The House of Chance

Auckland Star, Volume XLII, Issue 287, 2 December 1911, Page 19

The House of Chance

Ocrtie de S. TOtwrth-J—•• Atrraoß of _.. „ ..WHITE WISDOM,

PABT H.

CHATTER IV.— (Continued.) <- Of course she was "Cecile Clara Kiss-..X-she had been born in lowa-ber \ father was an Episcopalian clergy man- a •hi did possess a wealthy godShe who kept her supplied with 1 gffLand this present life of rush and < Srter and light and paint and powder j ti songs and supper was the life which c had come over to England for the < aurpose of living! ... , i Because there happened to be a smart, " genial moustached man and a blackhaired, cute, cautious woman who knew the truth, that was no reason why- — , >-o no, this was the truth! There was 'no other truth except that she waa Cecile Clare Kissler living with a companion-chaperon in a smart &..\. • flat' She was "Cecile Clare"—every- - body should call her "Cecile Clare"— would call herself "Cecile flare"— she would think of herself as "Cecile Clare"! ] being forgotten. And when this had been going on for— . gay, another twelve hours, she would actually be "Cecile Clare"! ; Directly the "I guess" was spoken in exactly the tone in which it ought to be spoken Pauline laughed approvingly, j while Colonel Raythe applauded w.th encouraging heartiness. The delinquent had been scolded, tlie delinquent hid amended her ways—it was unlikely she would offend again just yet awhile. "Now, if I've got to be a pearl of beauty at the ball to-night, and if there's cot to be any duke-snaring brought off, I reckon I'd better go into the arms of Morpheus for half an hour!" said "Cecile Clare* when she hod fully re-established henelf as "Cecile Clare." "The ball? Oh! yes, the Dwarfs' and Giants'? You're going to that, are you?" replied Colonel Raythe, with just one more touch of heartiness than was quite in the picture that sort of heartiness which might suggest that he didn't entirely enjoy what he was being hearty about;. "Yes, Bertie Byne made us go, responded Pauline. "Ah! yes—well— l expect there'll be a jolly crowd. Tremayne and Gappett are both going, I know, and Gil— all the rest of that crew. 1 may turn in myself in time for breakfast!" "Then if you turn in you must come right up to mc and say, 'Cecile Clare Kissler, you're the belle of the ball.' It don't matter if you don't think it — mat one of those nice li-U-le things that's got to be said I" And having given her instructions with the air of a person accustomed to having them carried out "Cecile Clare" balanced the huge hat on ihe side of her head, swaggered out of the door, and passed through various exits and entrances to her own bedroom at the other end of the flat. It was a fine chance of leaving Pauline alone with the Colonel, and for them to lead up to telling each other that they were in love with each other. It was ell very well for Pauline to speak of Colonel Raythe as "an old » friend who'd promised to look after them over here"!—'Cecile Clare" knew better she knew all about those "old : friends!" who look after blackiaired .ladies who -are still quite young enough to be attractive! . Dear Colonel! "Cecile Clare" just loved the Colonel! She had "just loved him since the day of their introductionthat first bewildering morning after she and Pauline had returned from Paris to take up their quarters at 000, Southwest Street. She felt him to be her good, safe friend and adviser just as ((according to Pauline) he had been the good friend and adviser of the real Cecile Clare Kis There! once again those dangerous, Straying thoughts! They mustn't stray —they shouldn't stray any more. She was Cecile Clare Kissler—she was—she was— was! And hero was the little black cat charm to wear slung around her neck on a tiny chain of gold, and hidden tucked away between her corsets and her heart. It would bring her luck—the very best of good, good luck! "Just you take that right along with you and "hold tight, my dear! I guess it'll be a mascot between mc and you kind of link to give Anna Merrick and Cecile Clare Kissler one soul between them!" , That's what she had said. That s what the cowslip-haired American girl had said on that last morning when No, no, NO! There hadn't been any last morning—how could there be any last morning when she (the "Western Cowboy" girl, who would dance to-night at the Dwarfs' and Giants' ball) was herself —had always been herself—when she was Cecile Clare Kissler playing "Snowdina" at the Duke of Carmines Theatre, Shaftesbury-avenue, London? It was her portrait which filled whole pages of "The Leaflet," "The Chatterer, "The Sceptre," and half-a-dozen other gallant illustrated papers which are awlays ready to star histrionic youth and particularly when that said histrionic youth and beauty is of the dollar-decked variety from "over the ditch"!

