# The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 14/His Chance at Last

Illustrated by Hal Ludlow.
Layout 4
His Chance at Last.
By Harry How.
Clement Walford.
LEMENT and Henry Walford were twin brothers—how like and yet how unlike. In appearance there was everything to lead one to see that they could both lay claim to the same birthday; their faces were identical, their figures the same. Fortune, however, had placed them in totally distinct channels. Their mother, in her day (for she had been dead these twenty years), was an actress of rare ability, and people had crowded the theatres night after night to follow her impressive acting. Both her sons had inherited her talents in no small measure, and, two years previous to her death, they had launched out in their first struggle to win fresh laurels for the name around which all that was gifted had gathered. Talents, alas! may live and shine, yet they may live and scarcely flicker. To-day, these two men were brothers only in name. The gifts of the one had been recognised by a fickle public, the abilities of the other never even had a thought.
Henry Walford.
Clement Walford! His name was on everybody's lips. The critics gave him columns in the papers, theatrical managers almost knelt at his feet, and paid eagerly the money he demanded to secure his services; society held open its doors, and the great actor entered at his ease. And Henry? A struggler—nothing more; a disappointed struggler. Clever, but unknown; ​gifted, but unheard of. His brother's success may have cut him, but it never discouraged him. He laboured on, still hopeful. Whilst the popular man was rich in London, the other was hovering on the very edges of poverty. There were times when he had been forced to write to his brother a letter asking for help, but no reply ever came. The poor man's wife had even knocked at the great actor's door; but the response from a servant's lips was that "Mr. Walford was engaged." And so the brothers lived. The one utterly oblivious to the ties of relationship, the other hoping for recognition and reconciliation at last.
Clement Walford's triumph was at hand. Hitherto Shakespeare's characters had with him remained untouched, but paragraphs in the newspapers had just appeared, announcing the fact that it was his intention to appear at an early date as Hamlet. Everybody, from manager to public, was sanguine of a great success; it was the topic of the clubs, the conversation of the critics. Clement Walford himself felt inwardly comfortable and satisfied that failure with him could never be. Success! Success! Success! He harped on that word at night, saw the dream of his life realised as he walked the streets to rehearsal, and heard the enthusiasm of the people, and watched them clamouring there, even in the empty theatre, as scene by scene was gone through at rehearsal on the stage. In all this he was alone with himself. He thought of Clement Walford and of him alone. A brother! He had none. The other had had the same chances—why did he not take them? If a man, even his own flesh and blood, snapped his fingers at his opportunities, was it for him to put them in his grasp?
"He started back."
The night drew near. The day before the performance had arrived and the last rehearsal had been held. Clement Walford returned to his rooms. He stood before the gilded mantelpiece and looked into the glass. He started back! He felt giddy. Again he looked into the mirror with straining eye. He had never seen such a deathly pallor on his face before. He smiled at his foolishness. He attempted to reach a chair, but found his feet would scarcely carry him. Make what effort he might his head was dropping on to his breast, he felt his hands trembling and looked at them to see if it was true.
"Excitement—strain—anxiety—nervous​ness—overdoing it," he cried; "a drink of water—brandy—will set me right. Where's the bell-rope? Ah! there it is," and crawling towards the cord, across the room, he just managed to reach it when he fell to the ground.
When he awoke he lay in bed, the doctor standing by. He lifted his eyes towards those of the doctor.
"Why—why am I here? How long have I been here? Is this—is this the first night?" he asked.
"You have been here a few hours, that is all," was the doctor's reply. "Lie quite still—keep your hands in bed, now."
"Thank God! Thank God!" the man said, "I was afraid it was the first night. What's the matter with me? What's the matter with me? Why don't you answer? Don't look at me like that; answer me!"
"You have been doing too much lately—you are not strong."
"Not strong!"
"And nothing but perfect rest will bring you round again," the doctor said. "You have——"
"What? what? Tell me quickly!"
"You have broken a blood-vessel."
The man looked at the doctor for a moment. Then he rose in his bed. His voice was scarcely discernible; it was cold and harsh: it was not the voice of the man whose tone had fascinated all its hearers. He looked the medical man wildly in the face. He asked, quietly at-first:
"Do you know what to-morrow night is? No; of course you don't. But I do. It is the first night of 'Hamlet,' and I shall be there—there, with the house before me, hanging on every word I utter. Do you think this bed will hold me from my triumph, do you think you, or the warning of any man, will prevent me from welcoming the hour of my success? Not strong! You don't know me. You are a stranger to my strength. Don't speak a word. I shall only ridicule your warning. I tell you, you don't know me. Take your hand away—take it away. What do you say? Rest—rest here, or I must—what! Die? Die! You talk madly. No, no, I shall live! Live in myself for years, live in the memory of all for ever. After to-morrow night! After to-morrow night! Give me a drink of water!"
