SENT INTO EXILE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 8, 11 January 1899, Page 6

SENT INTO EXILE.

f By C. E. CHEESEMAN,

(ALL RIGHTS RT^SERVED.)

•A-athor of 'A Rolling Stone,' 'Had He Known,' and 'On a Lee Shore.'

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I. and ll,— The manager of the Violet Hyde Dramatic Company, Mr Tomlins, and Mr Dalzell, one of the actors and husband of the star, having discussed the extremely unsatisfactory condition of business; resolve that the one thing to revive the ebbing fortunes of the company is to get Dalzell's little gin to take a part in the performance. The child is a born actress, but very delicate, and Mrs Dalzell, who has lost another little girl through overwork on the boards, has resolved that 'the one that remains to her shall not be sacrificed in the same way. The manager easily gains the husband's consent to Hilda's appearing in the next piece. Dalzell is a thriftless dissipated individual, who has squandered his wife's earnings, and is chiefly anxious to get more money for himself, hut Mrs Dalzell is not to he dissuaded from her resolve, and determines that rather than that her child should go on the stage she will send her away to be brought up by friends in England.

CHAPTER 111. — The company leaves Sydney for San Francisco, calling at Auckland en route. During the few hours spent ashore in the latter city, Mrs Dalzell carries her project into execution. At the cost of inexpressible grief to herself and Hilda, she leaves the little girl in charge of a trusted friend, after making all arrangements for her being taken to England, immediately. She then goes on board the American bound steamer, and in company with her husband resumes the journey to San Francisco.

CHAPTER IV,

THE PRICE OF THE SACRIFICE.

So unobservant had Dalzell become of those whose claims on his' attention should have been strongest, that it ■was actually two whole days before he noticed the absence of his child. It is true that other people had relijiarked that she was no longer with her mother, but they naturally sup-

posed that irf Hilda had been left

in Auckland it was with the knowledge and approval of both parents. They were not sufficiently interested in the little girl to puzzle themselves with many.conjectures as to what had lpeeome of her. It was not their business, and they had no reason to sup-! pose there was anything unusual in the matter. However, Dalzell, being for a whole quarter of an hour in the unusual * position of having no entertainment, save such as might be derived from his own thoughts, began to wonder -where Hilda could have hidden herself. When had he' seen her last? With some difficulty he remembered that she had been with him on the morning he had landed at Auckland. He had wanted to take her with him, but Mrs Dalzell had made some excuse, and it had been settled that Hilda should wait until her mother went ashore. But as he was leaving Mrs Dalzell had whispered to her; and - she had called him back. 'Papa,' shehad cried, 'say good-bye before you ' .go' ; and she had held up her face to be kissed. 'Why,' he had said, laughingly, 'do you think I am going to run. away and leave you? Or is it*you two who are plotting to run away?' It was not much of a joke, certainly, but it; -had struck him as rather strange that neither of the two should smile. He went to seek his wife, and as •usual found her on deck, sitting by herself, a little apart from the other passengers. She had a book in her hand,. but her vacant eyes seemed to be reading the furrowed sea, rather than the printed page before her. 'I say, Vl,' her husband began, •what have you done with Hilda ? I haven't seen her since we left Auckland.. Where have you hidden her?' Mrs Dalzell slowly turned her eyes towards him. ' Hilda is not with us,' she said calmly. ' Not with us !' In his extreme surprise, he went back a step or two. . * Whatever do you mean ?' ' Whfct I say.' Her fade had turned very pale, but she spoke with a composure that seemed unnatural.. She Jificl anticipated this moment, and was prepared for it, , 'Yqu must be losing your senses !' lie cried angrily. .' Am Ito understand that' Hilda is not on board, or is this some extraordinary joke you have played on me ? But. that can't be ; you never made a joke in your life.' ■"■ *'I assure.you that I am perfectly serious,' Mrs Dalzell replied, in a voice that was not so steady as before. * She is not on the steamer.' 'In the name of Heaven, where is then ? You seem to have taken the law into your ovrti hands ; to have disposed of our child as if I had no ' authority over her, no ri^t to speak. Where is she ?' :■'■■:■■■* I cannot tell yon.' .-..■. ' Cannot! What nonsense ! You must tell me; you shall!' He was speaking in loud and angry tones, and some of the other passengers who were on deck began to look towards him, with wondering glances.. v 'A stiff breeze over there,' said one gentleman, knowingly. 'These actor's, poor fellows, are generally un-ftjj-timate in their matrimonial ventures.' AA 'Jn this case,' his friend replied. «X think it's the man that's a, bad bargain. His wife seems a quiet,' ladylike woman.' 'Oh, the quiet ones are always the most aggravating,' said thi other, with a laugh. Dalzell hurried below, his face dark with passioh. In his haste he ran against one of the stewards, who was bound" to the smoking-room, with some glasses on a tray. 'Beg pardon, sir,' said the man, drawing to one side and flattening himself as much as possible, so that the irate Dalzell might have plenty of 'B e „ pardon. ! I should think so f* - the latter retorted, with the absurd ano-er of a man so thoroughly out of temper that he. is ready to look upon the slightest affront or-annoyance as an insult. 'Do your employers keep you here to batter gentlemen with ymir trgyji and glasses?' . 'Gentlemen?' muttered the steward sulkily. * I guess I know a gentleman when I see hjm, and you are not of that sort.' Drlzell very unceremoniously burst into the cabin which waS oequpjed by Mr Tomlins. .and.JlDOther gentleman. The other gentleman was <?n deck; but Mr Tomlins remained below, prostrnfi« on his narrow couch. He suffered ' • oni sea-sickness, and was not consolt" in his affliction by the assurane< of his friends that it would do hii- ore good than harm. He had be* ill most of the way over from S\ -y ;he was now—after the happy recite of a day ashore in Auckland — ill again. He had taken all the vaunt-

