A WOMAN ALONE.

Auckland Star, Volume XL, Issue 123, 25 May 1909, Page 6

A WOMAN ALONE.

■■■'■■•-". BY CHARLES W. HATHAWAY. (Author of "The Stain of Guilt," "A Long Martyrdom," "A Tardy Wooing," "Love's Guiding Hand," etc.)

CHAPTER XI. iOTJ-SAW HER — THAT WOMAN! SHE IS Mi' DAUGHTER!" . ;**Anger is .brief madness." — Horace. **I want to see-the-ge-ntleman -who gave tee something last nisht. I wanted to tell him it was-stolen from me—every penny of it!" "I can't help-your troubles. You keep back!"'' The attendant at the door spoke gruffly, and with'authority. "Keep back, or I'll call a policeman and have you cleared out!" The man shrank- back muttering to ! himself. "Stolen from me—every penny of it! I'll swear it before " He suddenly ceased speaking, and seemed to hold his breath. A brougham hads'topped before the en.trance "to the theatre, "a man alighted :cfirickry; ajrd passed, across the "pavement —a man, tall and gaunt, with long black hair and ill-fitting black clothes. For a moment the castaway stood gazing at him as though in disbelief of his senses, then he sprang forward, but too latej the man had passed into the theatre, and the-swinging ■ deors had closed on him. "Didn't I tell you to keep out of here?" the attendant said. "Who ivas he —that man who went in a -minute ago?" "Look here, I'm sick of you, you raga- ~ muffin!" said the attendant. "I'll call the first policeman and give you in charge!'' "Tell mc who he was—tell mc, and I'll go away—l swear I will —the man who just went in?" -The attendant scowled. - ' '"I don't-see what he'slgat to do with ._'s:ou,.ol:,yoTi with him. But if you want ■"to know -" He paused. "Yes?" The man leaned forward eagerly. "Yes, tell mc," he gasped. "It's Mr Weir —Mr Huson Wair, Miss Stanley's manager. Now, c:ear out!" Again the man shrank back, to be greeted by the jeers of the other news-paper-sellers. They knew him well, and his white hairs aroused no respect in their breasts. "Was he the chap that gave you the money last night?" one asked. The man turned on him in a- fury, reviling him and shrieking oaths at him. "All right; you needn't:get excited," the other mail said. "I was only going to tell you. if you want to see him, it's no good your staying here. I saw him come out last night with Miss Stanley _ ...that they .are making such a fuss about ;- he'll come out by "the stagej door. But i don't suppose you'll get any more out of him; he'll say you'spent it in drink. ' Paper, sir?" The man turned hurriedly away to offer a paper to a passer-by. The stage door of the Melpomene opened into a narrow side-street. It was scarcely ten o'clock yet, and the street" was deserted when Grant took up his stand near the door. "Huson Weir—Huson Weir! Is that what he calls himself?" he muttered. I'd know him again in a thousand; I'd know him anywhere!" He clenched his fists. A look of ferocity came into his haggard, worn face. "I'd know him anywhere, v and so would others—so would Weston. 'And he looks thriving, riding in his carriage! Him "riding in his carriage!" It began to rain presently—a soft, continuous drizzle; but the waiting man did not take notice of it. A man came up the street, and entered by the stage door. He looked at him without recognition. It was the man whom, earlier in the evening,, he had wanted so much to see, Harvey Dale.- But ■ now he let him pass without a word. It was not for him now that he was waiting, but for the other. The play would be over very soon. Two or three people came and took up their stand by the stage door. As the minutes wore on the little gathering increased in numbers. They had come to see the celebrated Irma Stanley leave the theatre. Grant had to fight for his place presently. They would have elbowed him into the background, but he stood his ground, snarling and cursing at them. And now the people were coming out of the theatre. Many of them hurried round to the stage -door—in order that they'might catch one more glimpse of Irma Stanley. The crowd increased, and, despite his struggles, Grant found himself being thrust back farther and farther from the door. A carriage had come up the narrow street, and was standing near the curb— the same carriage from which he had 7 seen Weir descend. ".' 1 The minutes passed, and! then the actors and actresses began to come out, and at each new arrival the crowd pressed forward. "There she is! That's her! There she is}" Every time the lamplight in the doorkeeper's box shone on the face of a woman the crowd "surged forward. Each time it was a disappointment, and they had to make way to allow the actors to pass out. now, after a long wait,.a,map ~ stood in- tm?-narrow;docirway:. He look~ ed out on the crowd,-and a smile flickered over his face. "That's Weir, her manager. She'll be coming in a minute,'' one muttered. She came. They pressed forward; her - -name- was on—every lip. It-was an honour to be near ■ her—to be able to say - ihat they Had "touched her dress as she passed. .Weir cleared the way for her. -He tthrust the people back. "You must give us.room," he said, in a low voice. "Please make room there!" "Let mc pass—let mc pass!" A man - was fighting on the fringe of the crowd ■ —an old man, with a face strained with ..'.eagerness, hatless—his disordered grey .hair fell "about hfe'stained, haggard face. ."_ "Let mc pass!" ' ' He clenched his teeth, and fought his way-through the crowd, striking out at . those in his path like a madman. And t then .suddenly., as he-heored: the-"edge, .he ~ paused.' A look "of wondeT came into his face. For a moment the iury died out. ■ "Molly!"-' he-shrieked. "Molly! Don't - -you know-me-?"- - - - - - 7. His hand was on Faith Challen's arm. , He'erntcbed at her desperately. She felt his grip, she heard his voice - in her ears, and-she turned her startled - face toward him for a moment. She saw him, wild, unkempt, foul with the fiith of the street, shrieking to her -to ref-of;nise him, and she uttered a little cry of fear. The next moment Weir had thrust her into the carriage, and turn cd. His face was black with fury; his eyes shone dangerously. : He raired his clenched hand and struck . the man across the face, sending him reel- :. ing back into the gutter, to fall there in - the mud, while the crowd closed round -him, jeering .and laughing at his dis- . fparffture. 7- - -.'

