THE FINAL CURTAIN
A keen eye would have failed to detect Eliphalet Cardomay’s real
feelings during the last week of his last tour. Outwardly he presented
the appearance of a man at ease with his conscience and at peace with
the world.
A lucky public holiday added a couple of really good houses to the
week’s receipts, and the thirty sovereigns that arose therefrom he
presented to Mornice as a wedding gift.
With many thoughtful considerations he helped her purchase a trousseau
and fixed up details with Ronald’s father. These two elderly gentlemen
discussed marriage and contracts with the cordial gravity such important
matters demand.
The entire company was at the wedding, and very smart indeed was the
appearance they presented. Eliphalet had given the ladies the Redfern
gowns and added permission for them to be worn at the church. He himself
was most spruce, a white gardenia in his buttonhole and his silk hat (it
had been treated with stout the night before to flatten the nap)
reflected the sunshine like a mirror.
He gave away the bride with a nobility that kings might have envied, and
at the reception which followed, the little speech he made was full of
the happiest moments. He actually allowed a waiter to pour him out a
glass of champagne, but although the glass was certainly emptied, there
was a strong rumour running that an aspidistra close at hand received
the wine.
The wedding took place the day before the final performance, and the
happy pair departed in a shower of confetti and a great draught from
waved handkerchiefs, to reappear on the two succeeding nights at the
theatre.
“I want to say good-bye to you and Ronald to-morrow over a little
dinner,” Eliphalet whispered to the bride. “It will be easier than in
the theatre. It is going to be rather hard to lose you altogether.”
She and Ronald were sailing for America, and were going straight to
Liverpool after the curtain had fallen.
Eliphalet made great and tender preparations for that parting feast, and
laid the table lovingly with his own hands. Then at six o’clock he lit
the fairy candles that twinkled among the fruit and smilax, and waited.
And Mornice arrived, dressed in her prettiest trousseau frock—all by
herself.
“Where is Ronald?” he asked.
“I told him to stop at home, Pummy. I sort of guessed you want me by my
lone.”
How many of these exquisitely-prepared little feasts are left untasted?
We are in love—or have to say farewell—and we centre all our
beforehand time setting out rare flowers, fair dishes and delicate
appointments, to show how very greatly we care. And perhaps someone
says, “How lovely of you to do all this to me,” or maybe breaks a white
rose from its stem to keep in memory.
Then a hand stretches across the table, and another’s takes it, and the
little dishes are all neglected and the fairy candles burn low. After
the long, long silence and unspoken words of love or parting, it all
breaks up into a commonplace putting on of coats, whistling of cabs, or
catching of trains.
Arm-in-arm and hugging very close together, they walked to the theatre,
and as the illuminated face of the Town Hall clock proved beyond
question they were late, there was nothing for it but to run the last
hundred yards.
Ronald Knight was at the stage-door and was cheered to see them arrive
breathless and laughing.
Then Eliphalet stooped and planted a hurried kiss on Mornice’s cheek.
“God bless you, my boy,” he said almost fiercely to Ronald, and passed
through the swing-door toward his dressing-room.
He had meant to make a speech on the day he went out of management, and
the company, knowing this, grouped themselves on the stage when the
curtain fell on the last act. Then, quite naturally, he knew it could
not be done. The things about which one really feels have so small a
part in speeches. So, when he found himself confronted by the most
sympathetic audience before which an actor ever appeared, he learnt that
all his art, technique and experience availed nothing. Those dear,
honest, familiar faces dimmed as he looked toward them into a grey wet
mist. Somewhere in his throat a new pulse started to throb—and throbbed
burningly.
Eliphalet Cardomay shook his head like a child who is lost.
“I—I can’t,” he said. Then, with a feeble, impotent gesture of
farewell, he turned away.
“Three cheers for him,” gasped Freddie Manning, his face scarlet with
emotion.
And Eliphalet Cardomay bolted from the theatre.