Ed specifics for the malady ; he had tried living on fruit ; he had eaten oysters ;he had drunk champagne, and he was neither, exhilarated nor restored. No one else was unwell, which made the matter all the more vexatious. The sea was smooth, yet Tomlins lay in his berth and refused all nourishment, except the smallest and daintiest morsels, which were sedulously provided by the stewards. These functionaries were particularly attentive to Mr Tomlins, who dispensed his fees with a liberal hand. When Dalzell invaded his privacy, lie was languidly eating some slices of lemon.

' What is the matter ?' he said, raising- his sallow face from the pillow, to stare at the flushed and excited Dalzell.

' I wish you would come on deck,' said the actor abruptly, ' and talk to Mrs Dalzell. You have some influence with her. I don't seem to have any.'

' Good gracious ? what can have happened ?' exclaimed Mr Tomlins.

' Happened ! I can scarcely believe it yet. She has spirited away Hilda, that's all. Left the child in Auckland, I suppose, though she refuses to tell me where.'

4 This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of,' said Mr Tomlins, getting out of his berth at once. He was so astonished that he forgot all about his sea-sickness. 'Spirited away Hilda ! Oh, there's some mistake. You're dreaming.'

' Oh, well, come and see.' Dalzell said, with an angry laugh.

' But what good can I do ?' asked Mr Tomlins, helplessly. ' I tell you plainly, I'd rather not be involved in your domestic affairs. It's not quite the thing. I can't interfere between you and your wife.' ' I asked you as a friend,' Dalzell said reproachfully. ' I assure you, Mrs Dalzell is more likely to be influenced by a word from you, than by anything I can say. She distrusts me, because I have always opposed her about Hilda ; but she may listen to another person.' He went out of the oabin, and Tomlins unwillingly followed him. On deck they found Mrs Dalzell, still sitting where Dalzell had left her, and still lookine" on the sea.

' Good morning, Mrs Dalzell, 5 the manager said. ' I have not seen you fol- a day or two. You are more fortunate than I am ; you are able to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.' He drew one of the chairs nearer, to her, and sitting down, said in a lower voice, 'What is this I hear about your little girl ? Mr Dalzell has surprised me very much. ' Is it true that you have left Hilda behind ?'

' Quite true,' said Mrs Dalzell, also in subdued tones. 'I did it for the best.'

' For the best!' exclaimed Dalzfell, scornfully.

' You do not understand me,' his wife said. ' It- was the only way to save her from a life which I had determined she should never lead. If she had stayed with us she must have gone on the stage. .You were training her for that; you withstood all my attempts to prevent her acting. It was better that she should go. She is with good and kindhearted people ; she will have all that heart can wish.'