She was not masquerading— was herself—herself! , And everything which belonged to her was hers—except perhaps the friendship of Colonel Georgie, who, being "in the know," might possibly extend kindness and support for the sake of raulme and —and someone else! But the fraternal ehumminess of Bertie Bvnc was hers!—those heavy-scented flowers which every night found their way to the tiny first-floor dressing-room were hers!—the applause which always greeted the silly little songs in the first: Rnd third acts was hers!—the portraits in the papers wore hers—the supper and motoring and Sunday invitations were all sent to her—the strange cards brought round to the stage door were brought to her—the preying human sharks who sent them intended their preliminary intentions only to her—the dear white riding-school horse which always gave a welcoming whinny when she approached to offerina a greeting of equine affection to her—it was all to her—for her! And if it should ever so happen that a little white mouse railed Love nibbled open an inner door of the House of Chance, tfliv, then the amazing treasures within would belong to her—only, only to her!

CHATTF*! V. A "WEPTKfN- rrtWHOT" FP.OM "WILLY'S." Gilbert Frayle was neither a monkey, a brigand, nor a Marc Anthony. Fie was just a modern young man invested with the minimum of undignified absurdity by means of wearing a modern Court

suit instead of aspiring to any zoological, historical, or mythological disguise.

Certainly it was unpleasant to be, dressed in' levee attire when he was not j 'attending a levee; but, after all, as un- ; trousered calves were notin his case — a sartorial tragedy, the modern Court suit was quite t the best concession which he could have made to the rules laid down for all those attending the Dwarfs' and Giants' costume ball. So less than half-an-hour after midnight Sir Gilbert Frayle made his way through the crowded rooms of the Park Galleries in search of Bertie Byne. Where was Bertie? Had "Our Only