During the performance he had managed to say a few words, individually,
to those old corner-stones of his dramatic edifice who, for years and
years, had worked the provincial theatres under his managership. That
had been hard enough, God knows. Old Kitterson made no bones about it,
and frankly howled when Eliphalet gripped him by the hand.
Scarcely less reserved was Freddie Manning—the least emotional of
creatures.
“I’m hating it, Guv’nor,” he said.
He kissed all the ladies of the company and had a kind word for each,
but Mornice he steadfastly avoided, for there was a limit to his powers
of endurance, and he wished to escape without any show of weakness.
The last person he spoke to was his dresser.
“I won’t sleep at night, sir, for worrying about you and your things.
You won’t never be able to look after yourself proper.”
“Nonsense,” said Eliphalet. “I shall miss you, of course, but it will
come easier after a while. You—you’ve been more than attentive, Potter,
and just a little parting gift——” He pressed a five-pound note into
the dresser’s hand—a note that Potter secretly replaced in his master’s
pocket while helping him, for the last time, into the big fur overcoat.
Eliphalet Cardomay’s great farewell tour, with seventy-five pounds a
week spent on advertisement, was over and done with, and out of the
wreckage he salved four hundred pounds.
He did not raise a wail over the loss—he was too game; but in his inner
self was a tiny cry of disappointment.
He had always cherished the belief that when he retired it would be to
go to the first real home he had ever known.
The home, as he pictured it, was a little detached villa at New
Brighton. It would face the sea and there would be tamarisk bushes,
forming a guard of honour, from the garden gate to the front door. He
had worked out how each room would look—just what furniture and
pictures there would be—as though it were a scene in a play. Every
detail was cut and dried and ordered in his mind. This was to be his
compensation for the sacrifice of his profession. And now——!
Four hundred pounds and his lonely self were all that remained.
For about six weeks Eliphalet Cardomay drifted aimlessly. He had nowhere
to go and nothing to do. Late hours having been the habit of his
lifetime, it was impossible to go early to bed, and the empty evenings
hung like lead upon his hands.
A letter or two came from America, forwarded from his old lodging, and
these were the only bright spots on a desolate landscape.
Sunday was a day that bothered him dreadfully. Every Sunday for forty
years he had been accustomed to the rush of packing—of cabs—porters
and long train-journeys. To sit idle in his rooms and read the
_Referee_, which in the past had often seemed a very desirable thing to
do, proved in practice a very trying ordeal. He fretted all the morning
with a sense of important duties neglected, and usually finished up by
walking to the nearest railway station to watch the theatrical trains
pull out. Then he would return and settle down, with a sigh, to an
afternoon of irksome inactivity.
He had never been a man with a wide circle of friends, and the few
acquaintances he met mostly took their pleasures by leaning across the
bar or hiving round the cheese at a Bodega—a practice which he showed
no disposition to emulate. In consequence he was thrown entirely on his
own resources, and, as a result, there set in a kind of incipient
melancholy. He began to speculate how long four hundred pounds would
last, at an expenditure of thirty shillings a week.
“And three years of this sort of thing is about as much as we could
stand, old boy,” he said, when he looked at the result of the
calculation.
So he continued to drift in a melancholy isolation, until one day, upon
a bench in Roundhay Park, he espied a familiar figure.
It was a man—or, more truthfully, what was left of a man—poor,
shivering, down-and-out. But Eliphalet needed no second glance to assure
him that here was Sefton Bulmore—old Sefton, who had done him a good
turn—old Sefton, squeezed from the boards to make room for younger
blood and fresher funniosities.
“Sefton!” said Eliphalet, stretching out his hand.
A pair of watery eyes were raised jerkily and scanned his features. Then
the old fellow came to his feet with astonishing vigour. Lifting his
right hand high in the air, he brought it down whack into the extended
palm, covering it instantly with an embracing grasp from his left. It
was an old stage formula, executed with technical perfection. (Try it
yourself; you will find it is none too easy to do.)
