ON THE EVE OF TRIUMPH
‘I have got your letter, but it tells me no more than the last did. Why
don’t you say plainly what you mean? I suppose it’s something you are
ashamed of. You say that there’s a chance for me of earning a large sum
of money, and if you are in earnest, I shall be only too glad to hear
how it’s to be done. This life is no better than what I used to lead
years ago; I’m no nearer to getting a good part than I was when I first
began acting, and unless I can get money to buy dresses and all the
rest of it, I may go on for ever at this hateful drudgery. I shall take
nothing more from you: I say it, and I mean it; but as you tell me that
this chance has nothing to do with yourself, let me know what it really
is. For a large sum of money there are few things I wouldn’t do. Of
course it’s something disgraceful, but you needn’t be afraid on that
account; I haven’t lost all my pride yet, but I know what I’m fighting
for, and I won’t be beaten. Cost what it may, I’ll make people hear of
me and talk of me, and I’ll pay myself back for all I’ve gone through.
So write in plain words, or come and see me.
C. V.’
She wrote at a round table, shaky on its central support, in the
parlour of an indifferent lodging-house; the October afternoon drew
towards dusk; the sky hung low and murky, or, rather, was itself
invisible, veiled by the fume of factory chimneys; a wailing wind
rattled the sash and the door. A newly lighted fire refused to flame
cheerfully, half smothered in its own smoke, which every now and then
was blown downwards and out into the room. The letter
finished—scribbled angrily with a bad pen and in pale ink—she put it
into its envelope—‘C. H. Scawthorne, Esq.’
Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and
unoccupied. The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of
the girl who fought her dread fight with temptation, and lost it, in
the lodging at Islington, who, then as now, brooded over the wild
passions in her heart and defied the world that was her enemy. Still a
beautiful face, its haughty characteristics strengthened, the lips a
little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of
intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in her
eyes. She asked no one’s pity, but not many women breathed at that
moment who knew more of suffering.
For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern
counties. In accordance with the modern custom—so beneficial to actors
and the public—their repertory consisted of one play, the famous
melodrama, ‘A Secret of the Thames,’ recommended to provincial
audiences by its run of four hundred and thirty-seven nights at a
London theatre. These, to be sure, were not the London actors, but
advertisements in local newspapers gave it to be understood that they
‘made an _ensemble_ in no respect inferior to that which was so long
the delight of the metropolis.’ Starred on the placards was the name of
Mr. Samuel Peel, renowned in the North of England; his was the company,
and his the main glory in the piece. As leading lady he had the
distinguished Miss Erminia Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she
had to be half-strangled by ruffians and flung—most decorously—over the
parapet of London Bridge. In the long list of subordinate performers
occurred two names with which we are familiar, Miss Grace Danver and
Miss Clara Vale. The present evening would be the third and last in a
certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable centres of industry
which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are spoken of with
somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when he named his
Acropolis.
Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the smoke
that was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there came in a
young woman of about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking costume, tall,
very slender, pretty, but looking ill. At this moment there was a
slight flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes which obviously
came of some excitement. She paused just after entering and said in an
eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness:
‘What do you think? Miss Walcott’s taken her hook!’
Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement. For
several days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the
leading lady and the manager: in other words, they had been quarrelling
violently on certain professional matters, and Miss Walcott had
threatened to ruin the tour by withdrawing her invaluable services. The
menace was at last executed, in good earnest, and the cause of Grace
Danver’s excitement was that she, as Miss Walcott’s understudy, would
to-night, in all probability, be called upon to take the leading part.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Clara replied, very soberly.
‘You don’t look as if you cared much,’ rejoined the other, with a
little irritation.
‘What do you want me to do? Am I to scream with joy because the
greatest actress in the world has got her chance at last?’