Willy" furnished Bertie with a new nose nnd transformed him into that cloaked "Shylock" who was looking temporary love into the eyes of a buxom "Sans (lone?"' Or had "Our Only Willy" provided distinguished horns and elegant hoofs, thus making Bertie into what every man under twenty-five likes to think he is? Or was a Wardour Street tail the appendix which "Hullo! dear old chap, hullo-a-10-a-lo!" Gilbert looked round. A Teddy Bear was speaking—a genial, plump little Teddy Bear warranted not to hug or to beg for buns. Byne had become transformed into Bruin— Bertie Byne was a "Teddy Bear!" Gilbert laughed shortly, but, like nil other men of his own particular type, was not to be lured into displaying either much surprise or much amusement. Bertie, was a Teddy Bear. Well, then, for so Ion;? as Bertie wished to remain a Teddy Bear he must be accepted as a Toddy Bear. That's all there was in it. "Now, come nlong nnd I'll introduce you," said the T. B: nnd putting a brown "paw through Gilbert's arm. led him out of one gallery into another gallery where at the further end was a bank of palms and a circular green velvet covered scat. But whore was she? A group of people—a tall "Snowdrop" and a tall "San Toy," conversing with a large boy and a little boy attired in costumes which would doubtless explain themselves when the wearers turned round. But nowhere the little yellowhaired American girl who "Sir Gilbert Frayle, may I do you the very good turn of presenting you to Miss Cecile Clare Ki.ssler—4ho star which ' shines more brighUv than any other shining star at the Duke of Carmine's?" It was Bertie the Bear who spoke, and as he concluded the flamboyant introduction the little boy who had been talking to the tall "Snowdrop" turned round. But the boy wasn't a boy—the boy was a girl who smiled seriously and gazed steadily—the boy was "Cecile Clare Kissler," ■who, from the other side of the footlights, had been the inspiration of Gilbert Frayle's conventional inclinations for over four months. Gilbert bowed just a shade less disagreeably than he would have bowed to a woman of his own class, and decided that she was quite three times lovelier off the stage than she appeared to be on the stage. And that was saying a good deal! "X guess it's you that Mr. Bertie Byne made mc save a waltz for!" she remarked, with an air of such complete unconscious assurance that even Gilbert Frayle was moved to wonder, contempt, and admiration. Not a maidenly flutter, not the hint of a blush, not one tiny glance of coy comprehension to show that regular attendance in the stalls, flowers, visiting-cards, etc., etc., etc., were remembered. Heavens! an actress like that, decided Gilbert? ought to be playing "lead," with a salary of two hundred a week. "Yes, I am the individual for whom Bertie 'asked you to save every waltz," replied Gilbert, looking down at her and then almost smiling beneath his protective moustache. Very, very wide "Cecile Clare" opened her astoundingly blue eyes. "Every waltz! My! what a set-to there would be among all the boys who are in love with mc!" she cried. At this Gilbert emitted a sound that might have been nearly a laugh. She was extraordinarily charming, even for a stage-girl—and every stage-girl has some sort of charm of her own. "Oh' let the boys have their set-to! he answered. "May I?" and with the four-lettered query he offered his arm. "Cecile Clare" looked still more astonished, but took the arm, for Gilbert Frayle was one of those men who rarely offer anything to a woman which is not taken. , He waltzed normally, he would never infringe upon the dulness of court regulations 'by reversing, he never made any spontaneous gyration which might suggest that the madness of music bad got into his blood: in fact, he danced as a gentleman should without recklessness or imagination. . "Ripping waltz!" he observed, glancing down at the boy-girl partner whom his right arm was encircling without

P "Why] y-e-s— is it called?" she drawled. . That was amusing. Gilbert laughed, ceased dancing, and steered towards the circular seat under the palms. "You're a great little hypocrite, aren t you?" he. said, looking at her fully and quizzically. "Mc? I guess I'm the most candid thing ever made! Away at home my second sister Ruth— she's such a beautiful girl—you just should see her! —yes, er—Ruth used to call mc Candid Peel, because I always told tho truth! No, you mustn't laughit's not kind! .... But why am I what .you said I was?' " "Well, aren't you a hypocrite when you pretend you don't recognise the 'Caramel Sailor' waltz after being in the piece for a couple of months?" For a second "Cecile Clare" looked dazed, then slowly her lips curved like a flower-bud opening to the sun of June and she smiled. "Why, yes. I guess I am a hypocrite, and I think it's a very nice thing to be!" was her unrulTled reply, made while, without any definite expression in his sombre, jrrev eves, Gilbert Frayle watched the curving of those flower-bud lips. His conventional inclinations were growing stronger every minute. He was very keenly attracted—more so than he expected-iiore so, possibly, than he quite wished to be. < But of course it would soon wear off these sort of attractions can always be relied upon to do that. "Well, it may be a very nice thing from your point of view to be a hypocrite, but I'm not sure that I appreciate it so much. I don't mind your pretendin? to have forgotten a waltz, but I permuslv object pretending to have forgotten mc!" "Cecile Clare"—who was idly fingering a thin gold chain which bung about her neck nnJ which appeared to have pot entiiT'lcl with one of the buttons of the '•cr.w-bov" shirt—looked at him with wlde-eved wonder. "But -why should I remember you?" she demanded ffuil-lesslv. (This chain was tiresome, and the charm to which it wan attached scraped and rubbed the softness of her akin). , "Mainly because I've been most trust-

worthy in my perseverance, and also because " (here the chain became disentangled, while a black enamel cat with emerald eyes and a diamond collar jerked out through the stitched opening of the buttoned blouse) "and because when I sent you that animal which you ; are now good enough to ibe wearing I ! enclosed a clearly-engraved visiting-card just as I did when " It was very rarely that "Cecile Clare" interrupted, for she did not belong to that tiring type of young womanhood which always has three times as much to say as any one wants to hear. But on this occasion she broke into Gilbert

