A GOOD FAIRY.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXXIII, Issue 3720, 4 January 1913, Page 10

A GOOD FAIRY.

(By “M.E.N.”)

“Now, then, girls! One, two, three —slower ! Third to end, watch your steps! Silence at the wings! That's it! No! Faster now, back row! That’s it —that’s it! Now once more! .One, two, three—one,two, three 1 Splendid ! No, no! Ah, there we are I But, good gracious, this watch of mine says three o’clock! Ten to three! Bless me, girls 1 That chorus once more, then off you must go!” Tho company obey. ' “That first chorus is perfect at last,” says the stage-manager. “Now off you go, every one of you! Let the stage be cleared in less than five minutes! , Principals back at six, the rest of you at seven. You need a rest, for there’s a hard night’s work before you.” One of "the. company, however, is not to bo let off so easily. A pretty girl, childishly slender in spite of her sixteen years, is surrounded by a noisy group, who beg to be shown first one step, then another. Violet is very willing, and her little feet keep time to her merry voice for many minutes. “Well, I never, Violet! Violet Thornton, why will you let yourself be so imposed upon?” Then to the others—“ You area selfish set! Don’t you think the child is tired?” “No, indeed, Air Blake,” says a sweet voice, in answer to the manager —“no, I’m not tired at all!” —and Violet laughs and runs off, singing, “Follow me, fairies!” Blake turns to the young man beside him, and says — “That little girls reminds me of what Shakespere calls a ‘most unspotted lily’—only she’s our Violet. She’s the best and brightest thing among us! ” The young man to whom the manager speaks has been standing quite alone, shunned almost —for Ted Wilmot is no favorite with his companions. “He’s so much of a gentleman that lie can’t even be civil,” said the “principal boy”; “and I believe he wouldnt for worlds do any one a kindness!” —and the “principal boy” was but -expressing the opinion of the company generally. Back to the theatre at seven came the chorus and ladies of the ballet. Again and again the “Grand Christmas Extravaganza” is gone through, until the orchestra is worn out with the eternal repetition. Still they sing and dance till the children become feverish and wretched in spite of the excitement, till the ballet and chorus are too wearied to be exhilarated even by thoughts of wardrobe and treasury, till the principals are sleepy, and hoarse and the stage-manager and musical director are exhausted with shouting their instructions. The rehearsal is still proceeding, when the low comedian, coining from the green-room, calls out — “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Christ-

mas morning!” “Christmas morning! Ah, well,” cries old Blake, “to your places for the last chorus! Thank goodness, at last we have got it, something like.! You may go ! Or suppose we have a Christmas carol first !”

The suggestion is made jestingly,

but the conductor turns to whisper to the orchestra. There comes the sound of a familiar air, and tho clear

voice of the “principal boy” rings out with “Hark, the Herald angels sing!” When the hymn is ended, the “principal girl” lias forgotten all her old jealousy of the “principal boy,” and, throwing her arms around her, wishes her —

A hundred merrv Christmasses!”

The low comedian crosses to his wife, the wicked fairy, and brings a glad light to her eyes by kissing her and saying—- “ There are many more happy Christmases, in store for us yet, old woman, I hope!” . Old Blakes eyes glisten ns he thinks of the little grandchild that died a year ago, and he says to the conductor—

