The Last Flutter of the Heavy 'Un

HE Heavy 'Un was seated on a prop, box, in a draughty corner of a remarkably draughty hall—that hall being the sole place of entertainment boasted by a bleak little town in the Midlands. All round about him was the noise of hammering and shouting, the quick chatter of feminine tongues, with now and then a high-pitched feminine laugh; near him a pale-faced youth was pacing up and down, alternately casting his eyes on a brown-paper-covered book he held, and on the ceiling, the while he muttered strange words, and made strange gestures with his disengaged hand. Yet the Heavy 'Un sat absolutely unmoved, amid all the riot and racket, and read a letter.

Physically, the Heavy 'Un—whose real name, as set forth on the placards on the town hoardings, was Buckstone Suker—belied the title bestowed upon him; for he was somewhat small of stature, and the long overcoat, which bore upon its collar and cuffs the fur of some absolutely unknown beast—which might, from its appearance, have been shedding its own coat at the time of its decease—hung but loosely upon him, and was, indeed, more pretentious in appearance than its owner. But, fortunately for Mr. Buckstone Suker, men are not judged by mere inches; and the Heavy 'Un had been pronounced—even by his enemies—to have been, in certain parts which suited him, a very giant.

Years ago, in a time which is shrouded in the mists which cover forgotten things, Mr. Buckstone Suker had had ambitions, and had even fixed wistful eyes upon the great Metropolis as a final goal. But all that was past and done with; whatever chances he may have had had fallen away, with the roundness of his once youthful limbs, and with the lustre from his eyes. At the present time he worked tor mere shillings—took a great deal of the rough, with a very, very little of the smooth—and was grateful for any engagement.

Yet, though he was but a poor player—here to-day, and gone Heaven and his manager only knew whither to-morrow—the Heavy 'Un had had one glorious ambition fulfilled, one splendid morsel of comfort thrown to him by a Fate which had, in all other respects, been stony-hearted enough. Somewhere, in the great world of fashion and luxury, was a gracious and beautiful lady, whose doings were chronicled in the Society papers, and who had once kissed the hand of Royalty. And that lady was the Heavy 'Un's daughter.

Ever since the far-off days when he had held his tiny daughter in his arms, and had soothed her to sleep by repeating, in a hoarse whisper, certain favourite lines from his repertoire, he had determined that she should be a lady. The child's mother had been a fellow-player, toiling with him in those backwaters of the profession which lie so far away from the broad stream of success; but she had been in it too long not to know all it meant to a woman.

"It's a good life, Buck dear," she had said, when she lay dying, "and you and I have got the hang of it, and couldn't very well live in any other way. But get her out of it, if you can: it isn't the life for a woman, with one-night stands, and poor lodgings, and God-knows-who to mix with. I've been lucky, because I found you, and you've been, good to me; but it might go hard with her, if she had to begin the fight for herself, and alone. Get her out of it."

He had solemnly promised that he would, and had splendidly kept his word. In some extraordinary fashion, he had contrived, out of his small and precarious earnings, to keep her at boarding-school, paying mere flying visits to her on rare occasions, and hugging himself in secret afterwards, at the thought of her growing beauty and accomplishments.

Having been used all his life to taking things, which other men would have regarded as serious, in a mere haphazard fashion, it never occurred to the Heavy 'Un to make any arrangements for his daughter's future, after her school days should, in the ordinary process of time, have come to an end. But Providence— which had evidently made up its mind to treat him well, so far as the girl was concerned—obligingly arranged even this for him.

He was playing a remarkably heavy part—heavy even for him—some six months before this history discovers him upon the prop, box; and, having comfortably dispatched, in his capacity of the Demon Coiner, some three or four inoffensive individuals, who had had the temerity to cross his "per-ath," was retiring to a species of whitewashed cellar for rest and refreshment, when some one touched him on the shoulder, and informed him that a lady was waiting to see him. Before Mr. Buckstone Suker had time to say a word, or even to conjecture who the visitor might be, a light figure sprang past the messenger, and was in Buckstone Suker's arms. It was his daughter.

