The Understudy Page #3

"The Understudy" by Robert Barr is a satirical novel that explores the world of theater through the experiences of its protagonist, an understudy who grapples with the challenges of ambition, unfulfilled dreams, and the often absurd realities of the performing arts. Set against the backdrop of a bustling theatrical scene, the story delves into themes of identity, envy, and the pursuit of recognition, as the understudy navigates the complexities of relationships and the unpredictable nature of show business. With Barr's trademark wit, the novel offers a humorous yet insightful commentary on the precarious balance between success and obscurity in the life of an artist.

• Short story

								

returned to him. Then, on going to a first night at the theatre to see
a new tragedy, which this manager called his own, he was amazed to see
his rejected play, with certain changes, produced upon the stage, and
when the cry "Author! Author!" arose, he stood up in his place; but
illness and privation had done their work, and he died proclaiming
himself the author of the play.

"Ah," said the man, when the reading was finished, "I cannot tell you
how much the story has interested me. I once was an actor myself, and
anything pertaining to the stage appeals to me, although it is years
since I saw a theatre. It must be hard luck to work for fame and then
be cheated out of it, as was the man in the tale; but I suppose it
sometimes happens, although, for the honesty of human nature, I hope
not very often."

"Did you act under your own name, or did you follow the fashion so many
of the profession adopt?" asked the girl, evidently interested when he
spoke of the theatre.

The young man laughed for, perhaps, the first time on the voyage. "Oh,"
he answered, "I was not at all noted. I acted only in minor parts, and
always under my own name, which, doubtless, you have never heard--it is
Sidney Ormond."

"What!" cried the girl in amazement; "not Sidney Ormond the African
traveller?"

The young man turned his wan face and large, melancholy eyes upon his
questioner.

"I am certainly Sidney Ormond, an African traveller, but I don't think
I deserve the 'the,' you know. I don't imagine anyone has heard of me
through my travelling any more than through my acting."

"The Sidney Ormond I mean," she said, "went through Africa without
firing a shot; whose book, A Mission of Peace, has been such a
success, both in England and America. But, of course, you cannot be he;
for I remember that Sidney Ormond is now lecturing in England to
tremendous audiences all over the country. The Royal Geographical
Society has given him medals or degrees, or something of that sort--
perhaps it was Oxford that gave the degree. I am sorry I haven't his
book with me, it would be sure to interest you; but some one on board
is almost certain to have it, and I will try to get it for you. I gave
mine to a friend in Cape Town. What a funny thing it is that the two
names should be exactly the same."

"It is very strange," said Ormond gloomily, and his eyes again sought
the horizon and he seemed to relapse into his usual melancholy.

The girl arose from her seat, saying she would try to find the book,
and left him there meditating. When she came back, after the lapse of
half an hour or so, she found him sitting just as she had left him,
with his sad eyes on the sad sea. The girl had a volume in her hand.
"There," she said, "I knew there would be a copy on board, but I am
more bewildered than ever; the frontispiece is an exact portrait of
you, only you are dressed differently and do not look--" the girl
hesitated, "so ill as when you came on board."

Ormond looked up at the girl with a smile, and said--

"You might say with truth, so ill as I look now."

"Oh, the voyage has done you good. You seem ever so much better than
when you came on board."

"Yes, I think that is so," said Ormond, reaching for the volume she
held in her hand. He opened it at the frontispiece and gazed long at
the picture.

The girl sat down beside him and watched his face, glancing from it to
the book.

"It seems to me," she said at last, "that the coincidence is becoming
more and more striking. Have you ever seen that portrait before?"

"Yes," said Ormond slowly. "I recognise it as a portrait I took of
myself in the interior of Africa which I sent to a dear friend of mine;
in fact, the only friend I had in England. I think I wrote him about
getting together a book out of the materials I sent him, but I am not
sure. I was very ill at the time I wrote him my last letter. I thought
I was going to die, and told him so. I feel somewhat bewildered, and
don't quite understand it all."

"I understand it," cried the girl, her face blazing with indignation.
"Your friend is a traitor. He is reaping the reward that should have
been yours, and so poses as the African traveller, the real Ormond. You
must put a stop to it when you reach England, and expose his treachery
to the whole country."

Ormond shook his head slowly and said--

"I cannot imagine Jimmy Spence a traitor. If it were only the book,
that could be, I think, easily explained, for I sent him all my notes
of travel and materials; but I cannot understand him taking the medals
or degrees."

The girl made a quick gesture of impatience.

"Such things," she said, "cannot be explained. You must confront him
and expose him."

"No," said Ormond, "I shall not confront him. I must think over the
matter for a time. I am not quick at thinking, at least just now, in
the face of this difficulty. Everything seemed plain and simple before,
but if Jimmy Spence has stepped into my shoes, he is welcome to them.
Ever since I came out of Africa I seem to have lost all ambition.
Nothing appears to be worth while now."

"Oh!" cried the girl, "that is because you are in ill-health. You will
be yourself again when you reach England. Don't let this trouble you
now--there is plenty of time to think it all out before we arrive. I am
sorry I spoke about it; but, you see, I was taken by surprise when you
mentioned your name."

"I am very glad you spoke to me," said Ormond, in a more cheerful
voice. "The mere fact that you have talked with me has encouraged me
wonderfully. I cannot tell how much this conversation has been to me. I
am a lone man, with only one friend in the world--I am afraid I must
add now, without even one friend in the world. I am grateful for your
interest in me, even though it was only compassion for a wreck--for a
derelict, floating about on the sea of life."

There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she did not speak for a
moment, then she laid her hand softly on Ormond's arm, and said, "You
are not a wreck, far from it. You sit alone too much, and I am afraid
that what I have thoughtlessly said has added to your troubles." The
girl paused in her talk, but after a moment added--

"Don't you think you could walk the deck for a little?"

"I don't know about walking," said Ormond, with a little laugh, "but
I'll come with you if you don't mind an encumbrance."

He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she took his arm.

"You must look upon me as your physician," she said cheerfully, "and I
shall insist that my orders are obeyed."

"I shall be delighted to be under your charge," said Ormond, "but may I
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