“The Old Card. By God, it’s the Old Card!”
There was a world of enthusiasm in the tone—then suddenly his manner
changed to an extremity of confidence.
“This is uncommonly fortunate. To tell you the truth, old son, I’ve been
a bit unlucky lately. But the Profession sticks together, eh? For old
sake’s sake—and if—if you can’t lend me ten bob, five ’ud do!”
“Sit down—let’s talk,” said Eliphalet.
So they sat together on the park bench and talked, and a hundred old
stage memories and old stage personalities were dug out from the
unforgotten past.
“Aha! ha! fine fellows—fine fellows, all of ’em. ’Tisn’t what it was in
our young days. The Profession’s going to the dogs, Cardomay, old son,
going to the dogs fast.”
“Fate’s been unkind to you?” queried Eliphalet.
“Unkind! Ha! I can remember turning up my nose at forty pounds a
week—and look at me now!” He pulled out two empty trouser pockets and
turned the palms of his hands up.
Eliphalet considered for a moment.
“Bulmore,” he said, “I have a bit—not much, but a bit, and, old man,
I’m sick for someone to talk to. I worked out that, taking things easy,
I’ve enough to last about three years—alone. Well, one-and-a-half in
company would please me better. Will you share?”
“Mean it?”
“Here’s my hand.”
“By God, the Old Card’s a trump!” cried Bulmore, taking it.
It seemed that years had fallen away from him in a moment.
“D’you know,” he went on, “I haven’t tasted solids for a couple of
days.”
“Tea is waiting at home now,” said Eliphalet.
Sefton Bulmore rose at once.
“And I hope that home isn’t far away, either,” he flashed, with a touch
of his old humour.
During the tram-ride Bulmore’s spirits rose by leaps and bounds.
“Tell you what,” he exclaimed. “You and I together—tragedy and
comedy—we’ve the elements of a fortune between us—a fortune, my boy.
We’ll write a play—Cinema—pooh!—No good to anyone! We’ll write such a
play as was never written before. And if we don’t knock ’em——! By
God!”
A light danced in Eliphalet’s eyes—the light of reviving enthusiasm.
“It’s an idea, Sefton,” he said. “An idea. Perhaps, after all, we shall
be wanted.”
They bought watercress for tea, and cucumber, sardines and potted meat,
so it is no small wonder that the meal was a success. Sefton Bulmore
fairly expanded under its influence.
Eliphalet arranged with his landlady for an extra bed to be made up in
his room.
“And now,” he said, “shall we fetch your things?—and you can settle in
comfortably.”
For answer Bulmore produced a pile of pawn-tickets and laid them on the
table.
“That’s the lot,” he answered, “save what I stand up in.”
Eliphalet went through the tickets to see what most essentially should
be redeemed.
“You’d like your ulster, eh?”
“It’s been a good friend to me—still, two pound ten, y’know.”
“Not another word,” said Eliphalet.
When they emerged from the pawn-shop Sefton Bulmore was clad in a
fur-collared coat which, despite a shade of wear about the cuffs and
elbows, was a garment any actor might be proud to wear.
“And now,” said Eliphalet, “we’ll make for home and have our first talk
about the play.”
There was a note of disappointment in Bulmore’s acquiescence, that
called for a querying eyebrow from Eliphalet.
“I was only thinking—just to-night—old friends re-meeting—and—as a
little celebration——” He tilted his head suggestively toward the
brilliantly-lighted windows of the Goat Hotel.
“I never do,” said Eliphalet.
“No, no, I understand—but—to the success of the play—a couple of
glasses!”
Eliphalet shook his head.
“You go,” he said. “Here, take——” And he pressed some silver into
Bulmore’s palm, “I’d—I’d rather not.”
“It’s sad work drinking alone.”
“I shall have the pleasure of your company at home all the sooner,
then.”