With trembling hands the man refused the aid of the doctor, but lifted the glass to his lips and gulped down the contents. Hour after hour passed; the night had gone, and with the first signs of the approaching day the doctor—who had remained a faithful watcher all through the night—drew aside the window-curtains, and the light streamed in upon the man as he lay in his bed. It lit up the face of a man whose life was fast going. He looked almost pitifully towards the doctor.
"Listen!"
"I shall be there to-night, eh?" he asked. "I mustn't disappoint them, doctor. Let me run through my lines with you. Do! There is my Shakespeare—there, on that table by the window. It was my mother's gift. Bring it to me carefully."
The doctor silently did as he was bid. He knew that he was obeying the wishes of one for whom he could not do much more. When he turned his head he saw ​that the dying man had raised himself in the bed.
"Turn to the Third Act—the First Scene. I enter. Listen now, and tell me what effect this has upon you. Listen!
"To be, or not to be, that is the question:— Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die,—to sleep,—
No more more—and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep ;—
To sleep! perchance to dream; ay,—there’s the rub—
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
"Why do you stare at me? Keep your eyes on the book and not on me.
"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come."
Then the man stopped. He murmured these words yet again and again; then, turning to the doctor, he told him what he well knew—that he was dying.
"Do you know what would be my dream in that long sleep?" he asked wildly and yet plaintively. "I will tell you. My brother! He would mock at me that I was snapped off in the very moment of my triumph. He would point at me and laugh. I, who had refused to hold out a helping hand to him and exert my influence to better his position. Oh! I couldn't bear that! Harry, Harry, old fellow, if I could only see you again, if I could only ask you to forgive me before it is too late; if I—Doctor," he cried suddenly "I must see my brother Harry! I must see him! You'll find his address in that desk—send for him. Tell him his brother Clem wants to speak to him, and do at last what he has always refused. There, in that desk."
The doctor quietly laid the patient's head upon the pillow. Then he told him that which brought a wild smile of gladness to his pallid face. He laughed at the news. His brother Harry was below waiting even then. When the doctor saw that the man was dying, he had asked the servants if their master had any relations living. They only knew of one—a brother he never saw, a brother who only a few days before had knocked at the door, and had gone away unseen. They knew his address, for he had left it. He had come up to London, hoping against hope that still the great actor would endeavour to get him an engagement. So the doctor telegraphed to him, and he had only just that moment come.
"Send him to me—now—at once," the dying man said in a voice now weak. "Tell him, before he comes up, that his brother Clem is longing to see him."
The doctor went to the door and called; and when he saw Henry Walford ascending the stairs, he started in surprise. How like these two men were; how wonderfully like! But one, though poverty had lined her story upon his face, looked strong and well, the other man was dying fast. Quietly he entered.
"Harry, old boy, I'm dying." ​"Harry, old fellow," one said, lifting a hand out of bed with a last strength.
"Clem! Clem!" the other cried, taking the proffered hand, and putting the other arm around his neck, and lifting his head up. Then the two men kissed each other.
"Harry, old boy! I'm dying; I know it. I shall have missed to-night, shan't I? but I've found you. Come nearer to me and brother, Clem listen! Harry, I've been cruel to you—you forgive me?"
The other clasped his hand.
"No, no; say it! Say, 'I forgive you!'"
"Clem, my brother; I forgive you, Clem," Henry Walford said, through his tears.
"I shan't be able to talk much, so I must say it quickly. A little water—just wet my lips. Thank you—thank you, old fellow. Now, listen earnestly to me. Come very near. Harry, your chance has come at last—and to-night. You can take it in my stead, for I shan't be here. You know the part? Ah! I thought so—you have played it many times. But mine—mine is a daring plot. There is my fur coat on the back of that chair—put it on. Yes; never mind about letting go my hand—put it on, Harry."
Henry Walford did so.
"Yes—yes—it is myself. Go down to the theatre to-night. Walk in at the stage door without saying a word. They will touch their hats to you and let you pass. Go to my room—it is the first on the left. Make-up—dress—everything is there. Be in readiness—the orchestra will commence, the curtain will rise, and—and—as—you—step on to the stage, the house will ring with applause. Your chance—has—come—at—last. Thank God—I—your brother, Clem—can give it to you. Harry—Harry, old fellow—Harry—hold my hand—I'm—good-bye—put your arms—round me—Harry—Harry—"
The man fell back in his brother's arms—dead!
"The stage-door keeper touched his hat."
That night the theatre was packed. The stage-door keeper touched his hat to the great actor as he passed through without a word. The prompter's bell rang and the curtain rose. Hamlet entered, and the noise was deafening, and when the curtain fell, he who played the Prince was called again and again. On the morrow the newspapers devoted column after column in eulogising a remarkable performance, "one that would live in the memory of all who had seen it." Then, when the truth came out, the excitement and curiosity were increased twofold. Clement Walford was ever remembered, Henry Walford from that night was never forgotten. His chance at the stage had come at last.