There was bitterness in the irony. Whatever their friendship in days
gone by, these two were clearly not on the most amiable terms at
present. This was their first engagement in the same company, and it
had needed but a week of association to put a jealousy and ill-feeling
between them which proved fatal to such mutual kindness as they had
previously cherished. Grace, now no less than in her schooldays, was
fond of patronising: as the elder in years and in experience, she
adopted a tone which Clara speedily resented. To heighten the danger of
a conflict between natures essentially incompatible, both were in a
morbid and nervous state, consumed with discontent, sensitive to the
most trifling injury, abandoned to a fierce egoism, which the course of
their lives and the circumstances of their profession kept constantly
inflamed. Grace was of acrid and violent temper; when stung with words
such as Clara was only too apt at using, she speedily lost command of
herself and spoke, or even acted, frantically. Except that she had not
Clara’s sensibilities, her lot was the harder of the two; for she knew
herself stricken with a malady which would hunt her unsparingly to the
grave. On her story I have no time to dwell; it was full of
wretchedness, which had caused her, about a year ago, to make an
attempt at suicide. A little generosity, and Clara might have helped to
soothe the pains of one so much weaker than herself; but noble feeling
was extinct in the girl, or so nearly extinct that a breath of petty
rivalry could make her base, cruel, remorseless.
‘At all events I _have_ got my chance!’ exclaimed Grace, with a harsh
laugh. ‘When you get yours, ask me to congratulate you.’
And she swept her skirts out of the room. In a few minutes Clara put a
stamp on her letter and went out to the post. Her presence at the
theatre would not be necessary for another two hours, but as the
distance was slight, and nervousness would not let her remain at home,
she walked on to make inquiry concerning Grace’s news. Rain had just
begun to fall, and with it descended the smut and grime that darkened
above the houses; the pavement was speedily over-smeared with sticky
mud, and passing vehicles flung splashes in every direction. Odours of
oil and shoddy, and all such things as characterised the town, grew
more pungent under the heavy shower. On reaching the stage-door, Clara
found two or three of her companions just within; the sudden departure
of Miss Walcott had become known to everyone, and at this moment Mr.
Peel was holding a council, to which, as the doorkeeper testified, Miss
Danver had been summoned.
The manager decided to make no public announcement of what had happened
before the hour came for drawing up the curtain. A scrappy rehearsal
for the benefit of Grace Danver and the two or three other ladies who
were affected by the necessary rearrangement went on until the last
possible moment, then Mr. Peel presented himself before the drop and
made a little speech. The gallery was full of mill-hands; in the pit
was a sprinkling of people; the circles and boxes presented half a
dozen occupants. ‘Sudden domestic calamity . . . enforced absence of
the lady who played . . . efficient substitution . . . deep regret, but
confidence in the friendly feeling of audience on this last evening.’
They growled, but in the end applauded the actor-manager, who had
succeeded in delicately hinting that, after all, the great attraction
was still present in his own person. The play went very much as usual,
but those behind the scenes were not allowed to forget that Mr. Peel
was in a furious temper: the ladies noticed with satisfaction that more
than once he glared ominously at Miss Danver, who naturally could not
aid him to make his ‘points’ as Miss Walcott had accustomed herself to
do. At his final exit, it was observed that he shrugged his shoulders
and muttered a few oaths.
Clara had her familiar part; it was a poor one from every point of
view, and the imbecility of the words she had to speak affected her
to-night with exceptional irritation. Clara always acted in ill-humour.
She despised her audience for their acceptance of the playwright’s
claptrap; she felt that she could do better than any of the actresses
entrusted with the more important characters; her imagination was for
ever turning to powerful scenes in plays she had studied privately, and
despair possessed her at the thought that she would perhaps never have
a chance of putting forth her strength. To-night her mood was one of
sullen carelessness; she did little more than ‘walk through’ her part,
feeling a pleasure in thus insulting the house. One scrap of dialogue
she had with Grace, and her eyes answered with a flash of hatred to the
arrogance of the other’s regard. At another point she all but missed
her cue, for her thoughts were busy with that letter to which she had
replied this afternoon. Mr. Peel looked at her savagely, and she met
his silent rebuke with an air of indifference. After that the manager
appeared to pay peculiar attention to her as often as they were
together before the footlights. It was not the first time that Mr. Peel
had allowed her to see that she was an object of interest to him.
There was an after-piece, but Clara was not engaged in it. When, at the
fall of the curtain on the melodrama, she went to the shabby
dressing-room which she shared with two companions, a message delivered
by the call boy bade her repair as soon as possible to the manager’s
office. What might this mean? She was startled on the instant, but
speedily recovered her self-control; most likely she was to receive a
rating—let it come! Without unusual hurry, she washed, changed her
dress, and obeyed the summons.
