BETWEEN TWO STOOLS

New Zealand Mail, 24 September 1902, Page 8

BETWEEN TWO STOOLS

(By J. D. Brayshaw.)

“By Jove; it’s a bumper,” said the stage manager, as he withdrew his eye from'the hole in tho curtain, through which he had been surveying the auditorium.

“The biggest house of the season,” he continued with pardonable pride, for it was his own “benefit,” and where is tho actor, be he “star” or the veriest tyro, who does not desire that proof of his popularity—a full house? “Tom, who do you think is sitting, in the private box?” he asked, with his eye again at tho tiny orifice.

“Dont’ know,” answered the prompter, as he rang in the band. “Doctor Leverton and the beautiful Miss Vane.”

“Well, they always turn up to anything special.” “Yes, laddie, but see that handsome young fellow leaning over her? A halfclear ‘ben’ to a fortnight’s notice that’s Count Crispani, to whom she’s engaged. Met her at the Hunt Ball, laddie; love at first sight and all that sort of thing. Lucky dawg!”

He was right, the handsome foreignlooking man who bent over the doctor’s ward, whispering soft trifles into her ear, was Count Guiseppe Crispani, who, according to report, had met the young heiress at the County Hunt Ball—fallen desperately in love with her—proposed as he took her down to supper—and held been promptly accepted. The, doctor, who was passionately fond of his ward, looked grave when she confided in him the story of her hasty engagement. A shadow of pain flitted across his face as she, with beaming eyes, expatiated on the manly beauty of her lover.

As he caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror, and noticed the slight stoop born of nights of study, the silver threads that streaked his hair and beard, he sighed and wondered why he had never felt so old before. Suppressing his thoughts with a sigh, he took both

her hands in his and bade her finish her story, insisting on its termination that vnne her lover should have ample opportunity of seeing her, no formal engagement should bo entered into for six months at least, that sho might have full scope and opportunity to test his suitability and the true state of her feel. gs towards him. To“this end the doctor had at the suggestion of his sister, a lady some fifteen years his senior who ruled the Leverton household with an iron hand, invited the Count to spend a week under his roof, an invitation that, as it promised to bring him into hourly oontaot with his beloved the Count had accepted with alacrity. Thus on the second evening of his visit we find him seated in the private box of the local theatre, Irene Vane at his side, while the doctor, who accompanied them, sat with his chair drawn into the shadow of the curtain, as though the lights of the house were painful to his eyes. The performance proceeded apace, but the play seemed to possess but little interest for the occupants of the box.. Doctor Leverton, ’tis true, sat with his eyes riveted upon the stage, but his face was drawn and pale, while the strained expression of his eye yielded neither to the humour nor pathos of the scene. Indeed, he seemed not to see the acting, but rather to be gazing with his mental eyes at someeuing ±ZT beyond. Irene watched the performance with some slight show of interest, turning ever and anon to chat with her lover, who made no pretence of caring for the play, but sat with his face averted from the stage, seeming to have no eyes but for her. “Why. Irene,” said he, at the close of a somewhat emotional scene, “you are actually weeping, you silly child.” “I know ’tis foolish,” she answered, smiling through her tears. “But I cannot help it; the least little bit of pathos sets me off. I think were I the actress I should break down altogether.” “Nonsense, dear. ’Tis a very artificial life these people lead. You do not imagine any deep feeling enters into it, surely. It is all s.o muph stock-in-trade. So much rouge—so much powder—so much humour—so much pathos—just as the part requires. All empty show, is it not, Doctor ? A life of pretence.”

“I cannot tell. I do not think so. It seems to me that an actor’s life is a double one. The sorrows and passions of the part he plays being as real to him for the time being as the more tangible cares of his daily life. Look at the lady now on the stage: she is the very incarnation of a mischief-loving girl—mirth and merriment personified. Listen how she sets the laughter rippling through the house. You would think she had never known care. Yet meet her off the stage, and slie'is sober even to sadness.”

“Yes, Guardy, but Nita De Vere—” “Nita De Vere!”-exclaimed the Count with a slight start. “Is she here?” “Do you know her?” asked the Doctor.