i “That hymn has done us all more ; good than anything else we have heard since we were children!” His “Merry’ Christmas to you all!” is heartily’ re-echoed, and he dismisses the company. Ted Wilmot remains, leaning against the wings. He too has felt the influence of the carol; but he has not wished happiness to or been wished happiness by any one. His thoughts have wandered far away from London, with its poverty and misery, to the happy home, the ivyclad Rectory in the Devon valley’, where only a year ago he was the beloved youngest son. He cannot but think of Christmas morning in the Rectory’-parlor, with the carol-singers chanting their hymns to the old Rector. He sees again the old church', with his sister Mary at the organ, and hears his sweetheart Nellie’s silvery voice ringing out from the choir. And then his reflections are suddenly interrupted by a soft hand laid upon his arm and Violet Thornton’s sweet voice wishing him “A merry Christmas!.” Wilmot answers her so listlessly that she asks —her sweet brown eyes full of sympathy, her face aglow with blushes —if he is quite well. " He tolls her that he is; then, moved by a sudden impulse—he was once kind and generous enough—he say’s — “Have you any one to see y’ou home?” ’ “No,” she replies shyly. “Then I will escort you”—“But I have a long distance to go.” “So much the more reason for my accompanying you, especially so late on such a night as Christmas Eve. She accepts his offer gratefully, for really she is afraid to go throng’ll London streets at such an hour alone “I used to live with granny’,” she say’s; “but she is dead now, and I lodge with the people next door. They are so kind that I don’t care to move from them nearer to the theatre.” “Then this is vonr first year as a fairy?” ‘ —' “No,” she returns; “I have formed in pantomimes since I was, oh, such a little, little thing! Granny’ had a shop, and I helped her in it; but I always liked the theatre at Christmas. It was so nice to have the pretty dresses and to be a fairy for a little while!” “And what do you- do now?” Ted asks, pitying the * girl for the hardships which constitute her joys. “I sew or knit for shons, and I inn often at the theatre besides.” “What a. hard life you must have, you poor child!” * “I? Oil, no I I am verv hapoy! But you—-forgive me, Mr Wilmot!—l don’t think that you like the theatre —at least, that you are accustomed to such a life.” * , “I am not. You asked me just now if I was quite well. lam not; for I am sick at heart. You don’t know what that means. The carol

they sang sent my thoughts back tb my father’s Rectory. I was the youngest son, with two sisters and two brothers; one of my brothers is my father’s curate, the other is a doctor. I am here. I too had a college education.” “But,” says ATolet, raising her clear brown eyes to his, “if you want to go home, why don’t you go?” “You don’t understand,” replies the young fellow hopelessly. “My father has ordered me never to return home; my mother has begged for me in vain. I played at a charity entertainment, and my father asked me the next week to lecture on the immorality of the stage, so that I might undo any evil impression I had created . 1 refused, and we quarrelled; I had to leave home. I had a sweetheart in those days; but she too gave mo up. I dont know why I make you my confidant; but 1 am glad to have some one to speak to. I have not a single friend.” Violet’s hands are clasped upon his arm as she cries prettily yet shyly—- “ Don’t say that! I like you, Mr Ted; and is it not your own fault if the others don’t? . Why should you be so cold and stiff?” She speaks more and more hesitatingly. “Have you sought for friends?” “I have not,” he is forced to confess. . ■

“And what about the theatre?” says Violet. 'i am fond of it,” he answers quickly. “Ah, yes; but ” She looks at him, then pauses.

“Go on ! Dont be afraid !” “I fear you are too selfish to sue coed.” /

“What do you mean?” he asks in surprise.

“I can scarcely explain; but I think —I mean you cannot forget yourself; and you are not persevering .enough to work on from the very beginning.” “The stage is my only hope.” Ted replies. _ “I don’t seek for more than mediocrity. I will he content with that.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t!” Violet says gravely. “You know lam only a fairy, but I’m going to be a great actress —not a dancer, you know, hut an actress. I have learned a great deal of Shakespeare already.” Ted Wilmot thinks bitterly of the gulf that lies between the fairy and the great actress, but he cannot be the first to tell her that she will never be able to bridge it. He would not for Vorlds dispel the day-dream of which she has told him so hopefully, so honestly. In her artless fashion Violet talks on of her hopes and aims, her hand on Ted Wilmot’s arm, until they reach her humble lodging. At the door he stoops to kiss her, but she slips from him with a little crv.

“Forgive me!” says Ted; and then he raises her hand to his lips. ,- Good night, my little friend!” Tlie friendship begun on Christmas Eve is lasting. Ted constitutes/ himself Violet’s champion and protects her from the too obtrusive attentions of her companions. Wild as he at first thought the child's ambition, lie begins, as the season goes on, to have some faith in the realisation of it—her ideas of Shakespeare’s characters are so thoughtful and original, she is so earnest a student. He discovers that she attends classes when she is not otherwise employed and has some spare money He provides her with a German for Beginners and French Made Easy, and offers to help her with the terrible declensions and verbs, and all unconsciously to construe lieben and aimer. And he finds in Violet an apt and industrious pupil. In return for his help, she does much for him in reconciling him to his fellows, in bringing him out of his selfish gloom. in teaching him charity to his neighbors. If not a favorite with the company, Ted in time at least gets liked. When the pantomime has run a month, Violet becomes “second fairy” with an increase in her salary of some shillings a week. It is a great deal more than.she has ever had hitherto, and stands her in good stead before the season closes.

