diff options
Diffstat (limited to '75340-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 75340-0.txt | 1773 |
1 files changed, 1773 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/75340-0.txt b/75340-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dcf4eff --- /dev/null +++ b/75340-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1773 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75340 *** + + + + + + _GRATIS WITH_] [_SOMETHING TO READ._ + + [Illustration: SOMETHING TO READ NOVELETTE] + + CONTAINS A COMPLETE STORY AND PRESENTED GRATIS EVERY WEEK + WITH THE JOURNAL “SOMETHING TO READ.” + + No. 675.] EDITED BY EDWIN J. BRETT. [Vol. XXVII. + + [Illustration: “IT IS A SORRY TALE FOR YOUNG EARS, MY CHILD,” SAID THE + OLD LAWYER, TAKING HER HANDS IN HIS.] + + + + +DESTINY. + +BY G. P. S. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + + “My dear Miss Standen,--Now that the arch-enemy of mankind (in reality + he is often a friend) has deprived you of your--shall I say foster + mother? it is time for me to say that I hope you will always regard + me as a friend, who has known you from your earliest childhood. There + are some events in your family history which a promise to the dead + kept me from relating during Mrs. O’Hara’s lifetime. I will acquaint + you with them fully in a few days. As a preliminary, Mrs. Gascoigne + and myself will be delighted to have you with us while you decide + about the future. The sooner the better. Shall we say to-day at your + own time? A house of mourning is not a suitable place for a young + girl who--although she may have experienced much kindness--is no way + connected with the deceased. Forgive an old lawyer’s bluntness; you + are too sensible, I am sure, to take offence at my home-truths (which + are always disagreeable). Awaiting you and your luggage, + + “Believe me, my dear Miss Standen, + + “Your sincere friend, + “HENRY MORTON GASCOIGNE.” + +It was impossible not to believe in the sincerity of the letter, and +Muriel Standen read it a second time with a keen sense of gratitude for +the writer. + +She had believed herself entirely alone in the world, penniless, and +without a home. + +For, after the death of Mrs. O’Hara, she could no longer stay at the +farm. + +Tom was to be married in a few weeks at his mother’s last request, and +although she had mentioned Muriel’s name, apparently with the intention +of adding something regarding her, death had intervened. + +Mrs. O’Hara died before the girl could ascertain any particulars of her +early life. + +She answered Mr. Gascoigne’s letter, thankfully accepting his kind +offer, and sent it by one of the farm-hands. + +Then she packed her two small trunks and said good-bye to sturdy Tom +O’Hara, who said the farm would miss her sadly. + +“But it is not the place for a lady like you, Miss Standen. My mother +was next door to being one, as you know, and even she detested farm +life. It was better for you when she was here. Now you will go among +your own people, I hope. I wish I could tell you who they are, but my +mother kept her knowledge--if she had any--to herself.” + +“Thank you,” she said, sadly. “I do not know where I am going when I +leave Mr. and Mrs. Gascoigne. I expect that I am quite alone in the +world, otherwise my people could hardly have left me without any sign +all these years.” + +“If it comes to that, Miss Standen,” and the big fellow strode hastily +across the room to her, “the farm’s a home to you whenever you like to +make use of it. Maggie’s a good girl, and she would feel honoured by +your staying here.” + +“I thank you Tom most warmly,” giving him both her hands. “You are +a kind hearted man, and I shall never forget your generosity. But I +intend to go to London to make my living there. + +“I have made some enquiries, and my voice ought to do something for me. +Mr. Gascoigne will always have my address, and he will give me news +of you now and then. Good-bye, I must not keep your horse waiting any +longer.” + +“I am going to drive you myself, Miss Standen, if you will allow me. It +will be the last time.” + + * * * * * + +“Well, well, my dear, there is no immediate hurry. You have scarcely +been with us two days. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Gascoigne and myself +would be only too glad if you could make up your mind to remain with us +altogether, but I suppose you are tired of the country.” + +“You beggar me of gratitude,” she said, flushing. “I have not the +slightest claim upon you and you treat me like a daughter--almost.” + +“I wish you were now that my own are so far away. Well, if you are +determined to hear I must tell you, sit down in that arm-chair +comfortably, and remember that a lawyer does not like to be +interrupted. At the same time my dear, prepare yourself to hear some +sad news. + +“Twenty years ago, your mother came to Abbott Mansfield with you, a +little child just able to walk without falling. + +“She rented the cottage, known as the Laurels, which was then let +furnished, and lived there for four years with a nurse for you and one +other maid servant. + +“She dressed always in widow’s weeds, made no acquaintances whatever, +and refused to see any people who from kindness or curiosity called +upon her. + +“One day I received a note asking me to go to the Laurels. + +“I went, and found your mother dying. + +“The doctor said it was general weakness, want of vitality and nervous +power, and had advised her to go to a warm climate some weeks before. + +“She told me it was a broken heart, my dear.” + +Muriel had grown white and her eyes were dark with suppressed tears. + +“You will find me brutally matter-of-fact. Do not think me devoid of +sympathy. Cry as much as you like. Shall I go on?” after a few moments +pause. + +“Yes, please.” + +“Mrs. Standen’s story was a sad one, but unfortunately, no new thing. +She had married when very young, and, being a lovely attractive woman, +as I saw by the miniature which is in your possession, had no lack of +attention from her husband’s friends. + +“He was a major in the --th Hussars, a good officer and beloved by all +who knew him. Unfortunately he trusted too much, and he trusted Captain +Ainslie absolutely. + +“The two were the closest of friends, and even the marriage of Major +Winstanley had not weakened their friendship. + +“Your father was a very striking-looking man, Miss Winstanley, I +will show you a portrait of him when I have finished, a thoroughbred +gentleman, nobility and integrity stamped on every feature; but the +captain was handsome in the style admired by ladies--fair, with blue +eyes, a long moustache, and, no doubt, golden hair. + +“Your father was passionately attached to your mother, and up to the +time of your birth they were very happy. + +“He had a strong, stern nature, however, and in addition to his duties, +which, of course, absorbed a good part of each day, he was fond of +literary pursuits. + +“A man does not care the less for his wife, Miss Winstanley, because he +does not keep up his honeymoon all his married life. Your mother did +not say that she was neglected; but Captain Ainslie got into the habit +of going to see her every day, when, nine times out of ten, she was +alone. + +“He was the type of man who is found in ladies’ drawing-rooms at +tea-times. Sometimes he took her out for drives or rides, the major +trusted him entirely. + +“When you were about a year old, Major Winstanley was summoned to the +death-bed of his father; as the journey to the North was long and +fatiguing, he did not take his wife, for she was not strong and from +the time of your birth had always been delicate. Four days later, when +Major Winstanley returned--” + +The old lawyer stopped, the look on the girl’s face was so piteous to +see. + +Her large grey eyes were wide and dark, the sweet mouth was quivering +with feeling. + +He went up to her and took her hands in his kindly. + +“It is a sorry tale for young ears, my child, but I promised a dying +woman to tell you, and to hide nothing. Cheer up a little, it ended +better than could have been hoped. Captain Ainslie had gone off with +his friend’s wife. But Major Winstanley was a modern Don Quixote; +he traced them, followed them, and found his wife in a Paris hotel, +sobbing with grief for her sin, the consciousness of which could not be +effaced in spite of her companion’s attempts at consolation. + +“Her husband went up to her and said very quietly, ‘Marion, come home +dear.’ To Captain Ainslie he uttered one reproach, ‘What had I done to +you to merit this?’ But his heart was broken. He took his wife home, +and to the day of his death, which occurred a month afterwards, he +showed her nothing but love and kindness. + +“When she was left a widow, Mrs. Winstanley found that a bank, in which +most of her husband’s money was deposited, had failed--misfortunes +never come singly--and so she was reduced to poverty. She thereupon +sold her furniture, and came to Abbott Mansfield with her child, +changing her name to that of Standen, for she wished to be forgotten +by all who had formerly known her. As both she and her husband had few +relations, and these but distant ones, her object was attained. She +lived quite alone. + +“When she knew that her days were numbered, she sent for me and told me +all the painful story, making me take it down in writing, to be handed +to my executors in case of my death before you became of age. + +“By her wish I was to be her child’s guardian, to place her in the +care of some trustworthy person, and, on her twenty-first birthday to +acquaint her with the facts; also to hand over to her the sum of one +thousand pounds, which was all that Mrs. Winstanley had to leave. The +interest of this has been paid to Mrs. O’Hara for her care of you. + +“I need not tell you, my dear, that no other person has the slightest +idea of your identity--or of this story. Here is the paper with your +mother’s signature.” + +He handed her the document, which she took with trembling hands, +looking at the shaking writing “Marion Orme Winstanley” with dim eyes. + +“There is nothing to prevent you from burning that here in my library, +if you choose. In this box are your certificates of birth and baptism, +with your mother’s marriage papers, so that your identity can easily be +established with my help. What do you say, my dear?” + +“I will take your advice in everything,” Muriel said, faintly. “You +have been so kind----” + +“Pish! my dear. Had it not been for the expense of having three sons +and two daughters to educate, Mrs. Gascoigne and I would have taken you +in here. They are all out in the world now, and there is nothing to +prevent your making this your home, if you would like it.” + +“There is no question of liking, dear Mr. Gascoigne; I could not be +such a burden to you. I have thought of using my voice----” + +“As a singer? You will require at least a year’s more training. +Although Mr. Oateson has given you invaluable help, he has not been in +London for years, and the competition is so great that you would stand +little chance at present, free as your voice is; and then, it will be +very uphill work, my child.” + +The old lawyer watched the girl as she looked into the fire, her pale, +delicately-cut profile standing out against the dark marble background +of the mantel-piece. + +“As a child, you played with the boys, and with them you were a general +favourite. You liked them all?” + +“Ah! how could I help it?” she said, impulsively. “And Kitty and +Madge were so sweet with me; they were my only friends, for I felt +instinctively that Mrs. Erskine did not wish me to go to the Rectory, +and so I kept aloof from Ethel and Dick.” + +“If they were not so scattered about the world, Kitty and Madge would +have had you to visit them; but India and Canada are so far off. +Reginald is coming here for a few weeks before he goes to Melbourne to +join his brother. You know that Robert is married out there?” + +“Yes. I hope he is as happy as Henry is with his wife.” + +“I believe they are much attached to one another. Two years ago, when +Reginald came back from Oxford, he told me of something which may, or +may not, be news to you.” + +“To me?” the girl repeated, meeting old Mr. Gascoigne’s keen scrutiny +with amazement. + +“Yes; he told me that, subject to my approval, he would, when he was in +a suitable position, ask you to be his wife. Have you never suspected +this?” + +She stood up, staring in silent astonishment. + +“Never. I--can hardly believe it. Reginald! We have seen so little of +each other--he has been so much away at his uncle’s.” + +“That is the very reason why he was struck so much with your beauty +and fascination, my dear; the others, growing up with you, had become +accustomed to both. Well--is Reginald’s feeling for you reciprocated?” + +The girl went up to him, and laid one hand--a little timidly--on his +arm. + +“Do I understand that--you would sanction it, knowing--who I am?” + +“With the greatest pleasure, my child,” returned the old lawyer, +smiling. “Your father was a major in a crack regiment, and the daughter +of such a man as Major Winstanley is a prize for any man. Tut--tut! +my dear,” as she stammered out her mother’s name, “we are none of us +perfect. If she sinned, poor woman, she expiated her sin.” + +She stooped and kissed his hand, then drew herself upright, and brushed +the tears from her eyes. + +“You are the noblest man I have ever known. I shall never forget your +generosity--your goodness to one who would be treated with scorn and +contumely by all who knew her story. With all my heart I thank you and +Reginald. Please tell him and that I appreciate the honour he does me +to the uttermost, but dear Mr. Gascoigne--I--” she flushed scarlet, and +raised her face appealingly to his; “I--have never thought of him in +that way, only as a friend. And now that I know who I am,” gathering +strength as she went on, “I shall never marry. You will understand me, +will you not? I must go right away--to London, and earn my own living +where no one knows me. Mary Allen, who used to be at the farm, is +married respectably to an ex-butler, and they let lodgings near Russell +Square. I can go there, can I not? Please do not be angry with me, Mr. +Gascoigne.” + +“I am not angry, my dear. Think it all over at your leisure, there +is no hurry whatever for a few days. Reginald will not be here for a +fortnight. Your money is so well invested that it has increased to +fifteen hundred pounds, but that only means about seventy pounds a +year, and the lessons will be a consideration. That, my dear, will be +my affair; as your guardian I insist upon it, and you will not refuse +me. And what about that paper?” + +“I will burn it,” said Muriel, putting it into the fire when she had +again thanked him. “And when I am successful you will let me pay off my +debt, please?” smiling sadly. “If I am a failure----” + +“Never despair--you have youth, beauty, and talent; and you have a +home here whenever you like to come. By the bye, here is your father’s +portrait. His face is a very fine one.” + +She took it eagerly, and after a long scrutiny kissed it passionately +again and again. + +“Captain Ainslie must have been a traitor of the deepest dye to wrong +such a friend as my father--and he escaped scot-free,” she said, in +tones of concentrated scorn and contempt. “No doubt he is living in +happiness and luxury, reckless of the misery he caused.” + +“He may have really loved your mother. For five years he led a +wandering life. Of course he left the regiment, loathed by everyone in +it. Then he married, and settled down in the West Indies. I ascertained +this myself; but I do not know now whether he is living or dead.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +A railway train is sometimes the scene of much misery in those who +travel by its carriages; sometimes of much mirth, most often of the +assumed indifference adopted by English people as a rule, and which, +despite the contempt with which it is spoken of by dwellers on the +Continent, is also the theme of admiration to chatterers. + +Two people occupying a first class carriage, of congenial sympathies, +can often while away the tedium of several hours. If their sympathies +are opposed, they will of course entertain mutual distrust and dislike. + +When they are of opposite sexes, and experienced enough to judge of +character impartially, friendships are often formed which endure for a +lifetime. + +“I owe you many thanks for the pleasure you have permitted me to enjoy. +I looked forward to a wearisome journey only, but you have accepted my +society, and made me your debtor as well.” + +“I could not help myself, you see,” smiling. + +“But you might have frozen me up in the true British style, and +then I should have had to wait in helpless misery for the first +stopping-place. You looked very annoyed when I got in at Swindon.” + +“I am sorry; but the guard was fee’d to let me be alone if possible. +Perhaps the desire of wanting to hide yourself, to get away even from +one’s best friends, is happily strange to you.” + +He was silent for a little, not looking at her. + +Had anyone told Muriel that she would be holding a conversation with +a perfect stranger less than an hour after she had started, she would +have repudiated the imputation with scorn. + +Her nature was a very proud and reticent one, she was not given to +sudden confidences. + +But there was in her as in all natural women--a hidden spring of +impulse, and on meeting a nature sympathetic with her own, she almost +unconsciously broke down her guard, with the result that she and her +companion were talking as naturally as if they had known each other for +years. + +“May I hope that you will forgive my presumption in expressing +sympathy? You are so young to experience suffering.” + +“I am twenty-one in years, but I feel quite old,” she said, quietly. “I +am going to London to make my fortune--or to fail.” + +“You have resolution enough to succeed, but a woman has many +difficulties to encounter. And you aren’t of the calibre to be a +governess.” + +“Never.” She shuddered a little. “I possess no certificates.” + +“Had you a dozen, your face and air would debar you,” he said, with +quiet courtesy. “May one ask which of the professions you are wishing +to enter? I know a great many people, and perhaps you may allow me the +pleasure of being of some service to you.” + +“I thank you very much, but I am thinking of the stage.” + +He started, and looked at her for a moment or two, at which she +laughed, and drew farther into her corner. + +“Your offer of introduction