“I? No. I have heard of her—that is all,” answered Crispani, moving his chair so that he might command a view of the stage without exposing himself to the gaze of those upon it. The actress was singing now, singing to her mimic lover ft, love song full of witching mockery—tempting and repulsing him by turns, until at length, as if the true feeling of her heart welled forth, the strain changed to one of passion, wild and uncontrolled. As the rich cadenza of her sweet contralto voice died away, and she sank into her lover’s arms, the house rang again with applause. The curtain fell, only to be raised again, however, the audience would not be gainsaid, and, in response to the vociferous demand, the song was rendered once again. As it neared the end, while vet the rich notes vibrant with love w'elled forth, flowers fell from every side at the songstress’s feet. Tearing a cluster of moss-roses from her bosom, Irene handed them to the Count, with the one word “Throw.” Obedient to her wish he rose, and, leaning well over the front of the box, east the tribute at the actress’s feet as she was on the point of rushing into her lover’s arms.

As the flowers fell she glanced in the direction from whence they came; she faltered for a moment; the climax of her song wag lost in a stifled scream, and with a sob she fell unconscious. The curtain dropped this time amid a low murmur of wonder and apprehension. Doctor Leverton, deeming that he might be of some assistance, left the box and hurried round to the stage, where he found the company assembled around the prostrate girl endeavouring to restore her to consciousness. Pushing them aside, he bent over her. As he did so her eyes opened, and, gazing wildly round, she murmured disjointedly words that, seeming idle to those about her, brought a pang to the doctor’s heart and deepened the farrows on bis brow.

“Martha,” said he, some hours later, when bidding bis sister “Good night,” “what do you think of the Count?” “Well r to tell you-the truth, John, I don’t like him.”

Nor I. I cannot help thinking I have done wrong in asking him here.” “John Leverton you’re a fooll” “IndeedP”

“IndeedP Yes, indeed! Here you are up to your eyes in love with the girl—” • “I, Martha, IP” “Yes, you. Oh! you can’t deceive me. John Leverton. You never thought fit

to confide in me, though I „ older sister. But I have eyes, Marie? John. 1 have eyes.” “If you have guessed my secret Martha, pray keep it. After all A° ret » folly for a man of my age to dream-” 3 *. Bosh! John Leverton. Fiddlestort-ai Your age, indeed! Thirty-eight— i mer ! M eli you what > sir; ffTM wanted the girl I’d have had her if A! very Dev— Good gracious! What n I saying ? There, good-night,” and tak mg her candle, she left hhn to battle with his own troubled thoughts. Wl ® “John,” said Miss Leverton next morning, as she rose from the breakfast table I’m going out.” 9 “Indeed,” said the doctor, glancing un from his paper. 1 “I’m going to call on Miss de Vere » ‘Eh!” said he, starting up. “You are fo“he t ,'Si e . Y m 3 S!' y °“ r “ til ”“ L > r

u? CT f/ lind , my anti Pathy, John. After what you related to me last nriht lam anxious to see the lady.” ° ’ “Would it not be better to ascertain from the Count whether—”

“Asoertain from tho Count, indeed! Oli! John Leverton, what a simpleton you are. The Count—”

“Hush!” said the doctor, as Irene appeared at the window.

“Come, come, child,” said Miss Leverton, striving to look severe. “Late for breakfast again. We have finished. Yon had better iot kJinc IlCt

“I had a cup, Mumpsy dear, before I went out. I’ve been to the station with Guiseppe. Isn’t it too bad? He had a horrid letter calling him up to town on some wretched business.” “He’ll return, of course,” said the doctor.

“Like a had penny—never fear,” said Martha, pursing her lips. “Well,” said the doctor, rising, “I must be off. By the way, Martha, you’d better leave me to call on Miss—” “No thank you, John. A pretty woman can always hoodwink a man; hut—” with a shake of her head—“l should like to see the minx that could hoodwink me.”

During the morning Miss Leverton, true to her intention, called upon the young actress, and was surprised to find in place of the painted and bedizened woman she had expected to see, a pretty, sad-faoed girl clad in a simple clinging robe of silver grey. Nonplussed at having her preconceived ideas thus rudely dispelled, she stammered forth a rather lame excuse for what slie now began to regard as an intrusion. “Oh! it was very kind of you to call.” said Miss De Vere. “Pray, be seatecl. Yes: I am all right this morning, thank you. It was only a passing faintness. Your husband—”

“Husband, child!” said Miss Leverton. “What are you thinking of? Do I look like a married woman?”