"You asked for it. mate; it served you right," one man said. He stooped to help Grant to rise; but. with an oath, the old man flung his hand away, and sprang up. There was bloodon his face. "You saw her, all of you!" He raised 1 his tattered arm, and pointed after the vanishing carriage. "You saw her—that woman who didn't know mc! She is my daughter!" CHAPTER XII. "TOU STRrCK HIM DOWN. AND HB WAS AN OLD MAN." "The veil through which I might not see." —Omar Khayyam. why did you do-that —why did you do that?" FaithChallen was sobbing with fear. "It was' cruel and unkind; Ihe, was an Old man. -Perhaps" he meant 'no harm-!" ■• ■ . • - ;- •• "He did mean harm; I know the man," j Weir said briefly. She caught' a' glance "of' his face as they passed the -light of-a lamp, and she | saw that- it was whiter than usual — ■that his black "eyes were fierce with anger. I "The man meant harm; he is a I scoundrel!" he said, speaking between his teeth. "Don't question mc. If—if you knew the truth, you would not I blame mc. And" —he leaned forward, and put his hand on her arm —"should you by some evil chance ever see him I again, avoid him! Never let him speak to you!" ■ She wondered at his vehemence. "You hear?" he said, almost roughly. "I want your -promise." "If I can avoid him,;.l will" she said. "I should not wish to speak to him. But why must I promise?" Weir was silent. Again she repeated the question, but he made no answer. She was still trembling and nervous when she reached the house, after the long drive that seemed as if it would never- end. Ruth was waiting for her, cheerful and sympathetic, eager to be of use. This girJ's patience and good spirits never seemed to fail her. "Attend Miss Irma, and help her to bed," Weir said. "She is tired—worn out to-night! Good-night, Irma!" He turned to. Faith and took her hand, ana held it tight in his own. "Good-night! You are tired —tired out!" He bent his head and looked steadily into her face. "Tired out, child," he said softly, "and you need sleep. You will, sleep sound'y —very soundly to-night" Weir closed the door of his study, and turned the key in the lock. "So he has come back!" he muttered. "Come back, and has found mc! He —I don't mind him; I am not atfraid of that old ruffian, not him; but " He went to his chair and sat down, resting his clenched hands on the writingtable before him, staring with unseeing eyes into vacancy. "And the other—he will come back!" he muttered. "They will hunt mc down, between them, the dogs!" He raised his hand to his forehead. The perspiration was standing out upon it in great drops, and into his eyes there had come a look of absolute fear. "I thought I should have escaped—l thought that he would not have recognised mc. But he has. He knew me— and her!" He laughed suddenly, harshly and unmirthfully, and seemed to throw off his fear. "1 will face them —why not? lam as strong as they—stronger!" He drew open a drawer in" his 'escritoire, and took from it a small revolver. The touch of the weapon seemed to give him fresh courage. A healthier look came into his face; his hands were steady again. "Short shrift for the dog who touches me—who threatens mc!" he muttered, as he slipped the revolver into his breast pocket. As on the morning before, Faith awoke to the new- day with vague, indistinct recollections of the previous night. The unreality of yesterday frightened her— the mystery of those hours that were veiled from her. Long before Ruth knew that she had awakened, she lay thinking, trying to lift aside the veil. Yesterday was clear and distinct-—the garden, the sunshine, and Harvey Dale. A rich colour came into her Cheeks, and a look of happiness into her eyes. Yes, that was Teal and true, his love, that had come so wonderfully, that had awakened love in her own heart—that was true; but the : rest "Ruth, where was I last night?" Faith asked. Ruth started. "Where were you?" she repeated. ""Why, Miss Irma, you were at the theatre, dear, and you came back so tired you could hardly keep your eyes open." "At the theatre?" Faith Challen repeated. "Why did I go there?" A puzzled look came into the girl's face. "Don't—don't think about it now," she- urged. "You went to the theatre to "play. Surely "you- remember that— I you know that?" "Did you go with mc?" Faith asked. "No, Miss Irma; you know I didn't." ' "Will you come with mc to-night? Promise—promise!" Faith said eagerly. She laid her hand on Ruth's arm. "I want you to come withmie; I want you to be with mc all the time, and to-mor-row I want you to tell mc everything!" .Ruth looked shocked and anxious. "I'll do anything on earth, Miss Irma, dear, for you," she eried —"anything! Of course, I'll go if you ■wish it, and if Mr. Weir will let mc go!" "He must let you go; I will ask him," Faith said. #*#•■-#*• "I want Ruth to come to the theatre to-night with mc," she said to Weir. He was waiting for her at the break-fast-table. . ; . "There is no reason that she should not, if you wish it. Ruth is a good girl. Yes, it is a good idea. Let her go with you by all means, especially " He paused. "Sometimes I shall not be able to go with you," he Said slowly. "Sometimes it will not be possible for mc; but that will make no difference — no difference at all!" She did not understand him; she never did understand him properly. "Difference?" she repeated. "It will make none; it will be just the same." He smiled at her. He was himself this morning. "Yes, it is a good idea. Let Ruth go with you. I might have thought of that before. Tell mc," he said suddenly, "why do you wish it? What idea is in your head?" For a moment she sat silent, trembling; then suddenly she rose to her feet.