Even in that moment of surprise and emotion, Mr. Suker found it necessary to play his part, and to play it as completely as though he had been in the presence of a crowded house. First, he held his daughter off at arm's length, and gazed at her frowningly, yet with a sort of wistful tenderness; ejaculated, "It is—it is—my child!"—folded her in his embrace, with her head over his left shoulder; repeated the performance, with the same ejaculation, save that, on the second occasion, her head, by a dexterous movement, appeared over his right shoulder; released her, and somewhat feebly requested an explanation.

"Daddy"—she looked at him half pleadingly, half roguishly—"I've run away!" And then, with a burst of tears, and a conciliatory hug, which almost choked him, and which knocked his Demon Coiner's wig all over one ear, she blurted out her story. It took a long time in the telling, because it was necessary for the Heavy 'Un to dash on to the stage, at frequent intervals, to murder some one, or to be foiled alternately, and to receive frantic hisses as his just reward.

"You know. Daddy dear, that I've been growing up for quite a long time. … I'm a lot past eighteen … and so you haven't any right to be surprised at anything I do. It all seems like a dream, although it has happened in less than two days. Daddy—bless your dear, sweet, old painted face—I'm married!"

The Heavy 'Un staggered against a table, and stared at her helplessly; remembered the part he ought to play, and frowned, and folded his arms; and then became, in a moment, nothing but a poor, dejected, ordinary father, desperately fond of her. His arms fell to his sides, and he shook his head at her pathetically.

"Lucy! Lucy!" was all he said.

She was down on her knees beside him in a moment, pleading with him, coaxing him. "Daddy! there's nothing to be frightened about—nothing to regret. I am the happiest girl in the world, and Jack is very, very rich. Not that that could possibly make any difference at all," she added, hurriedly, "because I should have loved him just as well if he had been poor, and had had to work hard for me. But he saw me—and we fell in love with each other—at the school. … Jack used to climb the wall, to see me; … and this morning I ran away, and we were married."

That was all the story; and it turned out to be just as. good and true a little idyll in reality, as it had appeared in the telling. Jack Rycroft, the only son of a rich widow, was a gentleman in every sense of the word—indeed, in the best sense; and little Lucy Rycroft's future seemed to be set forth dearly before her, and to be painted in bright and rosy colours.

"But, Lucy, my child," said the Heavy 'Un, after a pause, and in that voice which long practice had taught him so well how to assume, "why concealment?—why run away, as though your father was tearing after you in a postchaise and a roaring passion? Why not trip it on the green, so to speak, to the sound of village bells—and—and things of that kind—eh?"

"Daddy, how could I?" she replied. "You have told me always to regard myself as an orphan, and as having nothing to do with you—although Heaven knows I'm very, very fond of you, and would be only too glad to be with you always. But you said I was never to speak about you."

"True, my child—true," he said, wagging a sage forefinger at her—"most true. But what of your husband?"

"That's the trouble, Daddy," she replied, slowly. "He does not know of your existence."

"Good—very good. I must not he discovered." He took three rapid strides across the room, and back again; dropped his stagey attitude in a moment, and held out his hands towards her.

"Lucy, the greatest man that ever lived—at least, I think him the greatest—once likened the world to a stage. So 'tis, my child—so 'tis. And, in the big play called Life, I've been only a poor super, in the back row, and having to look over the heads of better men, to catch a glimpse of the lights, and having to strain my ears to hear the music. Maybe I've seen but little of the real world; perhaps I might be told I'd played at Life - but no matter. I've tried to make you something better—tried to push you into a front place, with the limelight right on you. Dance in the limelight, Lucy, keep right in the middle of the boards, … and remember that the old super, in the back row, cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of you—and that he loves you."

He said it with an air, and stalked on to the stage the next moment, to engage in a terrific combat—(three times up—stamp—cross over—stamp—three times down)—with the virtuous hero. But it is probable that, even as he twisted convulsively across the stage, in his death throes, amid howls of execration from the gallery, his heart was heavier within him than it had been for many a long day. For he felt instinctively that the girl, on whom he had lavished so much, had gone out of his life.