The actress smiled, and, Miss Leverton, shaking her. head, went on—“No, thank goodness, I never descended to that folly. John—that is to say, the doctor, is my brother.” “Pray, pardon the mistake. I understood the maid to say Mrs Leverton. You will convey my thanks to your brother, will you not, for his kindness last night?” “Yes, child, of course—” began the visitor, rather at a loss for an excuse to prolong her stay, yet unwilling to depart without accomplishing the object of her visit.

“Of course—” she stopped abrnp ;ly, for lier eyes, in wandering round the room, had rested noon a torn phot )- graph. ’Twas a cabinet presentment of no less a person that Count Crispani. ’Twas rent in twain, and had been east carelessly upon the floor. “Do yon know this gentleman?” she demanded sharply, as she took up the pieces. “Oli! that is valueless, madam,” said Nifa, colouring' slightly. “I had intended casting it into the fire. Pray, let me do so.”

“You do know him. What do you know of him ?”

“Madam, by what right—” “The right of a mother to protect her child. The motherless girl who nas grown up under my care is engaged to this man. He was at the theatre with her last night—you saw him—you fainted at sight of him—his name was on your lips when you came to. What is between you What do you know of him?”

“I know nothing—wish to know nothing of him,” said Nita, turping aside to the window. “Pray, leave me.” “Why, what is this?” cried Miss Leverton, turning the card about. Upon the baeY was written in a, bold hand—- " From J. C. to his darling wife, Nita.” “Umph! Very pretty!” she said, as she cast the fragments from her. Then, in a sharp, incisive tone, she asked, “Is this true? Are you that man’s wife?”

“Oh, Madame, I entreat you—l—” faltered the trembling girl, her eyes filling with tears. Her appeal remained unspoken, being broken in upon by the little servant maid, who announc'd that a gentleman wished to see Miss Do Vere.

“Say I cannot see anybody—l am out.” said Nita, half angrily. But the maid, with her hand in her pocket, lovingly fingering the coin she had received, wished to justify the donor’s generosity, and replied persistently—

“Please, Miss, I told him as you was in, an’ he said it was important. An* 1 think he’s from tho theayter.” • “My manager, perhaps,” said Nita, hastily drying her eyes,

, . Polly. Excuse me, him up Boiy j would not ,nada^ I Teave me under a false unhave y°u lea k y(>u to wait m n - only,” and she here--a that led into her bedopeinedthedoo t rtoJ anxious to gT v f her fears set at rest, passed I**®??* t i,e door to without closing to th.fir.pl.ca to it, Nita pa . t ho mirror, fearful E * trace 1 of her emotion should be lBS n As she stood blotting out the s o ® ll - bf w tears the door opened. rMdnfsight of her visitor in the glass, i modsharply round, and, drawing Srself angrily, “What do you my love,” said Crispani, for he. “what a handsome little fury y0 ‘ l -Wbat do you want here? I thought you were dead. “Hoped so, eh?” “Yes, hoped so.” “"Why were you so easily tempted? ■nfhv did you believe me when I said I could not live without you? But tnere, you’ve outgrown all that schoolgirl nonsense by this time. You are a woman of the world.” “Why do you como here r “To talk business, my dear. I had no idea that fate would fling us together strain so unceremoniously. The meeting was just as little expected by you, otherwise you would not have played the fool last night.”

“Bay what you have to say, and go.” “Just as groat a vixen as over,” said he, with a smile. “Well, why waste words? Since you saw mo last night, you no doubt saw the lady who sat beside me. That lady has followed your very excellent ■ xample and fallen in love with your very humble servant.” “God help her!” “Don’t be unkind.” “Do yon love her?” “Well —she is rioh, or will be, and so —”

“For the sake of her wealth you will break her heart. Joseph Crisp, you are a cur.” “Come, come, let us he friends. It will not pay you to be spiteful.” “I wili tell them you are an impostor.” “'Ho. For then I should be compelled to relate a little story of—” “Of how, taking advantage of my inexperience, my foolish love of romance, ana your position as my musio-teacher, you induced me to elope with you. Induced me, not because of any love you bore me, though you made me believe so, hut because you thought I should he rich. When you'discovered that it was not so, you left me to bear the shame as best I might. It was cruel of you,” and sinking into a chair beside the part-ly-open door, she sobbed bitterly. “Nita,” lie said, laying his hand on her shoulder.