"I want to know —to understand!" she cried. "I want to remember! What are you doing with mc? Why am I like this? Why do I awaken in the morning, trying to remember, only seeing shadows, when I try to see realities?" "Shadows are sometimes better than realities." "But half my life does not seem to belong to mc; half my life is spent in a dream. I try to think; I try to remember what has happened; but I cannot." "I had not thought of that," he said, quietly. "Why have you not spoken Of this before? You want to remember -—you want all your life to be clear to you? Why not? You can remember," he said earnestly, "all that passed .last nisdit' and the night before. You can remember everything. It is all clear to you now, is it not?" He smiled at her, but she did not see the smile on his face. She was standing lost in wonder. "Why did you strike him? You said that lie meant evil," she muttered. "You struck him down; and he was an old man, with white hair!" She shuddered. "And the crowd jeered—such a crowd, waiting—waiting for mc!" It was strange why she should have forgotten—strange why that, so clear to her now, should have been so dim and indistinct but a minute before; but the flood-gates of memory were opened now, and all that had passed came back to her —a!!! "I am going out," Weir said. He laid his hand on her shoulder. "I am going, and I will leave you to your dreams and your recollections. Did I promise too mneh when I promised you triumph —when I promised you fame?" She shook her head without speaking. And yet 3 gave it to you, and took it away from you by letting you forget," he said. "But now you will not forget." And. she, Faith Challcn, was this woman —this woman who had stood upon the stage before that sea of faces. It was for her that they had rilled the, theatre with applause—for her, Faith Challeh. wr-> had lived her uneventful life, viha had never entered a theatre before, who knew nothing of the actor's art! How could it be —how could it be? And yet it was true! (To be continued daily.)"