had better be withdrawn. You did not expect +to hear that.” + +“You are right. I did not expect to hear that,” he repeated. + +“You think that it is a pity I have chosen this--career?” + +“It is fraught with many dangers, particularly for one gently born and +brought up with luxury.” + +“My father and my mother were; but I lost them both in earliest +childhood, and all my life has been passed in a farmhouse amid +middle-class poverty.” + +“But your friends? Pardon me if I am impertinent; I do not mean to be.” + +“I know that you do not,” she said, simply. “My mother had changed her +name, so that no one knew me. The lawyer of the place was appointed +my guardian; he and his wife were very kind to me, even when--” She +paused, then went on again. “I was a great deal with them and their +family, in fact, we grew up together. They are all in the world now, +most of them married. The girls live abroad, too far for me to visit +them.” + +“Have you made up your mind to become an actress?” + +“It is the only thing I am fit for. I can sing a little; the organist +at Idleminster Cathedral was a good musician, and he trained my voice. +I used to sing the solo in the anthems and oratorios on special +occasions--hidden behind a screen, of course. And I have had lessons in +elocution and declamation from an actor. He knew Shakespeare and most +of the French and English dramatists by heart. I used to listen to him +for hours.” + +“What was his name?” + +“Gray Leighton.” + +He started violently with excitement. + +“Gray Leighton. You knew him well. I have been trying to find him for +four years. You are fortunate to have had lessons from one of the most +gifted actors of the day. Did you know his history?” + +“No. He was crippled, and could not stand for more than a few minutes +at a time. He came to Idleminster about four years ago, and lived very +quietly, making no friends nor ever reciting in public. I got to know +him through his little boy. The child was very lovely. I used to play +with him, teach him music, and take him out. His father would always +trust Bertie with me.” + +Watching her lovely face, with its look of sweet girl-woman’s sympathy +in the deep clear eyes, the man thought it was matter for small wonder +that a father had trusted her with his only child. + +“Different versions of his story will reach your ears in London, so +it is as well that you should know the truth. Leighton’s professional +name was Lyon Fenton. His mother was an Italian, and he inherited her +southern nature. As an actor, it is hardly too extravagant to say +that he took the world by storm. Paris, Florence, Milan, and Vienna +idolised him. He was five-and-thirty when he came to London, and there +his slight foreign accent was the only impediment to his success. His +Romeo, Othello, Shylock, and Hamlet were the constant theme among +critics, who almost to a man praised him. But he did not like London +and left it after the second year for Italy. On the eve of his marriage +with a beautiful young actress who played Juliette to his Romeo, his +_fiancée_ eloped with his best friend.” + +Muriel was listening with breathless attention, her eyes full of +indignation at his last sentence. + +“What horrible treachery!” + +“Unfortunately no new thing. The girl was duped into believing some +base fabrications about Fenton, and impetuously went off with the +man who considered nothing so long as he attained his object. Fenton +followed them, and a duel was fought, in which he was unfortunately +wounded in the hip. His adversary escaped, for Fenton generously fired +in the air rather than injure the man who had married the girl he +himself loved. + +“Here you have the man’s character--erratic, quixotic, impetuous, but +noble to the core. + +“When the girl discovered her husband’s treachery she poisoned him and +herself, leaving a letter for Fenton, entreating his forgiveness. The +child Bertie is theirs.” + +Muriel drew a long breath, unconscious that tears were trembling on her +eyelashes. + +“Oh!” she said with feeling, “what a tragedy, and all occasioned by a +man’s perfidy. The world has lost a great actor, whose whole life is +spoiled. Then Mr. Leighton is not Bertie’s father?” + +“He has never married; the man’s nature is not one to change. He must +be about five-and-forty now. I knew all this, as I was a personal +friend of Fenton, for whom I had the greatest admiration. But when his +injury necessitated his leaving the stage, he disappeared, and none +of his former friends nor acquaintances ever heard of him. Knowing +his sensitive nature, I understood, and did not try to find his +whereabouts. From time to time he sent me tidings, but it is quite four +years since I heard anything.” + +“How strange it is that we should both know him,” Muriel said, +reflectively. + +“Very. I can understand your desire for the dramatic profession if you +have been under the spell of Leighton’s influence. He gave you lessons, +you said?” + +“Three times a week for the last two years and a half. I thought it +wisest to prepare myself as much as possible; but I did not like to +tell Mr. Gascoigne, the lawyer, that I was thinking of the stage. He +knows that I can sing a little, and that I am wanting to come out +by-and-bye.” + +“It is but a step from the vocal to the dramatic stage,” he said, +smiling a little. Then, very gravely: “I have lived so many years +longer in the world than you, that you will possibly permit me to give +you my opinion. For one absolutely alone in the world, as you are, of +gentle birth, you will be cruelly exposed to fearful dangers, from +which it will be next to impossible to escape.” + +“But I am not so very young,” she said wistfully “and the Gascoignes +will never lose sight of me, I think. I am going to live in Bloomsbury, +with a very respectable woman and her husband who let lodgings, and I +should pay her to accompany me to the theatre. She used to be one of +the maids at the farm. + +“What other can I do? I have about £70 a year of my own, which will +just keep me from starving; barely that in London, but I detest the +country. I cannot be a governess, nor serve in a shop. Mr. Leighton has +given me two letters of introduction to the managers of the ‘Coliseum,’ +and ‘Opera Comique.’” + +“So, then he has a very high opinion of your powers or you would not +have obtained those introductions.” + +“To the two best theatres, owning the most critical of managers? But I +would rather be condemned by them than praised by the inferior ones. +Mr. Gascoigne has promised to come up and see me in three or four +weeks, and I am to go down there for Easter. I suppose he thinks that I +shall fail.” + +They were nearing Charing Cross by this, and Muriel looked out at the +densely packed houses. + +“Is this your first visit to town?” + +“Yes,” she said, wondering whether he would tell her what his name was, +or whether they would never meet again. + +“In a very short time we shall have arrived,” he said quickly. “You +will permit me to say that I hope we shall meet as friends? Here is my +card. Please do not look at it now--I have a reason,” meeting her look +of inquiry with a smile as he handed her the little slip of cardboard +to her. “If you will grant me permission I will send you seats for the +‘Coliseum’ to-morrow, as I--know the manager, Mr. Harbury, and so it is +nothing. You will like to see _Hamlet_?” + +“Very much indeed. I have the greatest longing to see Francis Keene, +and to compare him with Mr. Leighton.” + +“He will not bear the comparison,” her companion smiled. “You would +not, I suppose, entertain the idea of acting as secretary to a literary +man?” he said presently. “And possibly writing his wife’s letters +as well? I have a friend who is wanting a lady in that capacity, +and I think you would suit him admirably, that is, if I am not too +impertinent?” + +“Oh! no; you are very kind to think of me. How you must dislike the +stage,” laughing a little, “to endeavour to persuade even a stranger to +leave it alone.” + +He turned to her and held out his hand. + +“It is because I no longer think of you as a stranger, Miss----” + +“Winstanley,” putting her hand into his. + +“Thank you. I will give you the address of my friend, so that if you +should care to see him you might write in a day or two; in any case, +he would be a good person for you to know. May I mention your name? +His wife gives ‘At Homes’ every Saturday, and you would meet many +professionals there. Here is the address.” + +“Meanwhile I am not to know of whom I am to think as a true friend.” + +“Until the day after to-morrow,” smiling; “that is if you think your +landlady will accompany you to the theatre. I imagine you see that you +have no one else at present, though that will not be for long.” + +“Mrs. Armstrong will look rather strange--” + +“She will not be noticed much in a box. Here we are. What a pleasant +journey it has been. Shall I get you a cab?” + +And as Muriel found herself driving to Charlotte Street in a hansom +she thought that if all her days in London were only half as pleasant +as this had proved, she would never have cause to regret leaving Abbot +Mansfield. + + * * * * * + +The “Coliseum” was crowded as usual. + +Nine months in the year the cultivated and impassioned acting of +Francis Keene drew rapt admiration