That had happened six months ago; and, in the intervening time, the Heavy 'Un had seen nothing of his daughter. Once or twice little notes had been forwarded to him from former lodgings, in which she wrote that she was very happy, and that she was travelling abroad with her husband; to her credit it must be written, that she knew her father so well, that she never alluded to her own more prosperous position, or suggested for a moment that she should send him money. But the letter he read now contained a startling suggestion, which required careful thought. She wrote:—

He read the letter many times, and with a grateful heart; but he felt the impossibility of doing what she asked—at least, in the fashion she suggested. His pride in her and her good fortune was as great as his knowledge of his own defects; much as he longed to see her, he felt that he needed counsel on the matter; he sought the advice of a friend, whose opinion he valued—no other than Mr. Gibson Chumley, the low comedian of the company.

"Gibby, my boy—a word with you," he said impressively, as he led that gentleman—a small, freckled man, with a round bullet-head, and a propensity for getting intoxicated on the slightest provocation, or without any provocation at all—aside that same evening. "I have here a letter from my daughter."

"Didn't know you had one," replied Mr. Chumley, with an air of surprise.

"Ah! that has been—er—my—my little secret. She—she is far above her old father—oh! very far above him!" The old man said it with the greatest possible pride and satisfaction.

"You don't say so! Doing a star turn somewhere—eh?" Mr. Chumley was obviously impressed.

"A star turn! My boy, the star turn. Not on the boards, Gibby—not on the boards. She is a star of the first magnitude, sir, in the great world of fashion. She—she married well"—the Heavy 'Un adjusted his collar, and coughed—"and she has a wish that I should visit her in—in the halls of splendour, so to speak. In a word, Gibby," added Mr. Suker, becoming suddenly confidential, and taking Mr. Chumley by the lappel of the coat—"in a word, she would have me jump from four-half in pewter to champagne in clinking glasses."

"Well, Buck, my boy," replied Mr. Chumley, with a chuckle, "I think I should jump."

Mr. Buckstone Suker shook his head. "My friend," he said, slowly, "you speak in haste. Bear with me, and I will explain my meaning more fully."

Bearing with him accordingly, Mr. Gibson Chumley was put in full possession of the facts, expressing his astonishment, from time to time, in whistles and stifled exclamations. When the recital was ended, the Heavy 'Un folded his arms, struck an attitude, and waited for an expression of opinion.

"As I understand it," said Chumley at last, "the gal's got so high, that the idea of a fond parent, who does the heavy line in 'smalls,' at a matter of shillings a week, wouldn't quite fit in—eh?"

Mr. Suker nodded gloomily. "It isn't that she doesn't want me, nor that she wouldn't be proud to take her call with me anywhere," he replied; "but she's so well starred now, and in such a splendid company, that I don't want to stand in her way."

"And yet you want to see her? I suppose you couldn't disguise yourself, and go as a long-lost uncle from foreign parts, with a bag of rattlers in a side pocket, and a red beard—could you? " Mr. Chumley appeared to regard this as a very brilliant suggestion.

"Impossible, I fear," replied the Heavy 'Un, with much solemnity. "The eyes of my child would penetrate any disguise; and, in the first transports of joy, she would—to use a vulgarism—give the show away."

"Yes, I suppose she would," replied his friend. "I suppose it wouldn't be possible for you to be smuggled in with the clean clothes from the wash, and go out in the same basket next morning, after they'd sorted you—would it?"

"Gibby, you pain me! Consider the feelings of a father—and an actor. Heaven knows what chances or changes may be in store for me, ere I play my last part; but I never yet appeared as the laundry, and I never will! However, your suggestion of a disguise has assisted me. The husband of my daughter has not yet seen me; I will appear before him in the capacity of a relative—distant, but kindly—making a chance call. Thereafter—well, I will take whatever cue Fortune gives me."