'Except one, thing,' said Mr Tomlins. Mrs Dalzell looked at him inquiringly. 'I mean she won't have her mother's care. Depend upon it, Mrs Dalzell, that unless the mother's a very strange person indeed, the child who is parted from her is always to be pitied.' ' ' What--about the father ?' Dalzell asked sneeringly. 'He of course is of no importance ; no good to anyone. You both seem to leave me out of the question.'

' Not at all,' said Mr Tomlins, suave- . ' We could hardly do that.'

'Perhaps Mrs Dalzell will kindly explain,' her husband continued, 'how it is that one who professes such a lofty unselfishness, such devoted affection for her daughter, can have coolly arranged this separation. She must be very fond of the child she has quartered upon strangers.'

'Mrs Dalzell's face flushed vividly. 'Do you think I found it easy to pariwith her?' she said. 'Do you think I don't want her back again every hour of my life? She was all that I had! But I don't regret what I have done. If I had loved her less, perhaps 1 mightn't have sent her away. I wouldn't keep her here to make a little drudge of her, to spoil her childhood, to steal her best years from her. No; she shall be happy as other children are; she shall have their pleasures and enjoyments. The life we lead is not good for a child. It was wearing her out, as it wore Isabel out. Oh! have you forgotten that ajittle while ago I had another child? When she died in my arms, I vowed that at any cost I would keep Hilda safe. But what is the use of talking? You do not believe me. You think that I am foolish or fanciful; that I do not love my child; that I sent her away from me out of spite or for a mere whim—you think everything but the truth.'

'No, no, Mrs Dalzell,' the manager said gently. He was touched by her distress, and he felt the truth of the \vords she had so passionately utter-, cd. 'No one who knows you could think that you did not love your child. We believe that you would sacrifice anything for her good. I'm not accustomed to lecture people, or to moralise, or to speak about this sort of feing at all-^—.' Mr Tomlins began to be hot and uncomfortable. There was even some sort of a glow on his sallow face. It made him feel shy, this preaching'to the handsome lady whose melancholy dark eyes watched him so earnestly. 'But,' he resumed, 'I must say I don't think you've acted fairly. You forgot one thing—you forgot that your child didn't belong to you only, but also to your husband.' 'You think kindly of me,' Mrs Dalzell said. 'You are right. Perhaps I did forget. I hope- ,' she just glanced at Dalzell-^'my husband will forgive me that.' Her eyes filled with tears, she rose from her seat, and walked away from them.

'Go after her,' Said the manager, putting his hand on Dalzell's shoulder. 'She will tell you all about it now.' Dalzell shook his head. 'No. You don't know her.' He was deeply offended. For days after this, he scarcely spoke to . his wife. Before his indifference had at least been good humoured, and when he had talked with her, he had addressed her kindly. People had noticed that they were seldom together;, but np one had supposed there was any estrangement. But now the fact that they were on ill terms with each ! other could no.longer be concealed. 'I'll not humble myself by offering to make it up,' Dalzell told himself fiercely. 'She shall come to me. I'll make her tell me all about.it yet.' H e knew that she felt the studied neglect with which he treated her, the marked aversion wita N which he would turn '

away when he saw her approach him, the sneering manner in which, even when others were present, he did not scruple to address her. He saw her lips quiver, her cheeks flush at these slights and insults, and at times he had the grace to feel ashamed of himself. He justified his conduct by the excuse thai iie was humbling her only to bring her to him again. But what he expected never came to pass. She made no submission.

At last, he was weary of being angry. -Look here, Violet,' he said one day, 'let's have an end of this. You've'treated me roughly; but I don'f want to be hard with you. It's an uncomfortable sort of life we're leading. Don't you think we mightbe friends again?'

They were alone in their cabin. For answer his wife laid her head against his shoulder and burst into tears.

'Why Vi,' he said, feeling very magnanimous and generous because he was behaving so kindly to her, 'why will you cry over it now? If I said anything that hurt your feelings, I'm sure 1 beg your pardon. Will that do? Come now, tell me what you have done with Hilda. Of course, I can make inquiries. I can find out where she is without your help; but I'd rather you told me. It seems strange you should have so little confidence in me.'

'Will you promise me one thing?' she asked, looking up into his face.

