A WOMAN ALONE.

Auckland Star, Volume XL, Issue 122, 24 May 1909, Page 8

A WOMAN ALONE.

BY CHARLES'W, .HATHAWAY. ~ (Author of "The Stain of Guilt," "A Long Martyrdom," "A Tardy Wooing," "Love's Guiding feCand/' etc.)

CHAPTER IX. A TOPER IN LUCK. "A. drunkard's purse is a bottle." —George Herbert. "I am frightened!" She was still holding his hand. Her face had become white; there was a wondering 100k —a look of fear in her eyes. "What is that Bound?" she whispered. Ail of a sudden a change had come over her. The final curtain had fallen on a scene of unparalleled success. Until the very end she had been composed, her face clear, untroubled; and then suddenly he had felt the little hand in his own tremble, and had turned to her, to see her face become suddenly white and terrified. '"What does if mean?" she whispered. "I—l don't understand!" She was like one awakened from a dream. "It means that you have triumphed : over the hearts of all, as you have triumphed over mine," ■he said, ml - a low voice. Several persons were crowding toward ' her to offer their congratulations, Helstone eager to be first. He, too, had triumphed to-night; he had given the best . that was in him. At times he had touched a higher note than he had ever attained before. ±le, too, had had his share of the applause; there was no jealousy in him now. He had shared his triumph with her. He held out his hand to her. He was saying something indistinctly, when Darnell thrust his way among them. " "Is there a doctor in the house? There is sure to be! Someone go quickly and find out before the people are gone!" he ■said excitedly. "Who is it?" Helstone asked quickly. "Huson Weir. The man collapsed all ef a sudden three minutes ago. He looked like death. I stopped to speak to him, i and suddenly he But get a doctor quickly, some one among you!" "There is no need." It was Weir himself; Be had followed Darnelyl. Darnell had not exaggerated when he said that the man had looked like death. Hβ looked like death now. His cheeks seemed Bunken; his eyes, always deeply set, seemed lost in the hollows; his mouth 7 was twitching; the perspiration was pouring from his face. "There is no ] need for a doctor," he said, attempting to laugli. "It was the iieat and the ex- 5 citement, I suppose. lam sorry." c "You look wretched, man,' Darnell said j sympathetically.- ■ ' _ j Weir shrugged his shoulders. \ "I have worked hard," he said briefly; j "but I am paid for it." His eyes sud- c denly kfndled as they rested on Irma t Stanley's face. "Yes, I am paid for it. ] She is than" —be paused j suddenly, and clenched his teeth— j "greater than any!" he said. "It pays — pays for everything! 1 "I wanted to be the first to congratu- j late you," he said, taking her hand, and j. looking steadily into her face. "You , have done what I expected you would — better, even, if that were possible. Did j I speak falsely to you?" he whispered," t bo that only she could hear. "Did I j paint a picture that was impossible? You j have heard the thunder of their applause. You have won fame; your name is on ( every tongue now. Those hundreds who were here are speaking of you. They , will remember you as they saw you to--night, all. their lives. That is triumph — f ZtSxae t" ~; . ." ; t ~ .".Ang then he-j released her < -hand away-. He left her to < the others who crowded round her, and , again a change had come over her. She was herself again; the momentary fear -, that Dale had seen in her eyes was gone, j Timidly, shyly almost, she made a little < gracious-speech to Helstone that "brought j a flush of pleasure'to his cheeks. s Sftsritad'a kind word-to-say to all the i members of the company. They had all ( helped; it was not her triumph alone, ] but theirs. Without them it would have been impossible. She made even the hum- j blest among them feel that he had played i his part—done his share. And so she won another triumph—a triumph over i ,jfche hearts- of those that worked with hen < -•-When she left the theatre that night, i .""jjjrjtth - her hand on ..©ale's arm, not one thought other than of love and admira- < tlon followed her. j ."lam so tired! It has all been splen- 1 -did"!" " She smiled at him. "How good i tney all were to mc! I can hardly un- ] derstarid it. • I—l cannot understand it i at all. And-yourplay is a great success. ; I.am- so glad!" ... : "Through'you, and because of you," he i said. "It is you who have given mc such } fame as I have earned to-night, and I 1 anr jjlad- and; jroud to accept it from your hands!" . " J She- flushed, and her eyes fell for a moment. i "And I am forgiven," he whispered— "forgiven for words that must have start- £ led you —that must have seemed strange, like the speech of a madman, yet words < that were true, that came from my heart? '< I ask for nothing—l hope for nothing 1 ■' But I must love you!" 1 For a'moment she raised her eyes to his, and then they fell again. 'But lie \ had looked into them, and had seen not 1 only forgiveness there —not forgiveness < alone, but a look that set his heart beating wildly. i "Irma, my darling, can you care a', little for mc?" he said. i And then there was no time for more. There was a crowd waiting outside in ". the rain to see her come out. Weir s was at the door. He had cleared a pas- 1 cage for her to the waiting-carriage. He ' took her from Dale. "You are better now, I hope?" Dale said. i Weir nodded his head. ] "Yes; it was just a momentary faintness—that was all. Irina, I am ready!" He led her to the <?arriage down the i narrow pathway through the crowd. He ( helped her in, and followed her. The i door was closed, and the carriage drove < away, followed by a cheer. a And Dale stood there alone, dreaming, seeing again the look that he had seen 1 in her eyes—the look that bade him hope, c that made the future seem very, very i bright to him. " ] "Buy a paper, guvnor? Give a poor 1 man a " It was the same man, < dirtier, if possible, bedraggled by the : irain, (the newspapers Imder his arm 1 now almost a sodden pulp. He "was a 1 bundle of rain-soaked rags, with a face ] seamed and scarred by evil and by want, i "Beg pardon, sir," he added hurriedly. 1 "Didn't recognise you, sir!" ] I He shambled away, dragging his well- • worn boots over the slimy pavement. j "Wait—come back! I want to speak , to you!" Dale cried. The man hesitated. "Come back!" Dale repeated. . ,