It was after eleven before Bulmore returned, and bed was the obvious
prescription. So Eliphalet helped him undress, and listened to a good
deal of maudlin matter, without which the evening would have been a
happier one.
Next morning they set to work mapping out a scheme for their future.
Being accustomed to work at night, they made their plans accordingly.
They would breakfast late, partake of their one serious meal at three
o’clock, enjoy a cup of tea about half-past five, and devote the evening
hours to work upon the play. At midnight the traditional Welsh rarebit,
washed down with a jug of good milky cocoa, would be served—then a pipe
and bed. To relieve any embarrassment in giving or receiving, Eliphalet
arranged that each should draw the same weekly sum, and share alike in
all things.
Thus the terms of partnership were laid down, and together they set
about to write such a play as would stagger the world.
The plot was everything, they decided, and so to the making of the plot
were dedicated countless hours and an incredible quantity of paper.
As the work proceeded Bulmore’s spirits grew apace.
“We’ve got ’em!” he would shout. “There’s a fortune here, old man.” And
so great would be his enthusiasm that it was an all-too frequent
occurrence for him to abandon work in the early part of the evening and
drink copious draughts to their inevitable success.
These little excesses were the cause of no small concern to Eliphalet
Cardomay. Bulmore would often spend his entire weekly allowance in a
night at the bar; thus, when the day for settling their accounts
arrived, it would be necessary for Eliphalet to draw on his dwindling
principal to make good the deficit.
Once the plot was finally determined, the actual writing of the play
began. In this Eliphalet did most of the work. Bulmore’s temperament was
such that he could not sit still, and must needs pace up and down,
gesticulating and pouring forth a ceaseless stream of red-hot ideas.
In itself this method proved a somewhat disturbing factor, and tended to
retard the progression of the work; but Eliphalet strove manfully, and
some eleven months from the day of their first meeting had the exquisite
pleasure of subscribing the word “Curtain” on the final page.
Then he and his partner gripped hands with a pride too full for words.
“Read it aloud, Eliphalet, old man,” said Bulmore. “Let’s have it! Let
it go! Here, old man—wait a minute!” He rushed from the room, returning
a moment later with the breathless landlady, Mrs. Wattle, and her anæmic
niece, Annie. These he literally flung (no other word is possible) one
at each end of the plush settee. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned them,
with a threatening gesture. “You are going to hear the finest play that
ever was written—a masterpiece! On you go, Eliphalet, with all your
voice, and all you’ve got. Give ’em a bit of the old.”
So Eliphalet filled his lungs, and read. Both he and his audience were
in tears when he intoned the final heart-rending passages.
Then he closed the book and laid his hand upon it—his eyes filled with
the light of triumph.
“What did you think of it, Annie?” demanded Mrs. Wattle, when she and
her niece were restored to the kitchen.
“Be-utiful, be-utiful,” replied Annie. “It was just like any drama you
might see on the stage.”
There was no intended satire in this truest of criticisms.
The reading had proved altogether too much for Sefton Bulmore, and being
so elevated by the marvels of their achievement, he went forth and
indulged in a debauch, beside which his previous excesses were as
child’s play.
Eliphalet sat alone with the glory he had created. He turned his eyes to
the level of the gods, and prayed aloud.
“Be pleased to bless our work, O Lord!”
Then a cold tremor crept down his spine—brought to existence by the
sight of an unopened letter leaning against the clock. He knew what it
was—a statement of credit from the bank—and had delayed breaking the
seal, until the play should be finished, lest, perhaps, the tidings
should divert his attention from the final scene. But now that reason no
longer existed. So he rose and tore open the envelope.
Fifty-seven pounds was all that was left between two old men and
starvation. Almost miraculously the rest had melted away. Fifty-seven
pounds—and the Play.
“_AND_ the play, old boy,” said Eliphalet. He tore the sheet in two and
dropped it in the fire; then, picking up the manuscript, made his way to
bed.