One night in the middle of March Ted Milmot goes home with her as usual. They are the best of triends now; he has even told her that his real name is Edward Clare, and that his father is the llev Charles Clare of Brayleigh. She has heard all about his loving mother, his sisters, his brothers, even his sweetheart Nell. To-night he lias something to sav to her, and he asks her to walk a little further than usual. He is strangely silent however until, glancing down at her in a deserted street, he catches ,the brown eyes looking curiously at him. “Little woman” he says—and then, unhindered, he passes his arm round her—“little one”—and now he has drawn her round until she is leaning against bis breast, on which her crimson face is hidden—“my I sav ‘mv little woman’ ? Violet, my own sweetdarling, I want you tq be'mine —min? always— my own true loving little wife ! Will vou?”

He can scarcely hear her frightened whisper. “I never thought you cared for me like that —and I am very young.”

“Not too young to be loved, pet. Give me your answer ! I know it will bo ‘Yes.’ ”

His bold wooing conquers the timid girl ; she suffers him to kiss her burning lips, and the next moment they are in the glare of a busy street. Ted has found bis tongue now. and talks loving nothings to his sweetheart for the rest of the walk, never 'noticing that she has not given him one word of love. To her objections he makes hut one answer —they must he married soon—he will not be happy until he has secured her. She asks him one question—“ Are you as fond of me as of Nellie?” — and he replies. “I love you a thousand times better, my own darling!” At the door of her lodging he kisses her again ; and then, to his surprise, she stands on tip-toe to put her arm round his neck, and says — “I want to toll you something.”— “What is it, pet?” “That I love you—you cannot tell how dearly! You have eared for some one else; but, my own Ted, I love you | better than I have ever loved any one in the wide world!” Violet’s first great trouble follows, swiftly on her first real happiness. Only three days have elapsed since Ted told her of his love for her, when a short paragraph appears in the newspapers beaded “Brave Conduct of an Actor.” It is a simple story of a child running into.danger and being rescued by Ted Wilmot. Ted . snatched the child from before the wheels of a carriage, but in doing so h?. himself’ was run over. He was carried home unconscious; and Violet undertakes to wait upon him, tending hi”! night and day, so far as her work at the theatre permits. For a long time he lies in bed. his manager continuing his salaiy and paying the doc-

tor, his comrades and .Violet providing him with numerous delicacies when he is able to take them. He has been much weakened by the accident, and fever ensues. In his ravings one name—“ Nellie, Nellie!” —is ever on his lips. Violet does not know that in delirium the mind wanders in the past more frequently than in the present, and each cry rends her tender little heart.

At last Ted is able to get up and to show his thankfulness to his pretty nurse in ever-increasing grateful love But the name “Nellie” has brought a shadow between them, and Violet is strangely quiet and .shrinking. red talks so often of the old home that his “little one” forms a sudden resolution. One day she leaves him with an unusually tender farewell, and at night, after her work at the theatre is done, she hurries to the station, and before morning is at Brayleigh. Proceeding to the Rectory, the trembling girl is ushered into the presence of the Rector, his wife, and their eldest son, the curate. With e’oquenee born of love, she pleads for the prodigal, and the mother is moved to tecs. Ted Wilmot, or rather Edward Clare, has been mistaken as to his father. Absence has softened the Rector, and he is ready to forgive. He is gentle even to the pretty ballst-gii-l- , That evening Violet Thornton leads Mr and Mrs Clare to their son’s lodgings. The mother enters first, the father staying to say to Violet — “Will you come with us?”

“I? Oh, no! He has no need of me now he has found his friends. I—--1 am only one to whom he has been very kind.” In the sick-room explanations are soon over, and Clare asks for Violet. His father has a question to put in return.

“What is she to you?’’ “My promised wife,” Ted answers simply. “What about Nellie?” is the young man’s next question. “Married to old Sir Thomas Clements,” is the reply ; and Edward Clare blissfully compares his two sweethearts— the frailty of the country lady, the tenderness of the London fairy.