Having arrived at this decision, he wrote to his daughter, setting forth his determination, and informing her that he would come upon that condition—and on that alone. Moreover, having now no longer any necessity to be careful in regard to the future, with the chief object of his thrift placed beyond the reach of want, he airily threw up his engagement, packed his few belongings in a bag (the bag was a light one, in all conscience, for he carried the greater part of his poor wardrobe upon his back), and set out to find his daughter.

With his arrival at the very large house which sheltered his daughter and her husband, his troubles began. Indeed, he hesitated a long time before he could make up his mind to ring the bell—going past once or twice, and even glancing down into the area, as though in the hope of discovering some secret means of ingress there. At last, however, he climbed the steps, and pulled the bell.

The appearance of a gorgeous footman somewhat restored the Heavy 'Un's confidence in himself; for this was but a menial, and his trappings merely theatrical. Summoning a most alarming cough, designed to strike terror into the breast of the servant, the Heavy 'Un inquired for "Mrs. Rycroft."

The footman eyed him up and down for a moment, and even glanced casually across the street, over the top of the Heavy 'Un's hat; for the footman was very tall, and Mr. Suker, as has been said, lacked inches. "Wot neem?" he asked at last.

"You needn't announce me, fellow," replied Mr Buckstone Suker, impressively. "Merely say that—that a gentleman waits here, and would be glad of a word with your mistress—alone." He spoke the last word in the most sepulchral tone at his command.

The footman—really rather a worthy young man—fell back a pace; the Heavy 'Un, seizing the opportunity, advanced into the hall, and looked about him critically. At the same moment a door opened, and his daughter came out, on her way to another room. Seeing him, she uttered an exclamation, and advanced quickly. But Mr. Suker, mindful of the part he had set himself, appeared to be absolutely oblivious of her presence, casting his gaze frowningly round the walls, as if the style of decoration did not entirely meet with his approbation. The footman, quite unconsciously, came to the rescue.

"'Ere is Mrs. Rycroft, sir," he said, in a subdued voice.

The Heavy 'Un, bringing his eyes down to the level of her face, immediately expressed much astonishment in pantomime, and removed his shabby hat with a flourish; by a marvellous contortion of his features, he contrived to convey, by that side of his face farthest removed from the footman, a portentous wink to his daughter, expressive of caution.

"I have ventured, dear lady," he began, in a loud voice, "to call upon you, whilst staying in town, on a visit respecting my—ah—property." Then, in a stage whisper behind his hand, "Dismiss the servant, Lucy!"

The menial being dismissed, she drew her father into a room, and rapturously hugged him. But he was not yet at his ease; he glanced about him, and even walked on tiptoe to a huge settee, and peeped over the back of it—doing all this with a finger on his lips, and one eye rolling mysteriously in his daughter's direction.

"We cannot be too careful, my child," he said, in explanation. "I have known men, and even women—in farces—to secrete themselves behind articles of furniture, and even in coal-scuttles (with removable backs), for purposes of eavesdropping."

"But, Daddy dear," she remonstrated, half in laughter, half in tears, "why should we take all these precautions at all? Jack is the best fellow in the world, and would welcome you, I am sure, even if you came out of a caravan, just for my sake."

The Heavy 'Un shook his head. "My child, my little Lucy, no—a thousand times no. We must—dissemble. Let me be what you will: ancient but faithful servitor, who once saved your father's life, or, in times of distress, pawned the family treasure to keep up appearances; or an old family solicitor, fond of a glass of old crusted—methinks I see myself in that part, my child; or a distant relative, with a dash of the scapegrace in his saucy eye—not bad, that, my Lucy—or anything of that kind. But a parent … never! Long-lost relatives are necessary evils, and can be got rid of; old family solicitors go back from whence they came, or are shot by the French governess, or die, to haunt the Blue Chamber. But a parent, especially a father, sticks—sticks like wax, my child; he must be on for the final curtain."

It was quite useless to argue the matter with him; and so, when Mr. John Rycroft presently came into the room, Lucy timidly introduced the Heavy 'Un as "a—a distant cousin of my late father's—passing through London."

Jack Rycroft made him welcome at once, and begged that he would stay with them as long as he possibly could. Being a good-natured fellow, tremendously in love with his wife, he welcomed the old man for her sake, although he did not for a moment suspect what the real relationship was.