That night he slept with a fortune beneath his pillow. Of course the
play had to be typed. They were too old at the game to risk spoiling
chances by sending it in MS. form. The bill for the typing was four
pounds—a big lump from a capital of fifty-seven.
Eliphalet had a long talk with Bulmore, and pointed out the need for
economy during the next few weeks, while managers were considering their
work. Bulmore was quite huffy about it.
“Seems a sin not to have a good time, with a fortune like this waiting
to be picked up,” he grumbled.
But Eliphalet was firm, and for the first time a slight estrangement
arose between them. To mark his disapproval, Bulmore went out and got
drunk.
The three copies of the play were duly registered and posted to the
three likeliest managers.
“I’m sending the original manuscript to Mornice,” said Eliphalet, “I
would like her to see the part she might have played, had she not given
up the legitimate stage to play in pictures.”
So he packed it up, with a fatherly little note, and despatched it to
Mornice, c/o Raphaeli Film Company, at some unpronounceable city in the
United States.
Then, in a fever of excitement, they sat down and waited for the herald
of their fortunes to sound the trumpet of success.
And quite suddenly Sefton Bulmore was taken ill. The first-class doctor
whom Eliphalet sent for at once, shook his head over the case.
“The machinery is worn out,” he said. “You can do nothing, Mr. Cardomay,
beyond care and attention. A nurse may be necessary later on. Give him
plenty of light food—chickens, fish, and so forth, and above all keep
him cheerful.”
“What’s he say?” demanded Bulmore, when Eliphalet returned after seeing
the doctor out.
“That you must take things easily for a while.”
“Ha! that’s all very well, but rehearsals will be starting soon, and
I’ve got to be there, y’know—I must be there. Any news?”
“Not at present. There’s hardly time yet.”
“A fortnight. Ought to be hearing something soon.”
“And depend upon it, we shall,” soothed Eliphalet.
And he was right, for the first copy was returned that evening, with a
curt note of refusal.
Eliphalet took it into the sitting-room and read it again and again. It
was unbelievable. Power, the likeliest of all managers, had refused his
play.
“Can’t have read it,” thought Eliphalet. “Can’t possibly have read it! I
mustn’t let Sefton know this.”
So he put the play in a fresh envelope and despatched it elsewhere, and
to salve his conscience for the deceit he meant to perpetrate, he bought
Bulmore some hothouse grapes and a bottle of calf’s-foot jelly.
Poor old Bulmore was an indifferent patient—subject to fits of
depression and excitement. The sound of the postman’s knock in the
street brought him to his elbow at once.
“Down you go, down you go!” he would cry; then when Eliphalet returned
empty-handed, he would work himself into a passion and curse the
dilatoriness of managers or accuse Eliphalet of having addressed the
envelopes wrongly.
Then, one day, about three weeks after his illness began, two more
copies of the play were returned. In one there was no comment at all,
and in the other a letter stating that a market for such stereotyped
work no longer existed.
“Oh, oh!” cried Eliphalet, with the tone of a wounded child. “They don’t
understand.”
“There was something that time,” exclaimed Bulmore, as he slowly entered
the room. “Quick—what was it?”
“Lambert has written,” he said. “Wants to see me in
Bradford—to-morrow.”
The old comedian’s body relaxed, and he gave a sigh of wonderful relief.
“Good God! To-morrow, eh? That will be to discuss terms—yes. You’ll
have to be firm—he’s slippery—’ll want watching. Pity I’m like this.
Pity—pity!”
Then followed a mass of details that Eliphalet must be sure to observe,
and in the midst of them the doctor arrived.
“You’ll want that nurse,” he said, as Eliphalet conducted him
downstairs. “He’s very rocky—practically living on nervous energy. A
bit intemperate in the past, I should say. Well, well! I’ll send her in
to-night. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Eliphalet, and turned into the sitting-room to review
the situation. At the present rate of expenditure his finances could
scarcely be relied upon to last much longer. Yet what could he do?