'What is it? Of course, I'll promise anything reasonable.' 'If I tell you where she is, and send for her back again, will you allow me to have the control of her education? I mean, will you give up all idea of her going on the stage?' j 'That's ridiculous! Give up the very thing she's best, fitted for! On the stage she'd make her fortune. No; I'm too anxious for my girl to do well to promise any such thing.' 'Then I can't tell you anything,' Mrs Dalzell answered, decidedly. T am sorry; but I will not give wa3' in this. You need make no inquiries. You will never find her without my help.'

'A saint would lose patience with you!' Dalzell said. 'Do you mean what you say? Will you never tell me? Are we always to be cut ofi from our child?'

'No, not always. She will come back after a few years.'

'A few years!' 'Yes. Surely Aye can spare her, if we know .hat it., is for her good.'

'I don't know it. I don't believe any such thing. You'll hear from her, I suppose; or have you set your face against that also?' 'Oh, no! I shall hear from her sometimes.'

'Ah!' he said, meditatively,.'if letters came, he might see them. But, of course, it was all nonsense to suppose that he wouldn't be able to solve this problem. The first chance he had of starting his investigations he would search the whole world, but he would find his child.'

'So you wont?' he said, by way of conclusion.

'No,' Mrs Dalzell answered. It was always the same answer. He would not yield to the condition she had made, and therefore she invariably met him with a blank refusal. 'No, no, and again no.' 'The fact is,' Dalzell sarcastically remarked to Mr Tomlins, T believe I've discovered what Carlyle was always spouting about—the "Everlasting No." '

At, the end of the voyage he knew no more about Hilda than he had dene at the beginning. Two months later he was still in the same condition of bewildering ignorance. He had done everything that could be thought of, short of going himself to search.for his daughter. This was impossible,.nnless he broke his theat-rical-engagements. He was obliged to rest satisfied witfi\Mrs Dalzell's assurances that Hildaxwas well eared for. He was not aware that his wife had any friends who would have done her such a service. Years ago he had heard of Mrs King, but; at that time she had been in India, and" he knew nothing of her return toj England. As for. the other person whose assistance Mrs Dalzell had required, he bad never noticed that they were accustomed to confer with each other, or that there was any intimacy between them. That Mrs Parkes was concerned in this affair he never dreamed.

If a letter came from those who had charge of Hilda he should insist on seeing it. But he was positive that no letter had come. His wife's restlessneFS and anxiety was proof -of this. He knew as well as if she had told him that she was pining for news of her child.'

It was at this time that her health began to fail. She grew thinner; there were hollows in her cheeks, which until now had scarcely lost the rounded outline of youth; her face was haggard and faded, a face that had forgotten how to smile. But she had never acted more brilliantly; and the American tour was a sei'ies of successes. Dalzell's auger might have been'assuaged by this good fortune, if, for the first time, his wife had not insisted on retaining for her own use almost the whole of her earnings, which amounted to something considerable. She was saving her money, she told him, so that when Hilda returned she might perhaps be able to give up acting, and to live quietly with her daughter. 'I am so tired of it all,' she said, and Dalzell, as he looked into her alte red face, so wan and thin and colourlf ss, felt himself checked by a sudden feeling of pity.

They were at Chicago when she was taken ill. It was only a cold at first —a chill she had caught Virile acting. No one supposed that the- illness was dangerous. It meant no more than a few days' confinement in her own room, a short rest from acting and then she v.ould go back to her work. Not : until near the end did Dalzell discover how fallacious were these hopes.

She had a relapse, and rapidly grew worse.- All through the long and feverish nights she talked of her child. Over and over again she asked the same questions. Where was Hilda? When would she come? Why did they not send for her? It seemed as if in these delirious wanderings her mind had lost the secret which belonged to herself alone, and that she had forgotten why her child was no longer with her.

'There is one thing that should be done at once,' the doctor said to Dalzell. 'The nurse tells me that Mrs Dalzell is continually asking for her daughter who is absent. She is fretting for her. It will not do to thwart her in this. By all means, send for the child.'

'Send for her!' Dalzell cried despairingly. 'Oh, if I could. I'd give my right hand to be able to bring her back to her mother! But I don't know where she is. My wife never would tell me. She sent the child away from her, and it has broken her heart.'

jThpn in a few words he told the story of Hilda's disappearance, the doctor listening in silent astonishment.

