THEODORE WOPPLES, ACTOR
Mr Villiers walked in a leisurely manner along the lower part of the
town, with the intent of going up to his destination through the old
mining gully. He took this route for two reasons--first, because the
afternoon was hot, and it was easier climbing up that way than going
by the ordinary road; and, second, on his journey through the chasm he
would be able to mark some place where he could hide the nugget. With
his stick under his arm, Mr Villiers trudged merrily along in a happy
humour, as if he was bent on pleasure instead of robbery. And after
all, as he said to himself, it could not be called a genuine robbery,
as everything belonging to his wife was his by right of the marriage
service, and he was only going to have his own again. With this
comfortable thought he climbed slowly up the broken tortuous path which
led to the Black Hill, and every now and then would pause to rest, and
admire the view.
It was now nearly six o’clock, and the sun was sinking amid a blaze of
splendour. The whole of the western sky was a sea of shimmering gold,
and this, intensified near the horizon to almost blinding brightness,
faded off towards the zenith of the sky into a delicate green, and
thence melted imperceptibly into a cold blue.
Villiers, however, being of the earth, earthy, could not be troubled
looking very long at such a common-place sight as a sunset; the same
thing occurred every evening, and he had more important things to do
than to waste his time gratifying his artistic eye. Arriving on the
plateau of earth just in front of the gully, he was soon entering the
narrow gorge, and tramped steadily along in deep thought, with bent
head and wrinkled brows. The way being narrow, and Villiers being
preoccupied, it was not surprising that as a man was coming down in
the opposite direction, also preoccupied, they should run against one
another. When this took place it gave Mr Villiers rather a start, as it
suggested a possible witness to the deed he contemplated, a thing for
which he was by no means anxious.
‘Really, sir,’ said the stranger, in a rich, rolling voice, and in a
dignified tone, ‘I think you might look where you are going. From what
I saw of you, your eyes were not fixed on the stars, and thus to cause
your unwatched feet to stumble; in fact,’ said the speaker, looking up
to the sky, ‘I see no stars whereon you could fix your gaze.’
This somewhat strange mode of remonstrance was delivered in a solemn
manner, with appropriate gestures, and tickled Mr Villiers so much that
he leaned up against a great rock abutting on the path, and laughed long
and loudly.
‘That is right, sir,’ said the stranger, approvingly; ‘laughter is
to the soul what food is to the body. I think, sir,’ in a Johnsonian
manner, ‘the thought is a happy one.’
Villiers assented with a nod, and examined the speaker attentively.
He was a man of medium height, rather portly than otherwise, with a
clean-shaved face, clearly-cut features, and two merry grey eyes, which
twinkled like stars as they rested on Villiers. His hair was greyish,
and inclined to curl, but could not follow its natural inclination owing
to the unsparing use of the barber’s shears. He wore a coat and trousers
of white flannel, but no waistcoat; canvas shoes were on his feet, and
a juvenile straw hat was perched on his iron-grey hair, the rim of
which encircled his head like a halo of glory. He had small, well-shaped
hands, one of which grasped a light cane, and the other a white silk
pocket handkerchief, with which he frequently wiped his brow. He seemed
very hot, and, leaning on the opposite side of the path against a rock,
fanned himself first with his handkerchief and then with his hat, all
the time looking at Mr Villiers with a beaming smile. At last he took a
silver-mounted flask from his pocket and offered it to Villiers, with a
pleasant bow.
‘It’s very hot, you know,’ he said, in his rich voice, as Villiers
accepted the flask.
‘What, this?’ asked Villiers, indicating the flask, as he slowly
unscrewed the top.
‘No; the day, my boy, the day. Ha! ha! ha!’ said the lively stranger,
going off into fits of laughter, which vibrated like small thunder amid
the high rocks surrounding them. ‘Good line for a comedy, I think. Ha!
ha!--gad, I’ll make a note of it,’ and diving into one of the pockets of
his coat, he produced therefrom an old letter, on the back of which he
inscribed the witticism with the stump of a pencil.
Meanwhile Villiers, thinking the flask contained brandy, or at least
whisky, took a long drink of it, but found to his horror it was merely a
weak solution of sherry and water.
‘Oh, my poor stomach,’ he gasped, taking the flask from his lips.
‘Colic?’ inquired the stranger with a pleasant smile, as he put back the
letter and pencil, ‘hot water fomentations are what you need. Wonderful
cure. Will bring you to life again though you were at your last gasp.
Ha!’ struck with a sudden idea, ‘“His Last Gasp”, good title for a
melodrama--mustn’t forget that,’ and out came the letter and the pencil
again.
Mr Villiers explained in a somewhat gruff tone that it was not colic,
but that his medical attendant allowed him to drink nothing but whisky.
‘To be taken twenty times a day, I presume,’ observed the stranger, with
a wink; ‘no offence meant, sir,’ as Villiers showed a disposition to
resent this, ‘merely a repartee. Good for a comedy, I fancy; what do you
think?’
‘I think,’ said Mr Villiers, handing him back the flask, ‘that you’re
very eccentric.’
‘Eccentric?’ replied the other, in an airy tone, ‘not at all, sir. I’m
merely a civilized being with the veneer off. I am not hidden under an
artificial coat of manner. No, I laugh--ha! ha! I skip, ha! ha!’ with a
light trip on one foot. ‘I cry,’ in a dismal tone. ‘In fact, I am a man
in his natural state--civilized sufficiently, but not over civilized.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Mr Villiers, wondering whether the portly
gentleman was mad.