Bulmore must have everything he wanted, of course, and the lie about the
play must be maintained.
He re-addressed the two returned copies and posted them, with a silent,
fervent prayer. There were but six managers in all to whom the play
would be of possible use, and half of these had already refused.
“Even chances, old boy; we mustn’t throw up the sponge yet.”
Then he returned to minister to his partner.
“I’ll have some champagne to-day—champagne, a sole, and a dish of
quails. We can afford ’em now,” croaked old Bulmore. “No longer any need
for economy.”
And to maintain the lie Eliphalet bought all he asked for, and more
besides.
When the nurse came he told her of his deception, and between them they
kept the story going. Eliphalet invented a wonderful interview with
Lambert, in which he had asked for and been accorded exceptional terms.
Rehearsals would be beginning in a very short while——
“And, by Jove, Sefton, we shall have such a cast!”
And so the poor fraud went on, and twice more the play was returned.
It was almost more than Eliphalet could endure, but he kept a firm lower
lip, and saw it through.
About three o’clock one night the nurse awoke him.
“I think he’s going,” she said.
Old Sefton Bulmore was propped up in bed, and looked a very sick man.
“Laddie!” he gasped. “It’s up! Fate’s cheating me—you—you’ve been a
real friend—but I’m paying it all back. Here—under my pillow!”
Eliphalet drew from beneath the pillow a scrap of paper, scrawled over
with the words, “I bequeath all the interests that will accrue to me
from the play, ‘Right Triumphant,’ to my friend, colleague and
benefactor, Eliphalet Cardomay.”
“It’s a fortune, o’ man—a fortune.”
Eliphalet took the drooping hand from the coverlet and grasped it.
“It is beautiful of you,” he said.
There was a long silence; then Bulmore stirred slightly.
“Make it a good funeral,” he whispered.
“I will, old man.”
As a final touch of irony, the last remaining copy of “Right Triumphant”
was returned a few moments before Bulmore’s coffin was carried down the
steps. And Eliphalet Cardomay dropped it into the grave beside his dead
comrade.
It would be profitless and painful to follow Eliphalet through the
job-seeking, grey underworld in which, during the following months, he
drifted. And while he drifted, he lost heart and his pride began to
forsake him. Eliphalet Cardomay disappeared, and left no address. He
lacked the courage to confess his real state to Mornice. One deception
makes another easy, and about the time he had lied to Bulmore about the
play, he had written in answer to Mornice’s constantly-expressed
reproaches regarding his dilatoriness in taking the little house, to say
he had at last secured the villa of his dreams. To make the story good,
he described the decorations of every room from attic to basement, and
even threw in a picture of the tamarisks in the front garden. There had
been a chance then that the play would bring his words to truth, but
that chance had gone, and he could carry on the deception no longer.
Thus with his disappearance the sweet ties that had existed between
himself and his little adopted daughter were severed.
Somehow or another he managed to eke out an existence—but it was
existence, and nothing more. Only once did he try to obtain work upon
the stage, and the experience was so humiliating he did not repeat it.
Somehow he had managed to preserve his old friends, the fur coat, the
broad-brimmed hat and the cane which had supported him for so many
years. He obtained an interview at a Bedford Street Agency with a
flaccid, swag-bellied Semite, who wore a white waistcoat and check
uppers to his glossy boots.
“Never heard of it,” said this gentleman, when Eliphalet roundly
pronounced his full titles. “And there’s nothing for your sort here. I’m
looking over a bunch of supers at five o’clock, and if you care to line
up with them you can take a chance.”
“Thank you,” said Eliphalet gravely, “but I think not.”
“Then, for the Lord’s sake, get out. We’re busy here.”
And Eliphalet retired with dignity—as befitted one who had held
provincial audiences for nearly half a century, and was part author of
the finest play ever written.