Mr. Peel was still a young man, of tall and robust stature, sanguine,
with much sham refinement in his manner; he prided himself on the
civility with which he behaved to all who had business relations with
him, but every now and then the veneer gave an awkward crack, and, as
in his debate with Miss Walcott, the man himself was discovered to be
of coarse grain. His aspect was singular when, on Clara’s entrance into
the private room, he laid down his cigarette and scrutinised her. There
was a fiery hue on his visage, and the scowl of his black eyebrows had
a peculiar ugliness.
‘Miss Vale,’ he began, after hesitation, ‘do you consider that you
played your part this evening with the conscientiousness that may
fairly be expected of you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ replied the girl, averting her eyes, and resting her
hand on the table.
‘And may I ask _why_ not?’
‘I didn’t feel in the humour. The house saw no difference.’
‘Indeed? The house saw no difference? Do you mean to imply that you
always play badly?’
‘I mean that the part isn’t worth any attention—even if they were able
to judge.’
There was a perfection of insolence in her tone that in itself spoke
strongly for the abilities she could display if occasion offered.
‘This is rather an offhand way of treating the subject, madam,’ cried
Mr. Peel. ‘If you disparage our audiences, I beg you to observe that it
is much the same thing as telling me that my own successes are
worthless!’
‘I intended nothing of the kind.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked down at
his boots for an instant. ‘So you are discontented with your part?’
‘It’s only natural that I should be.’
‘I presume you think yourself equal to Juliet, or perhaps Lady
Macbeth?’
‘I could play either a good deal better than most women do.’
The manager laughed, by no means ill-humouredly.
‘I’m sorry I can’t bring you out in Shakespeare just at present, Miss
Vale; but—should you think it a condescension to play Laura Denton?’
This was Miss Walcott’s part, now Grace Danver’s. Clara looked at him
with mistrust; her breath did not come quite naturally.
‘How long would it take you, do you think,’ pursued the other, ‘to get
the words?’
‘An hour or two; I all but know them.’
The manager took a few paces this way and that.
‘We go on to Bolton to-morrow morning. Could you undertake to be
perfect for the afternoon rehearsal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll try you. Here’s a copy you can take. I make no terms, you
understand; it’s an experiment. We’ll have another talk to-morrow.
Good-night.’
She left the room. Near the door stood Grace Danver and another
actress, both of whom were bidden to wait upon the manager before
leaving. Clara passed under the fire of their eyes, but scarcely
observed them.
Rain drenched her between the theatre and her lodgings, for she did not
think of putting up an umbrella; she thought indeed of nothing; there
was fire and tumult in her brain. On the round table in her
sitting-room supper was made ready, but she did not heed it. Excitement
compelled her to walk incessantly round and round the scanty space of
floor. Already she had begun to rehearse the chief scenes of Laura
Denton; she spoke the words with all appropriate loudness and emphasis;
her gestures were those of the stage, as though an audience sat before
her; she seemed to have grown taller. There came a double knock at the
house-door, but it did not attract her attention; a knock at her own
room, and only when some one entered was she recalled to the present.
It was Grace again; her lodging was elsewhere, and this late visit
could have but one motive.
They stood face to face. The elder woman was so incensed that her lips
moved fruitlessly, like those of a paralytic.
‘I suppose you’re going to make a scene,’ Clara addressed her. ‘Please
remember how late it is, and don’t let all the house hear you.’
‘You mean to tell me you accepted that offer of Peel’s—without saying a
word—without as much as telling him that he ought to speak to me
first?’
‘Certainly I did. I’ve waited long enough; I’m not going to beat about
the bush when my chance comes.’
‘And you called yourself my friend?’
‘I’m nobody’s friend but my own in an affair of this kind. If you’d
been in my place you’d have done just the same.’
‘I wouldn’t! I _couldn’t_ have been such a mean creature! Every man and
woman in the company’ll cry shame on you.’
‘Don’t deafen me with your nonsense! If you played the part badly, I
suppose some one else must take it. You were only on trial, like I
shall be.’
Grace was livid with fury.