Must it be confessed that, as the days went on, Lucy Rycroft—sweet and good-hearted little woman though she was—was secretly glad that her father had insisted upon masquerading under a false description? Perhaps it was not in human nature that it could be otherwise; for the girl—well and carefully nurtured and educated, and shielded all her life from every rough and deteriorating influence—could have but little in common with a man who had never had a settled home, and who had lived precariously and unnaturally all his days. She blamed herself for this feeling, and even shed some tears over it; but it must, in common justice, be confessed that the methods of the Heavy 'Un were somewhat trying.

In the first place, his clothes were not all that could be desired. His very dress suit was an ancient thing, with whitened seams and frayed edges—glorious at a distance, and behind the footlights, but not a thing for close inspection. Again, he found it difficult, and indeed almost impossible, to shake off the habits of years: having played many parts, he played them still; addressed the astonished servants as "knaves" and "fellows"; had a quotation—apt or inapt—for every moment and every occasion; and performed every smallest action in the manner of one with a wary eye upon the gallery.

Nor was this all; for, on the occasion of a big dinner-party, to which, among other guests, a distinguished London actor had been invited, he openly flouted that gentleman to his face; informed him that no man could consider himself a decent member of the profession until he had "doubled" Polonius and the First Gravedigger, and worked the "limes" for Ophelia's mad scene; and, in fact, to use his own remorseful phrase afterwards—"missed his cues completely, and guyed the show."

Indeed, on that memorable occasion, he went still further; for, perceiving, from the death-like silence which followed his denunciation of the great man, that he had committed a grievous error, he retired hastily from the table, and—probably because he felt that the atmosphere might be more congenial—sought the servants' hall; where, after they had recovered from their amazement, he recited a blood-curdling legend, appropriately named The Robber's Oath," and contrived to spend a very jolly evening, if the shrieks of laughter proceeding from below were any indication of the merriment he caused.

After that it was, of course, impossible for him to remain longer in the house; recognising this for his own part, he withdrew early the next morning, after a tender and repentant farewell scene with his daughter, whom he was fortunate enough to discover alone.

"My child," he said, a little forlornly, and with his eyes averted from her, "don't trouble for me. I—I've had a—a good time. Perhaps I've missed my cues a bit; but you'll overlook that, my dear—overlook that. I shall remember it all—shall dream of it. The sparkling goblet has gone from hand to hand—a little too much so, perchance, in my case, but you'll overlook that too—and I wander once more—(O. P. side—slow music)—into the cold world." His voice broke a little at this point, but he carried the thing off jauntily still.

"But, Daddy, I shall see you again," she said, hesitatingly.

He shook his head, with a smile that was half whimsical. "No—not again," he replied. Then, becoming suddenly more serious, and, in consequence, less theatrical, he took her face between his hands, and smiled gently at her. "I've played a many parts, my Lucy—and done them, perhaps, not so badly after all; but this one doesn't suit me. The company's a bit above me; the scenery's wrong somehow—and there's too much limelight, and too many props So I think—if the management won't be offended—I'll hand back my part, and come out of the bill. You see, my child, I am used to a rough-and-tumble sort of drama, and I can't get on without a whiff of the orange-peel from the pit, and I must occasionally have a set-to with the hero—broadswords preferred. So I'll wish you a long run, my Lucy, and the best of luck—and I'll say good-bye—and bless ye!"

He swaggered out of the house, with an air, and gaily waved his hand to her, when he caught a glimpse of her face at a window; yet, as he turned the corner of the street, the majesty of his walk had dwindled somewhat, and it was, after all, only a poor, tired old man, with but little of the air of the Heavy 'Un upon him, who took his way out into the world again, to earn his living.

But here again, when he sought to return to his former mode of life, disaster seemed to dog him; for his place in his old company had been filled by a younger man, with newer methods, and his former manager was a little contemptuous of him.