Fate was a little kindlier after that, for he found employment in a tiny
Brixton paper shop, owned by a widow. She, poor soul, was so occupied by
her husband’s legacy, a girl of three and two twin boys, that to attend
to the shop was an impossibility. So Eliphalet sat on a kitchen chair
behind the counter and dispensed halfpenny journals, bottles of gum,
penny note-books, and pencils with little tin covers to them.
In these surroundings he was moderately happy. There were plenty of
theatrical papers to read, for the neighbourhood was patronised by the
lesser geniuses of the dramatic and music-hall world. In a way he became
something of a local character, and many an old “pro” would step in of a
morning to exchange reminiscences. Once or twice he was recognised, but
on these occasions he always begged his discoverers not to disclose his
identity.
“It is not that I am ashamed,” he said, “but there are many I knew who,
if they heard, would pity me—and pity is a quality more blessed to
bestow than to receive.”
So his wishes were respected, and for six tranquil months the Old Card
sold his papers and followed in the dramatic columns the movements of
members of his old companies. Thus he learned that Freddie Manning had
abandoned the Road for the business managership of the Royal Theatre,
New Brighton.
“Good boy, Manning,” he said. “That’s capital. New Brighton, too!”
Rather a twisted smile came to the corners of his mouth, for he could
not help thinking of that Dream Villa, facing the sea. It would have
been very pleasant with Manning so close at hand, dropping in of an
evening, maybe, for a bit of late supper and a chat about old times.
Through the same medium he learnt how Mornice had sprung to Fame as a
Film Artiste and was commanding a truly Chaplinesque salary.
This was a matter that gave him less pleasure, for, although rejoicing
in her success, he could not conquer the underlying conviction that the
Cinema was the bastard child of the stage, and an ignoble art.
“I wonder what she thought of my play,” he ruminated. “I would like to
have known.”
One day there burst into the shop a little music-hall comedian named
Dwyer. He was one of the very few who had recognised Eliphalet, and
something of friendship had sprung up between them.
“Seen this week’s _Foot-Lights_?” he demanded. Then, without waiting for
an answer, “They’re advertising for you.”
He produced a crumpled periodical, flung it on the counter and pointed
to a certain passage with a nicotine-stained forefinger.
“If Eliphalet Cardomay will call upon or communicate with Messrs, Newman
& Stranger, 108A, Henrietta Street, W. C., he will hear something
greatly to his advantage.”
“Good gracious!” said Eliphalet. “I wonder what that means. I must step
round there this evening.”
“You’ll step round now, old cock.”
“I can hardly leave the shop——”
“That for a tale!” yelled the little comedian; then, making a megaphone
of his hands, he shouted, “Mother!” at the very top of his voice.
In response to the call the owner of the shop appeared, a baby in her
arms and the little girl towed along by her skirts.
“He’s come into a fortune—see this! Mustn’t wait a minute—You can
spare him. Tell him to get his hat! Shop’ll look after itself!”
Infected by the excitement of the moment, Mrs. Nelson said he must go at
once. Furthermore, she gave Eliphalet the baby to hold, while she
brushed his hat and coat and polished the knob of his stick.
“I’ll stand a cab,” said Dwyer, “for I won’t let you out of my sight
till I’ve heard the best.” With which, he half swallowed two fingers of
his right hand and produced a whistle so piercing that a taxi seemed to
spring from nowhere.
Bread cast upon the waters returns after many days. There was a certain
quality in “Right Triumphant” which, even though the stage desired it no
longer, was still of an order to find favour in the hearts of cinema
audiences.
The manuscript copy of the play, sent to Mornice, was read, at her
request, by Mr. Raphaeli, who at once realised, with her in the leading
part, a film version might be played with every hope of success.
Mr. Raphaeli was seldom wrong, and on this occasion he was “righter”
than usual. Eliphalet Cardomay had disappeared, and enquiry failed to
locate him, but to his credit, on a ten per cent. royalty, a sum of
three thousand pounds had accumulated.