from packed audiences, who listened +to every syllable that fell from his firm mouth. + +As lessee, stage-manager, and principal actor, he had his hands full, +and his genius for staging a play from Shakespeare downwards was known +throughout Europe. + +Critics could find no flaw in this, though they occasionally differed +about his rendering of a part. + +His tall, well-proportioned figure moved easily on the stage, and +the clearly-cut features and musical, perfectly-trained voice were +especially fitted for picturesque _rôles_, although Keene was too true +an actor to adhere to them. + +His Shylock was as fine as his Romeo, and King Lear as Benedict, +Othello as Iago. + +Down in rural little Abbot Mansfield his name of course was known, but +as he was particularly averse to being interviewed and would not allow +his photographs to be exhibited in any shop or photographer’s window, +his face was totally unfamiliar to Muriel Winstanley. + +Even Gray Leighton had no portrait amongst his large collection of +celebrated members of the profession. + +Her delight at being about to witness the finest play of the greatest +dramatist the world has ever produced, and of seeing the great actor in +his favourite part--many pronouncing him to be absolutely unrivalled +in it--was so intense that she was strung up to the greatest pitch of +excitement. + +Mrs. Armstrong had been with her husband in the pit she told Muriel, +and in her own language, “he looked that beautiful, miss, but so sad as +made me quite miserable, I did want him to ’ave ’ad the poor young lady +all comf’table at the end, and she so pretty, but it goes contrary all +through.” + +Muriel’s black evening gown would not attract much, if any, attention +she hoped in their box on the second tier, and Mrs. Armstrong was, +as she expressed it frequently, that flustered at being for the first +time in such an exalted position, that she kept well backward from +observation in the intervals between the acts. + +It was a grand performance. + +Keene’s theory was that _Hamlet_ was a man about thirty years of age. + +His eccentricity and madness merely assumed of course, and in the scene +with Ophelia, his + + “Get thee to a nunnery, go,” + +was uttered with regretful longing rather than peremptory harshness, +great love for her was revealed beneath the stern language, and his +last wild embrace was full of a man’s passionate agony in parting from +all that made life worth living to him. + +The girl sat as one entranced, drinking in every word, not letting a +single gesture escape her keen scrutiny. + +Her eyes flashed responsively, her breath came in gasps, she was deaf +and blind to her surroundings. + +Once or twice Keene himself glanced up at the beautiful sympathetic +face, and his own eyes glowed with quiet triumph. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +“My dear, Mr. Keene was perfectly right to advise you as he did. A man +of the world’s advice may always be taken in matters of this sort; and +a girl who lives alone is always open to criticism, you know, even if +she have no relations.” + +“I am singularly fortunate in my friends,” the girl said, with a bright +smile. “Mr. Gascoigne says I was born under a lucky star.” + +“In meeting Mr. Keene you were undoubtedly,” Mrs. Carroll said, with a +swift look at the tall, graceful figure bending over the escretoire; +“but if you knew how many failures Mr. Carroll and I have had in +trying to get a lady secretary, you would say that we were the lucky +people. There seemed to be no chance of finding what we wanted. If +a girl were clever, she was vulgar or self-assertive; if lady-like, +utterly stupid, or worse still,”--laughing--“weak and incapable of +holding an opinion. Perhaps the most objectionable type was the girl of +the period--masculine, irrepressible, and in fact----” + +“Full of bounce,” added Mr. Carroll, laughing and looking up from the +_Times_; “like Miss Morton, who dictated to me instead of taking down +my ideas. I assure you, Miss Winstanley, that she argued about every +chapter in ‘Young Calderon’s Career,’ until I suggested that she should +write a novel herself and leave me to my own little sphere.” + +“I wish that I knew shorthand,” Muriel said, presently, getting paper +and pens ready; “it would be so much quicker for you.” + +“But it entails re-writing into longhand, whereas you get my MSS. all +ready for the printers. No, I prefer this way; you are the quickest +longhand writer I have ever known. I am only afraid that just when you +get into my ways and ‘fads’ you will blossom into a Mrs. Siddons, and I +shall be in misery again.” + +The girl laughed. + +“Mr. Keene is too severe a critic, and since he has so very kindly +undertaken to bring me out, he will not let me do anything in a hurry. +It will be months yet, I expect.” + +“Humph! I hope it will,” muttered the novelist. “My dear,” to his wife, +“have you any letters for Miss Winstanley this morning, because the +sooner I can begin the better.” + +“Only a few more invitations for my ‘At Home’ on the 25th,” said Mrs. +Carroll; “here is the list. And a line to Lady Hetherington to say +that I expect her and all her party. I wish she were more æsthetic in +her tastes--her friends are so often objectionable; but it cannot be +helped.” + +Muriel wrote the letter and the invitations rapidly in her clear, +somewhat eccentric, handwriting, then handed them to Mrs. Carroll, +who passed into the adjoining room, which was only separated by +gracefully-draped curtains, for the novelist and his wife were original +enough to care for one another after ten years of married life, and Mr. +Carroll liked to have his dainty little wife always in view whilst he +was dictating, and even composing. + +Her morning-room and his library were thus in juxtaposition, and as +he walked up and down, with his notes or MSS. in his hand, smoking an +eternal cigarette or cigar, he would catch a gleam of her golden hair, +as she sat surrounded by a pretty mass of crewel silks and broideries. + +Muriel got an hour or more before ten o’clock a.m. for study, and after +two o’clock she was free, Mrs. Carroll only asking her to accompany +her in her drives and calls as a friendly request, to be refused or +accepted at will. + +She would drive her down to the “Coliseum” when Mr. Keene had wished +her to witness a rehearsal; and in the evenings there were always +stalls or a box for one of the theatres, for Muriel was to see and hear +everything by way of gaining experience. + +She herself did not know what Mr. Keene had informed the Carrolls, who +were his greatest friends. + +That Gray Leighton had so carefully trained her in voice, gesture, +manner, expression, having the most responsive ground to work upon, +she was so well drilled in Shakespeare, Sheridan, Molière, Racine--in +fact, in the brilliant actor’s splendid _repertoire_--that personal +experience was the one thing lacking to develop her splendid powers. + +She knew now that Keene and Leighton had been friends united by the +closest sympathy. + +The older man lacked the younger’s sustaining power, which at +five-and-twenty--his age when Leighton left England--was not at its +full zenith of course. + +Leighton had at once perceived his young rival’s strength, and knew +that his own fame would never be so lasting. + +The critics had condemned a too great enthusiasm in him, alleging +that his excitable nature led him to expend himself too soon in a +play; that, in consequence, his _finale_ was apt to be lacking in the +interest felt by his audience in the early part of the evening. + +Keene had felt the greatest admiration, however, for him, and he had +spoken to Muriel as he had thought from the first, his own modesty +underrating his own capabilities. + +As a manager he knew that he himself had no living equal. + +Sparing no pains, care, nor expense, he searched the world’s most +remote corners for unique talent and _objets d’art_, so that he never +incurred the mortification of reading that his productions were +“one-act plays.” + +All the minor _rôles_ were as carefully rehearsed as his own, and the +actors in his cast, even the very servants, received the most tempting +offers and larger salaries than were usually paid--by outside men as +inducement to leave the “Coliseum.” + +“Are you ready, Miss Winstanley?” asked the novelist, as Mrs. Carroll +left the room. “I don’t mind if you stop me twenty times; but for +Heaven’s sake don’t go on too fast and get muddled. I have only notes +here, you know. Where did we leave off?” + +“The twins want to go to the theatre--the Gaiety,” said Muriel, in +tones of suppressed laughter, as she read what she had written. “‘Let’s +pit it to-night,’ whispered Henry. ‘Ma’s in the humour to fork out, as +the lodgers have paid up.’” + +“Got that? All right then,” and Mr. Carroll began striding up and down, +puffing out smoke, and looking at his notes. + +“‘How much are you worth?’ asked Henrietta. ‘I’m stumped.’ + +“‘Two bob. But I shall make her give us five, and we can go on the top +of a ’bus. You go and eat some sandwiches, and I’ll tackle her now. She +can have a flirtation with the major all the evening.’ + +“‘Poor wretch, I pity him!’ said Henrietta. ‘Ma will talk about her +poor husband until he’ll wish himself out of it. I do want to see the +serpentine dance. It’s lovely.’ + +“‘You’ll be trying to do it with a table-cloth, to-morrow,’ sneered +Henry. ‘You’re mad on dancing.’ + +“‘I’d rather be mad on dancing than on lodgers,’ Henrietta answered, +epigrammatically, bouncing out of the room. ‘You get the cash,’ she +called as a parting shot.” + +“What are you laughing at!” Mr. Carroll asked, in surprise. “Do you +find it amusing? It is very vulgar, of course; but I assure you, no +exaggeration.” + +“It is very wonderful to me,” Muriel said, taking a fresh sheet of +paper, “that you can philosophise so deeply when you please, and then +put in a chapter like this--the variety is unique.” + +“The publishers tell me that it is what the public like. Life is +not all beer and skittles, you know, and yet if it were, we should +very soon tire of them. There were two little brutes who talked just +like that in a place where I stayed once in my young days. ‘Chapter +thirty-four. The howl of the pessimist is one of the signs of the +times, one that cannot be checked too strongly, for it is the outcome +of a discontent fatal to any great achievement, and as false as it is +hurtful.’” + +A dissertation on pessimism followed, and quotations from so many +classical authors of olden and modern time as showed that the author +knew his subject thoroughly, and was a man of no mean understanding. + + * * * * * + +Mrs. Carroll’s “At Home” promised to be a very brilliant affair. + +There were two ambassadors coming, the latest social “lion,” and the +most brilliant members of the legal, literary and dramatic professions. + +Mrs. Carroll had asked Muriel to go with her to Madame Irène’s about +ten days beforehand, for she said she always felt more comfortable if +she put on her gown before a friend whose judgment she could rely upon. + +All innocently Muriel assented, and expressed genuine admiration when +the dainty little woman had herself arrayed in soft, thick brocade of +the colours of almond blossom and delicate green leaves, with some real +old lace on the bodice. + +“It doesn’t make me look too old? My husband likes handsome materials,” +she said, anxiously. + +“_Mais_, madame is _superbe_,” the Frenchwoman said, clasping her +hands. + +“It suits you perfectly, Mrs. Carroll. Everyone wears brocade now, and +you will never look old,” Muriel said, smiling. + +Mrs. Carroll gave a sigh of relief, and then turned to inspect some +white silks that were hanging over chairs. + +“Do you like this, Muriel?” she said, touching one of the thickest. + +“It would suit mademoiselle,” said Madame Irène, looking at the +delicate complexion and the waves of deep gold hair. + +Muriel shook her head. + +“I am in mourning--” + +“But you will look sweet in white,” said Mrs. Carroll. “You must have a +new gown too. Madame, can you make one in time?” + +And, in spite of the girl’s look of entreaty, the little woman carried +her point, laughingly telling her as they drove home that she had +arranged it beforehand with her husband. + +“We wanted you to look your best, and white is so becoming for girls. +Old married people can do anything, you know,” she added, with a +bewitching little smile that went to Muriel’s heart as she tried to +thank her. + +Very lovely she looked on the night in the long straight folds of the +perfectly-fitting gown, with some white moss-rose buds fastened at her +breast. + +They had been sent to her anonymously, and she thought it was merely +another of Mrs. Carroll’s many kindnesses. + +She could not resist the pleasure of wearing them, although she +discovered her mistake when she made her appearance in the drawing-room. + +As soon as the rooms began filling, music, songs, and recitations +succeeded each other, there being so many professionals present that +there was no danger of _ennui_. + +Muriel played and sang, Signor Losti, the great master, taking a great +fancy to her voice, and, finding that she knew Gray Leighton, striking +up a friendship on the spot. + +Mr. Keene came on from the “Coliseum,” and, heedless of fatigue, took +his part amongst the performers with the winning courtesy so often seen +in great _artistes_. + +He said little to Muriel, seeing that she was surrounded by a circle of +admirers, until late in the evening, when Mrs. Carroll approached him +and asked with a smile if he would give them one more delight. + +He smiled and went up to Muriel. + +“Miss Winstanley, are you tired?” + +“No,” she smiled, rising instantly, wondering a little at his question. + +“I want you to recite with me.” + +“I?” starting back and turning white; “Mr. Keene--you are cruel!” + +“No,” he returned kindly, “I am quite sure that you can if you will. +You will not be nervous?” + +“Horribly--I--perhaps by myself I could, but with the greatest actor of +the day, it would be such a terrible ordeal--” + +“No worse than with Gray Leighton. Come and rehearse with me.” + +Trembling, she placed her one hand on his arm and he led her through +the conservatory, across the hall, into the library. + +“Do not be so frightened, child. You are positively shaking,” he said, +putting one hand on her shoulder. “Imagine that you are in Leighton’s +library in Idleminster and that I am he. You know Beatrice’s lines in +_Much Ado_? Yes, I am sure of your memory. Take me up in the Church +Scene, Act IV. _Exeunt_ Friar, Hero and Leonato. Beatrice and Benedict +are alone.” + +He went back a few steps to give her time to pull herself together, +then approached her with: + +“‘Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?’” + +For one instant only she hesitated, the remembrance of the scene with +its dawning of passion under cover of the exquisite badinage sending a +flood of colour to her face. + +Then she gave her answer-- + +“‘Yea, and I will weep awhile longer,’” with trembling excitement, +giving the sound of indignant tears in the rich but wondrously sweet +tone, trained to perfection by Gray Leighton’s sensitive ear. + +The scene went on to its end without a break. + +Keene, knowing the passionate nature of the girl woman, letting himself +reveal the great love of Benedict despite the laughing nature, and the +torrent of light jest that rolls from his lips. + +She rose to it, keeping well under control even when with the +confession of her love almost unconsciously forced from her: + +“‘I love you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest.’” + +He caught her to his heart, kissing her hair as he murmured +passionately--“Come, bid me do anything for thee.” + +She paled, but laughed as he released her, with sweetest witchery +pelting him with taunts until he protests: + +“‘By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account,’” and the scene +ends. + +She stood perfectly still, then swayed a moment, falling on a chair as +he went forward. + +Seeing the severe tension to which her nerves were pitched, he left +her again, quietly looking over some books, but watching her covertly, +knowing she would not faint now. + +And in a few minutes she drew a deep breath and got to her feet again, +going to him, her eyes asking the question her lips could not utter. + +He took her hands in his, pressing them with a strong close grasp. + +“I am satisfied. You are worthy of Gray Leighton’s tutelage. I will +prove my words soon. Meanwhile--hush, child, do not give way now,” +her features were quivering as she read the enthusiasm in the strong, +intellectual face looking down at her so kindly. With a great effort +she forced down her emotion and murmured, brokenly, “How can I thank +you?” + +“By coming back with me and going through it again before Mrs. +Carroll’s guests. You can--_will_ you? You can trust yourself?” + +“Can I, Mr. Keene? For God’s sake think--_can_ I?” she asked, looking +at him with all the anxious longing of a great soul in her beautiful +eyes. + +He gave her his arm with a reassuring little nod, and they entered the +drawing-room. + +Keene took his hostess aside and explained in a few words. Then, +turning to Muriel, led her to the centre of the room, and simply +announced the scene. + +She did not hesitate now. + +Clear as a bell her laughter rang out, her gestures full of quaint +witchery, void of ordinary theatrical assumption, her manner that of a +perfectly-bred lady as she alternately yielded and taunted Benedict. + +There was a storm of applause as they finished, from every one of +either sex. + +Again and again Keene was pressed to give an encore, but he knew that +the girl had been taxed to the uttermost for that night, and he let her +go. + +Old Losti went up to him and muttered a few significant words-- + +“My friend, do you know what Scott Roberts has just said to me? Mr. +Keene will do well to transplant that diamond to the ‘Coliseum.’” + +The actor’s eyes flashed, but he said curtly-- + +“I say nothing, for I do not know myself. Miss Winstanley is only an +_amateur_ at present.” + +Later on when the guests had all departed Carroll, who had been +enjoying a cigar, strolled up to Keene, who was making his _adieux_ to +Muriel and his hostess. + +“Do not hurry, Keene, have a cigar in the library, the ladies will not +object to two smokers, and they can stand umpires.” + +“Why?” laughed the other, as he looked for Mrs. Carroll’s permission +before lighting up. + +“You know the misery I have endured for the last