Maur) that he is on his way to take away and acknowledge his wife, manages to get the start of him, secrete a loaded revolver, and goes off to the pretty villa on the river, where now Lenore is staying. You see her awaiting husband's arrival in a lovely apartment with open window on to the lawn. In comes my Lady Hilda, there is a scene, and at length, as distant horse-hoofs are heard, Hilda flings off the mask, avows her passion and revenge, and fires. Lenore reels and falls, apparently dead, as St. Maur rushes in "too late", and flings himself to his knees beside the body in agony, whilst Hilda drops the pistol, and escapes by the window. Curtain, of course.'
' How exciting! Oh, but she Isn't dead really, is she?' exclaimed the listener.
'No, no; she recovers in the last act, Hilda is arrested, and the. audience understand that she is duly punished by years of imprisonment, while all else goes well. Ah, now it begins, and you will see for yourself.'
The band ceased, the act drop went up, the lights above went down, and tho audience, as if by magic, were silent, intent, applauding the favourites as they in due Course appeared, and according a good reception, on trust, to the new Lady Hilda, who first came on at the close of Act I. In Act II the plot thickened, and the interest deepened to an excitement which intensified as the story progressed, in each succeeding scene, and simply held itself suspended in the short interval before the third act opened.
'Danby is playing well,' said a local pressman to another, who to his local position added the dignity of being the critic of a leading London theatrical paper, 'but it's a pity she's so nervous - so restless.'
'Yes, her old faults seem to be exaggerated with time,' said the other, 'not toned down. Her acting is too excited - there is power; but it is too uncontrollable.; she overacts a trifle - gives away her strength. Hush! here we are at our third act.'
Now the audience watched the play with an almost breathless intentness, which deepened to even feverish excitement as, at length, the great scene was reached. Was it that, all through, the strange subtle force of a terrible realism in one of those they watched had made itself felt in a hushed, mysterious way? Was it this, or the subtle prescience of love only, that made Julian Graham, waiting in the wings for his cue, watch every movement, tone, look of the woman whose passion he had repelled; watch with an intentness that was pain, even whilst his lips answered a remark or two from Bransmere at his side; watch - as even that absorbed, eager crowd in front did not?
And yet, how they followed the scene, so powerfully played between the two women, from the moment the lights went up and showed the handsome apartment in the Thames villa, a large glass lustre on the lofty mantelpiece. They knew exactly most of them - what was to come; of course they did, but nonetheless they followed every step as if they saw it for the first time, and grew breathless with suspense as nearer and nearer the climax drew on. Now Lady Hilda's tone changed from caressing to hard sneer and taunts. Lenore moves down and pauses, her back towards the fireplace, near which, unseen, Julian waits; she fiercely hurls back her rival's taunts, as Lady Hilda advances a step nearer, then draws back, her stealthy hand stealing to her breast, where lies the weapon.
Her eyes gleam, her face works with a passion of hate - the fell hate of a murderess - as she turns slowly. They know that bit of business, too, but in heaven's name what an awful face of deadly hate! It sent a thrill of horror through the crowd. In that second the woman turned, with a quick movement, full facing her rival, and the fierce cry (in her part), 'Then die, for I love him, and thus revenge myself,' as she suddenly levelled the pistol at Cecile's bosom.
'My God!' broke from Cecile's husband. In that second he had sprung forward, almost flung Cecile aside, and struck up the fierce assassin's hand in the very instant she fired.
' You devil,' you meant to murder my wife!' he said through his teeth. A flash and report —a crash of glass—the bullet had shattered the lustre and the audience rose en masse with a sound like the rushing of waters.
'Fetch the police; bring down the curtain!' cried the manager, hoarsely. The last sight that horror-struck crowd saw was a distorted form struggling madly in Julian Graham's, powerful grasp, mewing and pointing at his wife—a gibbering maniac.
Then the green curtain descended.
The Third Act. New Zealand Times, Volume LVIX, Issue 3015, 31 December, 1896
[Original]