They thought it possible that Mrs Dalzell might still say something which would give them'a clue as to where Hilda might be found. Mat nothing was to be gained i'Vom her incoherent ramblings, nothing but the piteous cry for. Hilda—Hilda, who was so far away that even if she had been summoned she would have come too late. At last the fever had burnt itself out. Mrs Dalzell slept from exhaustion. For almost a whole clay she had been sleeping, or else had lain in a half unconscious state, too feeble to raise her eyelids and look around her.

It was night, and still she appeared to sleep. Her husband watched with her. He had sent the mi'-se away. 'You had better get. some rest.' he said. "I would rather be alone here. If you are needed I will call you at once.'

He was left alone, sitting beside the bed and watching the face of his wife. How still it was; how white and calm! Against the dark hair tossed on the pillow the delicate features seemed to be carved of ivory. Once or twice a sudden fear seized him, and he leaned over to listen for her breathing. But he heard it again, though sometimes it faltered, sometimes seemed almost to fail.

The midnight hour passed. From somewhere near at hand he heard a clock strike one — two — and then three. He remembered the common saying that more people die in these early hours of morning than at any other time. Would she see the light of another day? The doctor had owned that he scarcely expected it. Would she ever awake from that sleep?- He prayed that she might. With all his soul he longed that she might know him again, that she might.speak to him before she died.

All at once her breathing began to be troubled. She moved her hands restlessly; she awoke. It was so sudden, the lifting of those dark-fringed eyelids, that he almost started. But the eyes were dull and lustreless. They seemed to be vainly striving to look through a mist, to be searching for other eyes that should have met their gaze. They were bent on Dalzell's face; but he could not tell from that look, earnest as it was, whether he was recognised. •

'What is it, dearest?' he asked, in a choked voice. 'I am here. What is it that you want?'

She tried to say something; but her utterance was so indistinct that he could not understand her. One word only he distinguished, and that was 'Hilda.'

'Oh,' he said, so overmastered by his passionate grief that he coulij scarcely articulate, 'tell me where Hilda is! Don't you understand? 1 will say it again.' -He bent over her and spoke slowly and distinctly. 'Where is Hilda? Tell me, so that I may send for her. Oh, for God's sake listen!'- ,

She heard him, and from the expression of her face he felt sure that she understood. With a painful effort she tried to speak; but again it was only an unintelligible jumble of sounds.

No longer able to control himself, he sobbed aloud. The nurse, who, unheard by him, had come into the room, touched him softly. 'Oh, sir,' she whispered, 'don't trouble her now. It is too late.'

'Can you do nothing?' he said, turning upon the poor woman almost furiously. 'Can't you give her something? Oh, if she could speak to me!'

The nurse poured something- into a glass and gave it to Mrs Dalzell. It was a strong restorative, and for a moment her breathingwas less laboured. Once more the eyelids fluttered, were raised, and then drooped again.

'Violet,' Dalzell said, bending over her. 'Violet! Oh, my love, speak to me!'

It seemed as if his words had broken the bonds of death. With the last effort of her strength she struggled nearer him. Her eyes were wide open now; her head sank, upon his arm; it was surely a smile tliat parted her lips. She spoke, and this time her words, though very low, were clear and distinct as he had ever, heard them. 'I am so tired,' she murmured —'so very tired.'

No more. He was stunned, stupefied with excess of grjef. Heedless of the long silence, heedless of the frozen calm of that breast which so lately had panted against his own, he still watched the white face that rested on his arm, still listened for the feeble, faltering voice. She had not gone. Oh, no; she slept. It was a wild hope, a foolish thought that was soon to be drowned in the clamour of despair. Those ljps would never speak to him again. Never, never, never! The lamp still burns in that silent room; but without is the pearly light of dawn, the springing of a fresh breeze on the wide grey lake, the growing tumult of a great city awaking from its, sleep. Have the gates of morning opened that a soul might pass? For lo! in the jewelled east stand the foundations of that city that knows not death nor sorrow. And below, over vast prairies, over autumn cornfields, over lone farmhouses, over village and town is the march of the glad young day. Without pause or change, 'without rest or haste,' Time moves on, burying our griefs and joys beneath the oblivious years. (To be Continued.)