year with inefficient +secretaries,” said the novelist, with mock indignation; “my hair nearly +turned white with worry. You introduce a pearl beyond price to me, and +when I begin to breathe freely--it’s perfectly monstrous, Keene. You +are going to turn her into a Ristori, and leave me to my misery again.” + +“My dear fellow,” the other rejoined, laughing; “can I or any other +man make a Ristori out of a nonentity? Miss Winstanley’s inner +consciousness told her long ago in what direction her talent lay, and +Gray Leighton confirmed her. I have done nothing but test my friend’s +pupil--and I find what I expected.” + +“She is too good to be kept back,” Mrs. Carroll said, kissing Muriel, +who was flushing and trying to escape. “Much as I regret it in one +way, for we shall be the losers, it would be unfair to attempt to +dissuade her. And you know, Colin, that Mr. Keene told us from the +first----” she stopped, laughing. “The mischief is out; forgive me for +my indiscretion.” + +Muriel had turned quickly to the actor, her eyes sparkling. + +“Ah! please tell me, Mr. Keene. Did you think--before--that I---- + +“Could act?” enjoying her confusion quietly. “Yes, Miss Winstanley, +after I had spoken to you for half-an-hour I felt convinced that you +had a great talent for the stage; and the more I knew you, the stronger +grew my impression. To-night you have given us all proof, and I am +sure,” with a smile at the Carrolls, “that no one of your friends would +wish to rob the histrionic profession of one of its future stars. +Having had the advantage of two or three years of such excellent +training, there need not be such long delay as is necessary with a +complete novice. Experience is requisite, after which I hope you will +have a brilliant career.” + +“Abominable!” cried Carroll. “If you were not beyond criticism, +Keene, I would get Scott Roberts and Alex. Fraser to slate your next +production. But you stand on such a deuced high pedestal that no one +can touch you.” + +They all laughed as the actor rose to go, Carroll putting his arm +around his shoulders as they left the room. + +The two had been close friends for years. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +True to his promise, Mr. Gascoigne came up to town and saw Muriel. + +She had of course told him of her good fortune in meeting with the +Carrolls, and when he saw the genuine affection they both felt for +her, and heard from the novelist how delighted he was with his new +secretary, he strongly advised her to give up the idea of using her +voice in any way as a professional. + +She smiled, but Mrs. Carroll told him of her triumph with Mr. Keene, +and of his sanguine prognostications for her future, and the old lawyer +raised his eyebrows. + +“I have seen Francis Keene in most of his best _rôles_. He is not the +sort of man to take a sudden fancy I should say. He is considered one +of the most relentless of managers and sternest of critics; if he asked +you to act with him, Muriel, your future is evidently decided, and you +are to be congratulated.” + +“We hope to keep her with us for as long as she likes to stay. My +husband is so happy with her secretarial work that he dreads the time +when she will not have the leisure,” Mrs. Carroll said, looking at +Muriel affectionately. + +“Well, it is of no use for me to remind you of your promised visit +to us at Easter,” Mr. Gascoigne said, when leaving. “As things are +it would only make a break, I suppose. You know you have only to +come, child, when you like. Let me have a wire or a letter when your +first appearance is arranged, and I will run up to applaud you. Mrs. +Gascoigne sends her dearest love; she is, as you know, too much of an +invalid to travel. Reginald wanted to see you very badly, but I thought +I would come alone this time. You can let him have a message if--the +wish should ever prove reciprocal,” he added, laughing grimly. + +“Oh, I shall not do anything for a very long time yet,” the girl said, +shaking her head, leaving the last sentence unanswered. “As you say, +Mr. Keene is far too particular to recommend me anywhere until I am +pretty certain not to disgrace his introduction.” + + * * * * * + +About a fortnight after Mrs. Carroll’s “At Home,” Muriel was sitting +alone in the drawing-room one afternoon, playing some of her favourite +Chopin’s _nocturnes_. + +It had been a wet day, and Mrs. Carroll, who detested rain, had gone to +her room to nurse a headache. + +The servant announced Mr. Keene, and Muriel got up quickly. + +“Mr. Carroll is out, and Mrs. Carroll is in her room, but I will go to +her----” + +“I came to see you, Miss Winstanley,” he said, quietly. “Miss D’Orsay +broke down after acting last night, and the doctor says she must go +abroad at once, as her chest is very delicate. Her understudy, Miss +Cameron, is in great trouble, for her mother is dying. I gave her +permission to go down to Bath yesterday, and I shall be sorry to have +to wire to her for to-night.” + +“To-night?” + +“Yes. Miss D’Orsay is too ill. Besides, she cannot speak above a +whisper. Will you take her place with me?” + +The girl looked at him with wide open startled eyes. + +“_You ask me to act in the ‘Coliseum’?_” she gasped. “Merciful Heaven! +Am I dreaming?” + +[Illustration: “YOU ASK ME TO ACT IN THE ‘COLISEUM’?” SHE GASPED.] + +“No. Listen. I intend to put on ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ in a +fortnight, and after you went through that scene with me, I meant you +to be my Beatrice. Ophelia is not a difficult part except for the mad +scene. Your voice is so exceptionally fine that the songs will be a +great feature. If you know the old music you know mine. Nothing is new. +Will you do it? You are word perfect, of course? Gray Leighton was so +wrapped up in ‘Hamlet,’ that you must have often rehearsed with him.” + +“Yes. I am word perfect,” said Muriel, slowly. “I have done it many +times, and I know the music; but----” + +She raised her eyes piteously to his face. + +“Will you do it as a favour to me?” + +“Can I face the audience, Mr. Keene? That is my only fear.” + +“Yes, or I would not ask you. I do not count a failure at the +‘Coliseum,’” he said, smiling. “Will you come back with me and rehearse +at once? I have all the people there, and we have over three hours. You +shall dine at the theatre.” + +“Then you were sure of me?” she said, smiling in spite of herself, and +the colour crept back to her face. + +“I felt I might rely upon your sympathy and help,” he returned, +taking her hands and pressing them closely. “You see that I am in a +difficulty, and I am selfish enough to come to you.” + +“How you put things,” the girl said, flushing. “I will do my best. I +shall never dare to look straight in front of me, and if I die for it I +will get through my part somehow.” + +“Thank you. Then there is no time to be lost. Will you let Mrs. Carroll +know and put your hat on? You shall have some tea after the first +rehearsal.” + +Mr. Carroll entered at that moment, and as Muriel passed him, she +struck a sudden attitude, crying laughingly: + +“Behold Ophelia of the Coliseum Theatre!” and left the astonished +novelist to receive explanation from Keene. + +In less than a few minutes she was back again in a picturesque big +feathered hat and cloak, with some thick, fluffy furs round her throat. + +The actor’s brougham was waiting, and Mr. Carroll put her in, promising +to be at the theatre with his wife as soon as possible. + +Keene had remembered every detail. + +A dressmaker was in attendance to make alterations in the dresses. + +Every employée was ordered to go into the auditorium. + +All the cast had been requested to attend for extra rehearsal before +Muriel had been electrified by being asked to take the part. + +There was hardly any hitch. + +She was not only letter-perfect, but every gesture even to stage +business had been carefully drilled in her; and her own rare +receptivity and lightning-like perception saved her from many errors. + +She had acted before in the little theatre at Idleminster, but the +difference from that to the big, stately grandeur of the ‘Coliseum’ was +appalling. + +But Keene never took his eyes off her. + +Before going on he told her that she was to turn to him for every +direction without fear. + +“No matter how slight your doubt, let me know.” + +And she obeyed him to the letter. + +So much so that after the first rehearsal of Ophelia’s part, he +directed her to play to the house. + +Carroll had come down with about a dozen friends hastily collected, and +these, with the employées, made a good appearance in the stalls. + +With a few directions, which were given in an undertone, under cover of +mere conversation, the girl went through a second time. + +“Let yourself go,” said Keene. “Don’t be afraid.” + +“You have acted before?” said Rivers to her, who played Laertes. “But +I have never had the pleasure of seeing you. I fancied that--from +something Mr. Keene said--you were a novice; but I see my error. As he +approves of course there can be no doubt of your success. He is well +pleased I know.” + +“This is my first appearance in London,” she said, quietly. “I have +taken parts in a little country theatre.” + +He stared at her for a little. + +“Then you have genius, Miss Winstanley,” he said, with courteous +respect, and Keene approached. + +“You have done better than I hoped. It is needless to give you +more fatigue. Go and rest until seven. Will you dine here?” to the +Carrolls and two eminent critics who had come down out of kindness and +friendship for Keene. “It will save you the trouble of going back, and +it is past six already.” + +They at once accepted, and a very merry party it was. + +Keene took care that Muriel had a good dinner in spite of her +protestations that she was too excited to eat, and some very especial +Mumm was produced to wish her success. + + * * * * * + +11.30 p.m. + +It was over. + +The theatre was just empty. + +Mr. Keene’s room was crowded, and Muriel’s name was in everyone’s mouth. + +She was a success. + +Three times had she been called before the curtain, trembling so that +Keene had grasped her hand tightly, and the last time almost carried +her to Mrs. Carroll who was awaiting her in the dressing-room. + +“Her fortune’s made!” said Scott Roberts, as he and Alex. Fraser went +to greet her when Mrs. Carroll brought her to the green-room. + +“As usual, Keene’s on his feet. I did not see her bit of Beatrice the +other night----” + +“I did,” nodded Fraser. “She was delightful. But anything like her +acting to-night has never been heard of. All in a minute, you know. +Marvellous I call it. And never hesitated for a word.” + +“I am glad you are pleased,” Muriel said, simply, but flushing with +pleasure at the tone of genuine praise. “I was so horribly frightened +and nervous when I heard someone say the house was packed that I +thought I should have made an idiot of myself.” + +“You positively looked at the audience,” said Carroll. “Bang into the +boxes too. My dear child, to talk of nervousness after that! You are a +fraud!” + +“That was only when Mr. Keene was on the stage with me. I did not feel +so afraid then.” + +“Your mad scene was quite novel. May one ask whether your rendering was +entirely original, Miss Winstanley?” asked Alex. Fraser. + +But Keene came up, and laughingly pushed him aside. + +“Go home and write your ‘copy’ Fraser. She has had enough of it for one +night, and I will not have her interviewed. When you have seen her as +‘Beatrice’ on my stage you shall hear who trained her.” + +And by-and-bye the Carrolls took her home. + +For one minute, as they were waiting for the brougham and the attention +of the Carrolls was taken by some friends, Muriel turned to the actor, +who was standing close behind her. + +“You have not criticized me,” she said, wistfully. “Mr. Keene was I +even half what you expected? Shall I ever be good enough?” + +He leaned down to her, speaking in her ear. + +“I will answer your question to-morrow. I cannot thank you to-night.” + +Then aloud: + +“Will you be round at five o’clock to-morrow, Miss Winstanley, please? +I should like you to go through one or two scenes with me--a full +rehearsal will not be necessary.” + +“I will not fail,” she said, giving him her hand. + +As they were driven away, Mrs. Carroll took her in her arms and kissed +her. + +“You were simply wonderful, my dear. Everyone was electrified, and even +after the other night I could hardly believe my eyes. We shall lose you +now.” + +“Not a bit of it,” said her husband. “She must live somewhere, and why +not with us? And she can still help me in the mornings, eh, my dear?” + +“How good you are to me,” she returned, gratefully. “Of course I will, +Mr. Carroll. But when Miss D’Orsay gets well I shall have to wait +perhaps a long time----” + +The novelist laughed. + +“You made a hit, my dear; your singing alone was worth hearing. Keene +was pleased, though he said nothing; he seldom does. Think of it. You +have made your _début_ on the stage of the ‘Coliseum,’ acting with the +greatest man of the time, not as a super either but as leading lady. I +shall put you into my next novel, and everyone will say how far-fetched +is the plot.” + +The next day Mrs. Carroll drove her down to the theatre, saying she +would return in time to take her back to dinner. + +As Muriel went to the green-room, Keene came out of his own and led her +in, merely greeting her in his usual courteous way. + +The room was empty, and the girl looked round a little wonderingly. + +“Am I to rehearse here instead of on the stage?” + +He did not answer for a moment. + +She threw aside her wraps and stood waiting until he approached her +quite closely. + +“I have heard from Miss D’Orsay that it is uncertain whether she will +ever be strong enough to return to the stage,” he said distinctly, +but in low tones. “Will you accept the position of leading lady, Miss +Winstanley?” + +She drew back a few steps, staring at him in bewilderment, her deep +eyes looking almost dazed. + +Then they flashed, and she ran towards him with outstretched hands. + +“Ah, you cannot mean it, you cannot,” she gasped, breathing +convulsively. + +He took her hands in both his own, and drew her towards him very +gently, looking into her eyes with such intensity that she felt he was +reading her very soul. + +Her colour came and went with each breath. + +She was powerless to resist the strong magnetic influence felt by all +who knew Francis Keene. + +“Yes, I mean it. I offer you the post for life if you will accept it. +I want you to play Beatrice to my Benedict for all time. I have loved +you from the time of our first meeting. Am I too presumptuous, or do +you care a little for me? When I saw my roses in your breast, when you +yielded to my caress that was inevitable then, I fancied that my touch +had power to thrill you. Muriel--” + +Her eyes sank beneath his, and he held her close to his heart, stooping +until his lips rested on hers. + +For a moment she rested so, then, with a sudden shudder, she drew +herself away. + +“You do not know who I am,” she whispered hoarsely. “My +mother--was--guilty of a great sin.” + +“Do not tell me, my child,” he interrupted. “I love you. Whoever or +whatever were your people and their doings is nothing to me.” + +“I can never marry,” she said, clasping her hands to her heart, and +speaking with passionate strength, “for if ever I meet a man named +Philip Ainslie I will kill him. He merits death. If he has any +descendants I will tell them of their father’s iniquity.” + +Keene started violently, and looked at her with amazement in his face. + +Then he went slowly to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. + +“My darling, what phantasy is this? Philip Ainslie was my father. I am +his eldest son, Francis Ainslie. How has my father wronged you?” + +He never forgot the horror and misery that his words brought into her +features, nor the pathos with which she recoiled, shuddering in every +limb. + +“Oh, dear God! You, _Francis Ainslie_----” + +“Keene is my theatrical name. What is it, my child? What is the sin?” +he asked, very tenderly. “Come to me and tell me.” + +But she shrank from him, pressing her hands to her eyes as though to +shut him out from her sight. + +“You--you--” she moaned. “I cannot tell you--I cannot----” + +With two steps he caught her in his arms, crushing her resistance with +unconscious strength, pressing passionate kisses on her pale, quivering +lips. + +“You love me--you cannot deny that. I will yield you to no other, +listen to no reason that can separate you from me. By this kiss I swear +that you shall be my wife. Now tell me,” releasing her, “what was the +wrong done by my father? What did he do. Tell me, Muriel.” + +White as death, she met his look and answered faintly-- + +“He betrayed my mother and murdered my father.” + +Then, before he could prevent, slipped to the ground. + +For the first time in her life, she had fainted. + +[Illustration: FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HER LIFE SHE HAD FAINTED.] + +He raised her to a chair, and fetched brandy himself, but it was some +minutes before she opened her eyes. + +As soon as she was fully sensible he made her drink some brandy mixed +with water, fairly pouring it down her throat. + +Then he spoke to her, firmly holding her hands in a strong grasp. + +And by degrees, with her face hidden on his shoulder, she told him +the story of Ainslie’s treachery, her mother’s weakness, and of her +father’s nobility, though it cost him his life. + +As she finished she drew away from him and spoke very quietly-- + +“You see that I could never be your wife. I could not marry the son of +my father’s murderer. Do not seek to persuade me.” + +“Listen to me, my darling. My father was not a good man. He married +at one-and-twenty my mother, a beautiful girl of seventeen, and in +two years he deserted her after breaking her heart with his cruelty. +She died when I was little more than six years old, but after nearly +thirty years I can see her lovely face still, with its look of eternal +unhappiness. I was educated at a monastery in Florence until I was +eighteen, and I never saw my father’s face nor knew that he existed; +he had made no sign nor troubled himself to know if I were living or +dead. My mother’s father had settled some money upon me, which made me +independent. When I came to England and went to Oxford I found that my +father was living--that he had re-married. But though I sought him out, +he betrayed such little interest in me that I left him, declaring that +he would never see