“She looked after your interests pretty closely,” remarked Mr. Stranger
of Henrietta Street. “I think you may rely on that sum doubling itself
before the interest on the film expires. By the way, here’s a bundle of
letters from her addressed to you.”
Eliphalet Cardomay was wonderfully calm during the interview, and did
not betray by word or gesture the slightest excitement, but his fingers
trembled a trifle as he took the letters. He received the address of a
firm of solicitors, who were looking after the money on his behalf,
shook hands, and walked from the office.
On the pavement outside he conveyed the news to the little comedian who,
in his enthusiasm, performed a war-dance which drew toward them a
massive policeman, complete with warnings.
“But you don’t look half pleased enough,” he gasped, when Eliphalet took
his arm and drew him away.
“I am—I am—very pleased and very grateful. It’s just a shade of
disappointment that the play should not have made its success on the
legitimate stage.” But the cloud faded almost before it came in the
bright blue horizon of the future.
A twinkle showed in his eyes.
“Dwyer,” he said, “in all my life I have never yet borrowed from a
fellow-artist, but I am wondering now if you would lend me a sovereign.”
“Whatever you want, old man; whatever you want.”
“Simpson’s is just over there, and I was thinking—an undercut from a
saddle of mutton—you and I together-a little celebration, what?”
“Fine!” echoed Dwyer. “Take what you want out of this——” producing a
fiver from a Friday night envelope.
As they turned into Bedford Street there were a few old down-and-outers
of the profession, leaning disconsolately against the wall of an agent’s
office.
Eliphalet jerked his head toward them.
“Would you mind if I did?” he questioned.
“Better still!” shouted Dwyer enthusiastically. So Eliphalet crossed the
street.
“Boys,” he said, addressing the group, “will you take a bit of lunch
with me? Just to talk over old times.”
* * * * *
Eliphalet Cardomay has the pleasantest villa in New Brighton, with
tamarisks forming a guard of honour to the front door. The rooms inside
are just what you would expect—cosy, warm, hospitable. Sir Henry
Irving’s signed portrait, as Thomas à Becket, hangs over the fireplace
in the parlour, and there are many others of great-hearted, if less
celebrated, performers dotted about the walls in comforting disorder.
Prominent in the centre of the mantelpiece is the portrait of a baby,
and scrawled across one corner in Mornice’s go-as-you-please hand is
written “Eliphalet to his grand-dads.” Probably this photograph is his
most cherished possession, and he is justly proud that so bold a name
should rise afresh in a new generation. Mornice even on the occasion
when she and Ronald and the baby came over from the States and spent a
glorious three weeks at New Brighton, never divulged the secret that
this wonderful child was ordinarily termed “-Potkins.”
To minister to his wants are Potter, his one-time dresser, and Potter’s
wife—she was wardrobe-mistress in the company for many a year. Between
them they look to it that the Old Card is kept out of draughts—has his
socks scrupulously darned—his sheets aired, and is served only with the
dishes he likes best.
You may see him any day you care to look, walking up and down the parade
with a firm step and his hat at a fearless angle. Under his arm is the
ivory-knobbed gold-mounted cane of quaint design, and he shows a marked
favour for fur coats, of which he possesses more than one.
It is rare indeed for a Saturday to pass without Freddie Manning looking
in for an hour after the show. And whether it be a supper of tripe,
cooked in milk, a Welsh rarebit, or a dish of sizzling liver-and-bacon,
it all goes down with equal appreciation, to an accompaniment of happy
reminiscences that mostly begin with:
“Remember that time in ’93—we put up ‘The Silver King’ the following
season——” And somewhere each evening as regular as clockwork——
“Say what you will, the stage isn’t what it was, Manning; it isn’t what
it was.”
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected
without note.
[End of _The Old Card_ by Roland Pertwee]