‘Played badly! As if we didn’t all know how you’ve managed it! Much it
has to do with good or bad acting! We know how creatures of your kind
get what they want.’
Before the last word was uttered she was seized with a violent fit of
coughing; her cheeks flamed, and spots of blood reddened on the
handkerchief she put to her mouth. Half-stifled, she lay back in the
angle of the wall by the door. Clara regarded her with a contemptuous
pity, and when the cough had nearly ceased, said coldly:
‘I’m not going to try and match you in insulting language; I dare say
you’d beat me at that. If you take my advice, you’ll go home and take
care of yourself; you look ill enough to be in bed. I don’t care what
you or anyone else thinks of me; what you said just now was a lie, but
it doesn’t matter. I’ve got the part, and I’ll take good care that I
keep it. You talk about us being friends; I should have thought you
knew by this time that there’s no such thing as friendship or
generosity or feeling for women who have to make their way in the
world. You’ve had your hard times as well as I, and what’s the use of
pretending what you don’t believe? You wouldn’t give up a chance for
me; I’m sure I should never expect you to. We have to fight, to fight
for everything, and the weak get beaten. That’s what life has taught
me.’
‘You’re right,’ was the other’s reply, given with a strangely sudden
calmness. ‘And we’ll see who wins.’
Clara gave no thought to the words, nor to the look of deadly enmity
that accompanied them. Alone again, she speedily became absorbed in a
vision of the triumph which she never doubted was near at hand. A long,
long time it seemed since she had sold herself to degradation: with
this one hope. You see that she had formulated her philosophy of life
since then; a child of the nether world whom fate had endowed with
intellect, she gave articulate utterance to what is seething in the
brains of thousands who fight and perish in the obscure depths. The
bitter bargain was issuing to her profit at last; she would yet attain
that end which had shone through all her misery—to be known as a
successful actress by those she had abandoned, whose faces were growing
dim to her memory, but of whom, in truth, she still thought more than
of all the multitudinous unknown public. A great success during the
remainder of this tour, and she might hope for an engagement in London.
Her portraits would at length be in the windows; some would recognise
her.
Yet she was not so pitiless as she boasted. The next morning, when she
met Grace, there came a pain at her heart in seeing the ghastly,
bloodless countenance which refused to turn towards her. Would Grace be
able to act at all at the next town? Yes, one more scene.
They reached Bolton. In the afternoon the rehearsal took place, but the
first representation was not until to-morrow. Clara saw her name
attached to the leading female character on bills rapidly printed and
distributed through the town. She went about in a dream, rather a
delirium. Mr. Peel used his most affable manner to her; his compliments
after the rehearsal were an augury of great things. And the eventful
evening approached.
To give herself plenty of time to dress (the costumes needed for the
part were fortunately simple, and Mr. Peel had advanced her money to
make needful purchases) she left her lodgings at half-past six. It was
a fine evening, but very dark in the two or three by-streets along
which she had to pass to reach the theatre. She waited a minute on the
doorstep to let a troop of female mill-hands go by; their shoes clanked
on the pavement, and they were singing in chorus, a common habit of
their kind in leaving work. Then she started and walked quickly....
Close by the stage-door, which was in a dark, narrow passage, stood a
woman with veiled face, a shawl muffling the upper part of her body.
Since six o’clock she had been waiting about the spot, occasionally
walking to a short distance, but always keeping her face turned towards
the door. One or two persons came up and entered; she observed them,
but held aloof. Another drew near. The woman advanced, and, as she did
so, freed one of her arms from the shawl.
‘That you, Grace?’ said Clara, almost kindly, for in her victorious joy
she was ready to be at peace with all the world.
The answer was something dashed violently in her face—something fluid
and fiery—something that ate into her flesh, that frenzied her with
pain, that drove her shrieking she knew not whither.
Late in the same night, a pointsman, walking along the railway a little
distance out of the town, came upon the body of a woman, train-crushed,
horrible to view. She wore the dress of a lady; a shawl was still
partly wrapped about her, and her hands were gloved. Nothing
discoverable upon her would have helped strangers in the task of
identification, and as for her face—But a missing woman was already
sought by the police, and when certain persons were taken to view this
body, they had no difficulty in pronouncing it that of Grace Danver.