me again unless he summoned me. + +“I carried out my own career without his aid. His life was a very +unhappy one, his second wife was a woman who was my mother’s opposite +entirely--strong, domineering, extravagant. He died two years ago, +before I could go to him, of a painful disease. + +“You see, my darling, that I knew nothing of his sin against your +father--it must have been committed whilst I was in Florence. I will +not press you now--you will require all your strength to act to-night. +In a week from to-day I will hear your decision.” + +And as she got up wearily he took her in his arms and kissed her +quietly with a strength and mastery that were irresistible. + + * * * * * + +Neither by word nor look did Muriel feel that the man with whom +she acted night after night remembered aught of their conversation +concerning her mother’s and his father’s sin, nor of the love that he +had shown to her. + +Whatever his genius evinced to the audience--and with Ophelia there is +but little of the tender passion to be shown--Muriel knew that he was +keeping his word to the letter, and, woman-like, she experienced just a +little pique that it was so. + +His courtesy was always the same, but whether they were alone or not, +his manner showed no more warmth than was requisite for a close friend. + +It had been a Monday when she first acted at the “Coliseum”; the week +would be up on Tuesday. + +Muriel grew white and embarrassed, dreading to meet his look, yet +looking forward each day to the evening. + +On the Saturday when the Carrolls came to fetch her, the novelist +turned to Keene. + +“Will you drive down to Windsor with us to-morrow? Roberts is coming, +and Sir Randal and Lady Trevelyan.” + +“I should have been delighted,” the actor said, cordially; “but I have +to go down into the country--to see a friend who is ill. I have been +wanting to go all the week, but Sunday is my only day, you see.” + +And on Monday when Muriel arrived at the theatre, her dresser brought +her a note from Keene. + + “My dear child,--You will find an old friend in the green room, who + is anxious to see you. Can you go now? You had better dress first, + however. + + “Yours, F. KEENE.” + +“Who can it be?” she said to herself, telling her dresser to be very +quick. + +And in ten minutes she was ready and hastening to the green room. + +Keene was there, leaning over someone lying on a sofa. + +He turned to greet her, and then Muriel gave a little cry and ran +forward to kneel by the couch. + +“You!” she said. “Oh! Mr. Leighton, this is so delightful. I never +dared to hope that you would come to London.” + +The picturesque-looking man, sadly worn and wasted physically, lying +back on the cushions, gave a warm smile, and took her hands in his. + +“When your letter reached me, child, telling of your success, I felt +tempted to try to get to town; but--you know my weakness and dislike to +being seen.” + +“Yes,” she said softly, “I know; and,” with a quick flush, “Mr. Keene +managed it, I am sure.” + +“He found me out through you, child, of course. And yesterday, +Francis,” to the actor who had left them alone, “I wonder if you +realised what it was to me to see you? It was like old times--” + +Keene came back and went round to the other side from Muriel, leaning +forward and putting one hand caressingly on Leighton’s shoulder. + +When he spoke, Muriel knew that he was putting stern control over +himself, not letting the emotion he felt be detected by the swift, +restless eyes that now and then lit up with all the fire and intellect +of a great actor’s enthusiasm. + +It was no light thing, the meeting of the two men, separated by nearly +ten years’ absence. + +They had parted with Leighton in the full zenith of his career, Keene +the rising young actor of five-and-twenty, even then considered by old +playgoers to be far in advance of all others. + +The one had been cut down in the prime of his manhood, his life’s +happiness seared by one of the basest treacheries ever perpetrated by a +friend. His enthusiasm damped, his sensitive nature shrinking beneath +the blow, he could not endure the former publicity that had attached +to his lightest action, preferring to live in an obscure country town, +away from the torment of the world’s pity. + +“You have reached so high a pinnacle that the critics cannot influence, +yet you will not disdain my congratulations, Francis. You were always +greater far than I, and to your own power you add that of unrivalled +management----” + +Keene laughingly put his hand over the speaker’s mouth. + +“Opinions differ, my dear Lyon. I would give a very great deal to have +the old days revived. You worked wonders with your pupil here. I had +little or nothing to add to your training, given at such disadvantage.” + +“I should like to witness the performance to-night from the front, +if it can be managed. Can you put me somewhere out of sight?” Fenton +asked; “if not----” + +“Your chair will be placed in the stage box,” Keene answered, softly; +“no one shall bother you. Colin Carroll--you remember him?” + +“The writer? Yes; a very amusing fellow.” + +“He has married since you knew him--a charming little woman. I thought +of asking them to take care of you; here they are.” + +“And Mr. Gascoigne!” cried Muriel. “Mr. Keene, you are inimitable.” + +“That is true,” laughed Fenton. “There is the call-boy, Francis.” + +The Carrolls came up, and the invalid’s chair was wheeled to the stage +box. + +Mr. Gascoigne went off to his stall, for Keene would not run the risk +of wearying Fenton by too many faces and conversation at first. + +The performance went off more brilliantly than ever. + +Muriel, conscious of the white, worn face watching hers and Keene’s +every movement, listening to every word, and of her old friend straight +in front of her in the stalls, was in a fever of excitement. + +Her eyes flashed and sparkled; in the mad scene she surpassed herself, +her voice filling every corner of the vast theatre like the chime of +silver bells, low but clear. + +Keene was superb, and the audience thundered such applause that he +was bound to appear after each act again and again, Muriel also being +called for with him. + +“You will be a great actress, my dear,” Lyon Fenton said to her +afterwards. “Although you have had every possible advantage in going on +with Keene, still an educated audience would not tolerate mediocrity +even under such auspices. You have sympathy, you are _en rapport_ +with your part and with the people, and you are very beautiful. Go on +working hard--Keene will never let you rest; and he is the greatest man +of the time. You like him?” + +She coloured hotly under the swift, searching scrutiny. + +“My dear, you will not be offended with me--” + +She knelt down by the chair. + +They were alone; and the tears trembled on her eyelids. + +“You know that I can never repay a tenth part of your goodness to me,” +she said, with deepest feeling. “All my life, Mr. Fenton, I shall pray +that--even yet--you may be happy. Without your training I could have +done nothing, and your introduction--” + +“No, no. That was all overshadowed by your meeting with Keene in the +train. He loved you at first sight--I know all about it, my child. +And yet there is a cloud between you. He is very attractive to +women--surely you are not insensible to his affection and admiration? +Tell me what is the matter. I am old enough to be your father, and, +moreover, I have one foot in the grave and the other hovering on the +brink. I believe that you do care for him with all your strength,” he +added, putting one hand on her arm, gently, and lifting her face. + +“Yes,” she said, suddenly, “I do, Mr. Fenton. How could I help it? He +was so kind, so thoughtful, so generous; and, when I found that he knew +you so well, it was not like speaking to a stranger.” + + * * * * * + +“And so, sweetheart, you will not visit my father’s sin upon me? I +hoped that Fenton would persuade you. Indeed,” laughing, and turning +her face up to his, “I am strongly of opinion that he is first with +you. I have got his promise that he will live with us; so that his last +years will be happier than the past ten have been. And the child loves +you. Are you pleased, my darling?” + +She put her arms round his neck, and, for the first time, laid her +mouth on his with a long passionate kiss. + +If he had doubted the strength of her love before, he never did after +that. + +“You are perfect, Francis. Quite perfect,” she said, gravely. “If you +do not commit something mortal I shall be afraid of you.” + + +NOTICE.--The next Complete Novelette Story, to be Given Away with No. +676 of “SOMETHING TO READ” Journal, will be entitled: + + AT THE ALTAR RAILS. + + +Printed by A. BRADLEY, at the London and County Works, Drury Lane, +W.C.; and Published for the Proprietor, EDWIN J. BRETT, at 173, Fleet +Street, E.C.--Feb. 13, 1894. + + + + +Transcriber’s Notes: + + +This story was published as a separate eight-page booklet distributed +as a give-away with the journal _Something to Read_. + +Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. + +Illustrations have been moved nearer the appropriate points in the text. + +Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by +the transcriber. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75340 *** |