Violet does not return to her lover; nor is she seen again at the theatre. She suddenly disappears, and Ted n ilmot, to his grief, fails to trace her. Her misery, following on her toil and anxiety at the sick-bed, brings on an illness, through which sii? is nursed by some good and kind though almost penniless people. With returned strength— for she is young, and does not wish for. but rather struggles against death —Violet enters into the battle of life with the reiv pounds her increased salary enabled her to save and her on? treasure —a simple ring with a pink pearl, her lover’s gift. .She writes to Tod —

“Dear Mr Clare. —You hav? returned to your old position, and I must stay in mine; you are a gentleman, and I will not cause you disgrace. Don’t ouite forget your fairy! I am well, and shall soon be at work —not in London, though. Good-bye. and Heaven bless you a thousand times! May you find your old love! Your liear-t will return to her; but she can never bo more loving than vour humble friend. “VIOLET THORNTON.”

“Nonse, Talbot,” laughs the handsome author—“l don't believe you! 1 don’t believe in ‘nothing new under the sun.’ ”

“Most sceptical of men. what would you have done had the critics said the same about vour plays and novels?”

“They did say it pretty frequently, I think. But this Marghret Helen Morne —she hails from America, doesn’t she? I dont’ believe in Yankee geniuses.” “Very well; yon will judge for yourself. She is spending the evening with us. Come down with me now. and Mrs Talbot will to delighted.” “I shall be equally glad to see her.” »

last speaker is Edward Clare, grown stalwart and robust in the ten years that have elajjsed since he was last seen. His circumstances are much changed too, for he lias risen to he, if but a very second rate actor, still the principal* dramatist of the day, as well as a celebrated novelist. In his characteristic fashion he is discussing Margaret Morne, the most celebrated of American actresses and newly arrived in England. Clai'e’s companion, is well known, for Jack Talbot has been a most successful manager. Millie, his wife, is delighted to welcome Edward, and seems as devoted to Miss Morne as her husband is. Slight in build, of only medium height, and with a pale intellectual face, the actress is a disappointment •to • the author. She is so quiet that one remark seems unusually long for her. “I adore your books,” Mrs Talbot bias said —“perfectly adore them ; but your last was so sad!” It was the story of his own love. “That- Violet of yours is imjrossible too, I fear.” “I do not think so,” says Miss Morne, “but the story is very sad. Mr Clare, I think I have read every word you have written, so Vou will pardon what I say. I did not like that last book, though Maurice Rivers's friendliness with his old sweetheart on her husband’s death was very natural, I have no doubt.” In sjrite of himself, Clare winces; this too is part of his own story. "I have a contempt for a man so cynical as your hero. . You write jn the first person; but I cannot reconcile it with you as you are in your other works. Maurice would learn, like others, to * wait, though perhaps with an aching heart; ; but all find peace at. last.” 1 Talbot follows Clare from the room.' I

“Well, what do you think of her?” “Nothing; she is too grave, too quiet; she is not beautiful, and she has no style.” "I grant- that she is only of middle height; hut there is no more graceful woman in the world. But . you will see her play Adrienne Lecouvreur?” “I will drop in about the end.” “No —you will come before the curItain rises on the first night!” “I will, Talbot —to see you as De Saxe, however, and your wife as the Princess.” “Come to see what you will, you will stay to hear Adrienne, you incorrigible hov! Whatever we are, Adrienne will be superb I” In spite of his words. Clare really has some desire to see the performance of the actress who has won her laurels in New York and is still only twenty-seven. He. is at- the theatre before the curtain goes up on the first plight' and. moreover, he does not rise' as usual at the end of the fi>i?t act to seek his numerous friends throughout ; the house, luit remains quietly seated till the curtain is rung up again and ’ ; ses up°n the green-room of the j Theatre Franca is.’’ He recognises Mar- ‘ garet Morne at once as she slowlv ad-