The man turned and came back. The gods had been so good to Daie that he could afford to be generous. Into the wretched life of this outcast he would bring oiie small ray of light tonight. ""What is your name?" he asked. The man hesitated. "My name? What do you want to know that for? Well, 1 don't mind telling you. It's Grant —Jim; that is, James Grant. That's my name, if you must know." Dale laughed. "To-night has been a fortunate one for mc, Grant," he said, "and I mean that you shall have a share in its success. I gave you something just now, didn't I? Here is something more. Get rid of those foul rags; get some clothes that do not make you an offence to all who see you. And don't spend it for rum!" He dropped a sovereign into the outstretched hand, and then, without waiting to hear the thanks that poured from the man's lips, turned quickly away. And. the man s.tood.rgla-ring ~aj/'l"fche coin -in his hand, scarcely believing- that it was true. "He's mad—mad! I'll watch for him again;." Grant muttered. '''OtoJd! It>'s long since I felt the touch of it!" He dragged himself away, stopping again under a lamp-post to look at the coin. "It's right—it's gold—it's a sovereign!" he muttered. "Yes, he's mad, but I'll watch for him again. 'Don't spend it far Slim , ,' he 6«-iA. Drink! It's long since I had the chance " With a sudden gesture, he flung the damp papers away from him, and went hastening along the street with a look of eager expectancy in his eyes; and then, coming to a small tavern, he thrust the door open, and went in. It was his. and there were better things to spend money upon than clothee and food and lodging. CHAPTER X. THE RHAPSODIES OF LOVE. "Love makes all equal."—Old Proverb. Faith Challen opened her eyes to see the bright sunshine streaming into her room. For miniite after minute she lay thinking, trying to remember. All that had happened on the previous night was faint and indistinct, and nothing seemed Teal to her now as she lay in the bright sunshine. There .had been a great crowd in -a huge building; ■ there had been music -ana light, and thunders of applause. What part had she played in that? flow had it affected her 1 Only one thing stcodi out real and distinot —she had stood for a moment on the stage with her hand in Harvey Dale's, and together they had faced the huge gathering. She remembered the sensation of fear that had come, to her, fear that would have been unbearable had it not been for his presence, for the touch of his hand. And then all had become dim and indistinct again—unreal. "I have brought the. papers, Mies Irma." Buth hurried into the room trith a bundle of papers in her arms, and* her face beaming. "I knew you'd like to look at them," she said excitedly; "and the things they say about you!" she added, with a note of triumph in her voice. She put the papers down on the bed, and took up one. "Look!" she said. "See what they say!: 'A triumph of acting. Miss Irma Stanley's return to the stage. Scenes of unparalleled enthusiasm;.'.", She opened the paper, and spread it before Faith's eyes. "They are far more complimentary to you than ever before," she said. '"You know I used to read every word they said, but. they were never anything like these are; they don't seem to be able to say enough. Mr Weir has been reading them. But perhaps you're tired, poor dear!" the girl added. "Would you like mc to read some of them aloud?" Faith nodded, and the girl began, pausing now and again at the difficult words. To Faith it was all unintelligible— someone had made a brilliant success, someone of whom the critics could not speak sufficiently enthusiastically. beautiful personality and her exquisite voice, no less than the wonderful power of her acting, electrified the house. Those who were fortunate enough to see her in "A House on the Sand" recognised in her an-actress of exceptional power; but it is safe to say that not one person in last night's crowded audience was prepiired for what they saw and hoard. Tn the second act, indeed; she rose to a height that has rarely, if ever, been surpassed.'" "Of whom are they writing?" Faith asked wonderingly. Ruth started, the paper almost falling from her hand. "Why, Miss Inna, who—who but you ?" she cried. "You J It's all about you! Oh, my dear, what a start you gave mc; you do ask such odd questions. Just as if you didn't know it was about you— all this, and these!" She stretched out her band, and touched the pile of papers. Faith shook her head slowly—it was, past her understanding; and then, seeing the perplexed, anxious look in the girl's eyes, she smiled reassuringly. "I—l am tired this morning. I have forgotten," she said listlessly. "I think I will get up, Buth. The papers can wait, can't they?" j "Of course they can wait, Miss Irma," Ruth said. "You'll read them all presently. I might have known you'd be tired this morning; you always "were—always." "Is Mr Weir in?" "No; he has gone out. He went out about half-an-hour ago. To the theatre, I think he said he was going." Ruth helped Faith to dress. Breakfast was laid in the pleasant morning room that opened into the garden, but she had no appetite for breakfast. She drank a cup of tea, and went out into the sunshine; that, at any rate, was real—the sunshine and the flowers. Who was she? Was she Faith Challen? She tried to look back on her life of the past few weeks. How long was it since she first came to this house—how long since this unfathomable change had taken place in her? Could it be that she was leading two lives—one so far apart from the other that all that happened to her in that phase of her existence was lost to her in this one? As Faith Challen she could remember her early days the days of her childhood at home with her father and Diek —Dick, her playmate, her friend—and then the weary, hateful years she had spent at Samuel Parker's, at Newehester. This, at any rate, was all clear, all real to her; and after that all was blurred, indistinct, unreal. Only one figure stood out real and true against the mist—the figure of Harvey Dale.