“And I—I—oh! I loved you so,” she sobbed.

“Nita.” he repeated more softly, taking her hand in his. Finding she did not withdraw it, he went on. “Nita, ’tis well perhaps we should meet again. You love me, dear?” She answered not. Her frame was shaken with emotion. Kneeling beside her, he continued. “And I—l too, I love you. Ah! yes. But we are poor. This girl is rioh. _ I marry her; but I shall love you still. And you will love me the more that I can gratify your every wish. Come, dear one, let us forget the past. Come, Nita, you will kiss mo as you did so long" ago.”

Placing his arm about her, lie gently drew down the hand with whicli she covered her face. As lie did so, quick as lightning, she struck him across the cheek, and rising, regarded him with a mocking peal of laughter. “Aha!” he exclaimed angrily. „ forgot,” she said mockingly, that I was an actress.”

■nr n l iave pi&yed the fool with me, Well, I deserve, it. But if you are wise y°u will keep silent. ~ “^ 0 -" said she, opening the door. “If the lady chooses to telco you, why should 1 speak? You have nothing now to fear from me.” Then, with a look of scorn, she added—“l would not tread upon a worm.”

Lest it should turn,” said he, with a cynical smile, and, making a profound how, he withdrew. .«.i.'^ r< L ceased to echo on the stairs. Miss Leverton emerged from nor ludmg-place, and, seizing Nita, hugged her heartily, exclaiming—“ God bless ■^ oa ’ lTl y dear! God bless you!” Tnere, don’t mind me,” she said* suddenly releasing the girl and wiping her eyes vigorously.

been making aai old fool of my--8 <rir n , re - 1 know my nose is red.” Aou heard?” asked Nita. “Every word, the villain. Tell me. do^ you love this man?” Love!” repeated Nita scornfully, as ie <<cn ye /j u Pon the torn photograph. should I trample on the shadow of the mau l loved? My one desire is to target him.” Late that afternoon Doctor Leverton. pale and stern, sat making a pretence of white S i • ov ® r , somo . medical journals, his sister, with her lips pursed, worked at her knitting as though her Jlt £ n hnn g °n the completion of her task. hough apparently calm, the savage little tugs she gave at her wool, and the nmous manner in which her needles 4 v t proclaimed Miss Leverton’s rage *Qbe near boiling point. Presently a step was heard upon the

stairs, and the Doctor, throwing his papers aside, rose.

“Bit down, John,” said Martha, her needles clicking angrily. “Leave her to me. If I can’t manage the gentleman -—why then-—’’

At that moment the door opened, and Crispani 'entered, his face wreathed in smiles.

Glancing around, he asked, “Where is my little truant ? She promised to meet me at the station,”

“You allude, I presume, to my brother's ward,” said. Martha, rising. “She is somewhat indisposed. Before retiring to her room, she requested me to hand you this.”

“Alii a little note,” he exclaimed, eagerly seizing the proffered envelope. '=i ho tore it open the smile left his face, and he faltered. “There is nothing here. Ah! my ring.” Martha had resumed her knitting, and appeared as- placid and immovable as the Sphinx.

“Ah! this is some jest,” he said, forcing a smile.

A slight rustling drew his attention to the deep window nook, where, half concealed by tlie heavy curtain, a girlish stood gazing into the garden. Eagerly he advanced-towards her. As he drew near the girl turned to face him—’twas Nita De Vere.”

T “You!” he snarled, drawing, back, dared to betray me?” Miss Leverton rose, and, touching the boll, said.'

“You will excuse me, Mr Joseph Crisp, alias Count Crispani, imposter and exmusio teacher,, my friend Miss De Yere has but filled m the details of your rascally career. I was bv the merest clianoe a witness of the little comedy you enacted in her apartment this morning.

“Mary,” she said, turning to the maid, who appeared in answer to her summons, <f be good enough to see the hall door closed behind—Mr Crisp—ani!”