"We're strikin' out in a new line. Buck," he said, airily. "The public likes change, and they're gettin' a bit tired of your style. It's the villain in a frock-coat and a cigarette they're askin' for—and they've got to have him; more than that, they want him young. Don't you worry; I daresay you'll get 'a shop' somewhere."

The Heavy 'Un went away, with a little deadly fear beginning to creep about his heart that his course was run. Nevertheless, having nothing else to depend upon, he went about, with some show of cheerfulness, in search of an engagement. But he discovered, to his dismay, that no one wanted him; he haunted the dark and dingy rooms wherein agents live and move and have their being—a shabby, forlorn creature, growing more desperate day by day. He was sent about, by one and another, on fruitless errands, merely, as he half suspected, to get rid of him; and all with no result.

He had got down very low indeed, and was absolutely in want of food, when he heard of a possible engagement with a travelling circus company, and—swallowing what small pride was left in him—went to see its proprietor. The man proved to be a keen, vulgar, but good-natured fellow, with a dark eye cocked adroitly for the main chance.

"We does the country towns an' fairs," he explained; "an' we plays in a tent, an' 'ires a field w'en we wants one. I'm stickin' in a bit of a drama—with 'osses, an' five-barred gates, an' a dog or two—an' I wants a persecuted father, who'll make 'isself useful all round. I don't pay. much, but you'll travel with the vans, an' you'll find we're not a bad lot, take us as we go."

The Heavy 'Un gladly availed himself of the opportunity; and took up his wandering life cheerfully and gratefully. In all that time, he had but one consoling thought: that his daughter was happy, and well cared for, and that she knew nothing of his reverses.

Meanwhile, that daughter had had his figure before her, hauntingly, many and many a time. She remembered, with contrition, all she owed to him; saw him, in imagination, for ever playing the same round of parts, for ever journeying about the country, earning a precarious livelihood. The contrast with her own happy and prosperous existence was too great to be borne in silence; tearfully, and with many self-accusing phrases, she confessed the fraud that had been practised to her husband, and explained the real relationship in which she stood to the Heavy 'Un.

"I think about him night and day," she said. "I think of my own happiness, and of how he may be in want and misery. Jack, dear, I owe everything to him; but for him, I might be poor and struggling, too."

Jack Rycroft had but one thought. "We must find him," he said. "You are not to blame, because he sealed your lips—but, by Jove! he's the finest fellow living. We must find him, Lucy, if we search all England."

The search proved to be a long and weary one; for the Heavy 'Un had apparently disappeared, as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up. But at last they found one slight clue, which led to another; and, travelling night and day, came up with him, near a little town where a fair was being held, and when the circus was pitched in a field hard by.

Naphtha lamps were flaring, and men were shouting, and a drum was being beaten with much vigour. But the Heavy 'Un, in the character of the persecuted father, was not in the bill.

For the Heavy 'Un was playing his last part, and playing it with some little difficulty. Much journeying about, and rough and hard work, and exposure, in tents and caravans, to all the merciless winds that blew—all had combined to take the Heavy 'Un off the stage of Life. The kindly people among whom he had fallen, mindful of what might happen to themselves, in God's good time, had cared for him, and he lay on a rough bed, in a corner of a tent, patiently waiting. Outside, the lamps blazed and spluttered, and men shouted, and the drum banged away merrily; for these people had to live, though a score of Heavy 'Uns died.

She went in, and bent over him, and raised his head. But, even in that hour, when all things were growing dim before his eyes, he remembered the part he had to play, and tremblingly raised a finger to his lips, when she called him, in the old fashion, "Daddy."

"Hush—my child!" he whispered, huskily; "there is need—of caution. It is good of you to have come; I thought—maybe—I'd have to take—take my call—alone. And it's growing—very dark—and I've somehow—lost my lines. Hush—my child—not—not a word. Distant cousin—property—sparkling wine—gentlemen—Mrs. Rycroft—a—a friend—merely a friend. See"—he strove hard to raise himself in her arms, and pointed to something beyond their vision—"the curtain's coming down. I must take—my call!"

And, the curtain coming down very quickly, he took his call, and went to meet the great Stage-Manager of all things.

[[Category:short stories in periodicals]