For reply the stranger dived into another pocket, and, bringing to light
a long bill-poster, held it up before Mr Villiers.
‘Read! mark! and inwardly digest!’ he said in a muffled tone behind the
bill.
This document set forth in red, black, and blue letters, that the
celebrated Wopples Family, consisting of twelve star artistes, were
now in Ballarat, and would that night appear at the Academy of Music in
their new and original farcical comedy, called ‘The Cruet-Stand’. Act I:
Pepper! Act II: Mustard! Act III: Vinegar.
‘You, then,’ said Villiers, after he had perused this document, ‘are Mr
Wopples?’
‘Theodore Wopples, at your service,’ said that gentleman, rolling up the
bill, then putting it into his pocket, he produced therefrom a batch of
tickets. ‘One of these,’ handing a ticket to Villiers, ‘will admit you
to the stalls tonight, where you will see myself and the children in
“The Cruet-Stand”.’
‘Rather a peculiar title, isn’t it?’ said Villiers, taking the ticket.
‘The play is still more peculiar, sir,’ replied Mr Wopples, restoring
the bulky packet of tickets to his pocket, ‘dealing as it does with
the adventures of a youth who hides his father’s will in a cruet stand,
which is afterwards annexed by a comic bailiff.’
‘But isn’t it rather a curious thing to hide a will in a cruet stand?’
asked Villiers, smiling at the oddity of the idea.
‘Therein, sir, lies the peculiarity of the play,’ said Mr Wopples,
grandly. ‘Of course the characters find out in Act I that the will is
in the cruet stand; in Act II, while pursuing it, they get mixed up
with the bailiff’s mother-in-law; and in Act III,’ finished Mr Wopples,
exultingly, ‘they run it to earth in a pawnshop. Oh, I assure you it is
a most original play.’
‘Very,’ assented the other, dryly; ‘the author must be a man of
genius--who wrote it?’
‘It’s a translation from the German, sir,’ said Mr Wopples, taking a
drink of sherry and water, ‘and was originally produced in London as
“The Pickle Bottle”, the will being hidden with the family onions. In
Melbourne it was the success of the year under the same title. I,’ with
an air of genius, ‘called it “The Cruet Stand”.’
‘Then how did you get a hold of it,’ asked Villiers.
‘My wife, sir,’ said the actor, rolling out the words in his deep voice.
‘A wonderful woman, sir; paid a visit to Melbourne, and there, sir,
seated at the back of the pit between a coal-heaver and an apple-woman,
she copied the whole thing down.’
‘But isn’t that rather mean?’
‘Certainly not,’ retorted Wopples, haughtily; ‘the opulent Melbourne
managers refuse to let me have their new pieces, so I have to take the
law into my own hands. I’ll get all the latest London successes in the
same way. We play “Ours” under the title of “The Hero’s Return, or the
Soldier’s Bride”: we have done the “Silver King” as “The Living Dead”,
which was an immense success.’
Villiers thought that under such a contradictory title it would rather
pique the curiosity of the public.
‘To-morrow night,’ pursued Mr Wopples, ‘we act “Called Back”, but it is
billed as “The Blind Detective”; thus,’ said the actor, with virtuous
scorn, ‘do we evade the grasping avarice of the Melbourne managers, who
would make us pay fees for them.’
‘By the way,’ said Mr Wopples, breaking off suddenly in a light and airy
manner, ‘as I came down here I saw a lovely girl--a veritable fairy,
sir--with golden hair, and a bright smile that haunts me still. I
exchanged a few remarks with her regarding the beauty of the day, and
thus allegorically referred to the beauty of herself--a charming flight
of fancy, I think, sir.’
‘It must have been Kitty Marchurst,’ said Villiers, not attending to the
latter portion of Mr Wopples’ remarks.
‘Ah, indeed,’ said Mr Wopples, lightly, ‘how beautiful is the name of
Kitty; it suggests poetry immediately--for instance:
Kitty, ah Kitty, You are so pretty, Charming and witty, That ‘twere a
pity I sung not this ditty In praise of my Kitty.
On the spur of the moment, sir, I assure you; does it not remind you of
Herrick?’
Mr Villiers bluntly said it did not.
‘Ah! perhaps it’s more like Shakespeare?’ observed the actor, quite
unabashed. ‘You think so?’
Mr Villiers was doubtful, and displayed such anxiety to get away that Mr
Wopples held out his hand to say goodbye.
‘You’ll excuse me, I know,’ said Mr Wopples, in an apologetic tone,
‘but the show commences at eight, and it is now half-past six. I trust I
shall see you tonight.’
‘It’s very kind of you to give me this ticket,’ said Villiers, in whom
the gentlemanly instinct still survived.
‘Not at all; not at all,’ retorted Mr Wopples, with a wink. ‘Business,
my boy, business. Always have a good house first night, so must go into
the highways and byways for an audience. Ha! Biblical illustration, you
see;’ and with a gracious wave of his hand he skipped lightly down the
path and disappeared from sight.
It was now getting dark; so Mr Villiers went on his own way, and having
selected a mining shaft where he could hide the nugget, he climbed up to
the top of the hill, and lying down under the shadow of a rock where
he could get a good view of Marchurst’s house, he waited patiently till
such time as his wife would start for home.
‘I’ll pay you out for all you’ve done,’ he muttered to himself, as he
lay curled up in the black shadow like a noisome reptile. ‘Tit for tat,
my lady!--tit for tat!’