Frayle's sentence. "But was it you?—you—you Bent the good-luck charm —— the flowers ?" Then she paused again in bewilderment, while Gilbert's eyebrows met in a swift impatient frown. She was overdoing the innocence and ignorance and forgetfulness: it was a pity to spoil a somewhat piquant pose by overdoing it. "Yes, I'm afraid I am responsible," was bis casual response. He felt casual just then. Perhaps, after all, this conventional game of folly was a foolish, futile one to play. Su li a waste of time when eventually there would be a good j sweet woman of his own class who "Well, then, I think—" (He started from his reverie of wisdom, for the little stage girl was speaking and her voice had grown softer again: it was a baby's voice once more) " —I just think the cat is the cutest cat that ever wore a collar and spurned milk —also the flowers were the sweetest (lowers that ever went to any dressing-room— also the person •who sent them is "

She stopped short, and broke into a little laugh that sounded like a young dove's call, while Gilbert Frayle bent forward and looked more eager than he had ever looked before.

"And what is the person who sent them?" Hit answer mattered! Heavens! the answer of a little stage girl who wore breeches and top boots when she ought to have been wearing skirts and French-heeled shoes mattered intensely! "Well, he is " She looked at himu critically, she looked at him laughingly, she looked at him dreamily; then a half-startled, wholly-unconscious seriousness —something which seemed apart from limelight and masks and masquerade —-crept into her gaze. "Yes?"

"Well, I'll—lll tell you what he is some other time!" The words in themselves were full of every promise, of every invitation, but somehow Gilbert Frayle refrained from putting upon them any construction other than that which might have been intended by some good woman of his own class. She would "tell him some other time" which meant that she was too girlishly shy to tell him now! And yet—and yet —theTe was the leather case, the contents of that case, and a little letter which—— Tn a. sceond Gilbert Frayle left off thinking of her as a good woman of his own class. She was yellow-haired—she was on the stagehe would ask her out to supper! "Will you let mc come round and see you— fix up some motoring or something?" he asked suddenly. It was quite permissible to go ahead without any delay at all— only what a girl on the stage would expect and almost demand. Once atrain she turned and looked at him steadily.

"Why, yes, if you're a friend of Mr. Byne's it must be all rijjht! Ye», come right along one day and have tea with mc," was her gently-drawled reply.

"'One day' shall be to-morrow if it's all the same to you," answered Gilbert,! glancing down at her smart, perfectly- 1 detailed costume and feeling suddenly irritated.

Why couldn't the little fool have put on skirts instead of those—those(he inserted a mental adjective) —those other things? If a man felt interested in a woman it was in a woman as a woman, and not as a make-believe emasculated boy. Of course the idea wasn't in the least new, and at a dozen other fancy-dress halls Gilbert had seen a dozen other girls who had made temporary and sartorial changes in the matter of sex. But this particular girl — well, it irritated him that she should be wearing very manly little top boots when he wanted her to ■he wearing very womanly high-heeled satin shoes. And it irritated him that she should be wearing a stiff boyish coat when he -wanted her to 'be wearing a soft girlish bodice and it irritated him most of all that beneath the decorously-con-cealing coat she should be wearing per-fectly-cut masculine breeches when he wanted her to be wearing a delicately draped chiffon skirt. If any woman of his own class had elected to wearbut here he pulled himself up and smiled vcrv grimly beneath the concealing moustache. Why should his thoughts even temporarily stray in the direction of women •of his owti class when the diversion of the hour, or perhaps of the week, of the month—of the next six months possibly! —was a yellow-haired girl on the stage? It was foolish well as risky—to draw unnecessary comparisons of that description I (Continued daily.)