And he, the man. himself, was standing before her, looking down at her with a kindly smile on his face, and his hand i outstretched to her. "IJieard that you were Uere, I came, lima," he said gently. . ~. - • "I was thinking of .you," she "'said simply—"of"you, and trying to remember." "Trying to remember?" He had taken her hand, and held it in his own. "What were you trying to remember—the glori- » ous triumph of last night?" 3 She nodded her head. » "I suppose so," she said. "I—l can- - not understand." The tears suddenly came into her eyes. "It seems like a dream to me —a dream that is dim and indistinct, as dreams are when one 3 awakens." "You are tired and overwrought. It 3 hae been too much for you. All this t fame that has come to you is too much for these slender shoulders to bear." "I remember," she said dreamily, ; "standing by your side looking over a i sea of faces, and I was frightened, but - —but you held my hand, and the touch , of your hand pave mc courage. If it t had not been for that " She shiverJ ed for a moment, and looked up at him 1 with a wistful, questioning expression in ' her eyes. "Irma. don't think" of it—not of the " past, only of the present. I have been ■ counting the hours till I could see you i again. You -forgave mc for what I said —for the rash words that came to my 5 lips the'other Was ft ' because" you have' grown to care for mc a little ? Ts there any hope for mc? 1 "Last night when I looked on at your ' triumph I triumphed with you, but it seempd to mc that your success was' > lifting you far, far beyond my reach. ; Was it so. Irma?" She shook her head slowly. "Only you seemed real to mc," she ' whispered. "It was your hand that ' seemed to guide mc; but for it I should > have fallen. I was frightened, but you w«re by my side." ' 'If- ■ I could always be by your side, ' always near to protect you!" he said. • "Irma, look up at mc. Tell mc, is there ' any hope for mc? Can, you care?" His ! voice was trembling with hope and ' eagerness. "I love you with all my ' heart and soul! I love you—you your- • self. Not Irma Stanley, the brilliant actress; not the woman who drew tears, smiles and applause from last night's audience—but you! You; I want you; selfishly to take you away, to have you to myself; not to share you with the world. I ask too much.'l know; but that is my love for you. Have you ' anything to say to me—to tell mc?" Ho felt her hand that still lay in his tremble, be saw the deep colour come ; into her clieoks; but he could not see her eyes, for they wore cast down. "Last night you looked at mc and • smiled, and T saw forgiveness in yonr eyes, and I dared to hope, to believe, that I saw more. T)id T deceive myself, Irma. or was it true—do you care for mo?" i She lifted her nyes slowly to his— honest and truthful eyes as ever dwelt in woman's face. "Yes. it is true—l care!" she whispered. "I care!" And then he took her into his arms, and held her against his breast, raining passionate kisses upon her eyes and lips. It was the moment of their lives, the moment that would dwell in their memories through all the years to come. Whatever the future should hold for them —sadness or joy—it could not rob 1 them of this memory. And so thpy stood together in the garden among tlio flowers and the sunshine, and there was no past, no future only the present, made glorious by the great love that had come into both ' their hearts. (To be continued daily.)"