vanees, took in hand, giving no heed. ; to the loud acclamations; but, when : she speaks, an indefinable change comes over her. Her slight form becomes proudly erect, her face bright- . ens with a wonderful beauty, her rich voice rings through the breathless silence. Her pretty love-making is full of suppressed passion which does not prepare her audience .for the scenes in which the actress protects her rival the princess and denounces her in her own crowded salon. But the last act, with its hurried passions of despair, love, frenzy, and madness, culminating in death, calls forth such enthusiasm as is rarely seen. __ “I have, seen the greatest actress in the world, and her name is Margaret Helen Morne!” says Clara, as he . shakes the actress’s hand that night i when the play is over. “Thank you!” she says simply- “ Such praise from you is praise indeed; even if exaggerated. I have • admired you in your works so long that I am proud indeed of it.” “Ah, that reminds me! My new drama, Pharisees and Publicans —may I send it to you ? I have determined that it is to be my greatest success. ■ A woman is the principal character, and I wish you to take it. I know no one else to whom I would intrust it.” “This is indeed more substantial : flattery than words. I think I may sav I accept the part.” Talbot produces the play, under the superintendence of the author. Thus Clare is thrown into daily contact with Miss Morne. and. as he learns to know her, he finds that she is not silent and listless, as he at first thought, but a woman as charming : and vivacious in conversation as she is great on the stage. He finds too how tender, how truly "enerous she is. He sees her loved bv all, irom highest to lowest, in the theatre, and. 1 in return giving her friendship to all. She is the one woman in the world I : who could replace his child-love, his j “moSt unspotted lily.” i The new play soon becomes the talk ‘ of London. It is full of tragic interest, ending with the death of the woman who sinned through fore. In this character Miss Morne excels heri self, and is full of pride arid pleasure ■ i because of Clare’s success. Actress ; : and author are very often together now. and Miss Morne’ expressive face 1 brightens at Clare’s approach, as it , has never done for any man but. 1 i him. ; j On Christmas Eve the Talbots give I a party, to-which Clare goes, his heart ; full of memories of a Christmas ten j years ago, and of hopes he cannot exj press as yet. Miss Memo is there 1 j too. She is wearing an evening-dress j of soft lustrous silk of pearly white- ! ness trimmed with white and junk ; roses. Her bracelets and necklace ' j are cf pink-tinted pearls, and in her i hair, coiled high upon her head, is a 1 pearl star She is standing beside j Clare as the clock chimes twelve, tn- '! heard in the chatter of the rest. She ■ | has heard it, though, and, quickly uni doing her gloves, she sits down and, I without aify prelude, begins to _ play “Hark, the herald-angels sing!” • Her voice is at least- clear and | sweet, and the reverent notes hush j the noisy company into silence. _ A j spasm passes over Clare’s face, ,md a j cry ccmes unconsciously from his lips jas he looks at her white hand, on 1 which there is but one simply ring—a plain gold band with a pink pearl. When she has finished. Miss Morne rises and says—“No matter where I am on Christmas Eve, I play that hymn. Would you believe it, ladies and gentlemen I like to remember that ten years ago I was only a pantomime fairy? It is almost a romance, Mr. Clare—a veritable fairy-tale.” “For Heaven's sake,” he whispers, : “let me see you alone for a few mo- : ments.” i “Go to the library; I will follow.” | He obeys. His heart is beating i wildly as she enters. "With a sudden movement, he takes her in his i arms and clasps her to his breast. I “Violet! You are my Violet, are ’ ycu not?” “I am Margaret Helen Morne,” she “Come. Margaret, explain!” She makes him sit down, and. kneels by his side. “My name is that by which I am not known. . I once called myself Violet Thornton. 'When you were Ted Wilmot, I never thought of changing it but for Violet Wilmot. I was very ill when I left you, and afterwards I went to a small provincial town, where my dear friends Jack and Millie found me. I knew you again at- once, but I am not surpris‘ed that you did not recognise me. I 1 grew much taller after mv illness: my face lias changed, and my hair is much 1 darker. My name also mystified, you.” “But now. my love,. I have found you ! Oh, Violet, whv did vou leave me ?” “You would have tired of me . I should have disgraced you in those days.” “Never, my own! But now you are peerless.” “Iji ycur eyes, Edward,” she says gently. “As for me, I have always loved you; I have never wavered as you ’ ’ “Why, how could you know?” “Because 1 love you; and I knew that your last novel was the story of your own life. I guessed that your Lady Clements, and that, like your hero, you would have married her but that you found a stain upon her j>ast.” “I must confess that you are right. But have you never wavered?” “Never, Edward! Still do not give me too much praise. I fear that, even if I had not known you as my Ted. I should have loved Vou all the same.” “Darling!” And then Margaret lays her head upon his breast in perfect trust and love.