Destiny

By G. P. S.

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Title: Destiny

Author: G. P. S.

Editor: Edwin J. Brett

Release date: February 11, 2025 [eBook #75340]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Edwin J. Brett, 1894

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DESTINY ***





  _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.





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