"STAR" TALES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 9307, 6 August 1908, Page 4

"STAR" TALES.

HIS LITTLERED HEN. / ; , (By MARION HILL.) •,' R .presupposes a decided amount of fcyenblene^d — a nickname dooa—- ana JNBOpjte. who never achieve the indignity »ipp generally so cr<nnful of good pomto that They never have room for the one "necessary point more— charm.. :slie was a dear little thing— that fniall Henrie— about tho nicest child that a travelling theatrical company could ever carry around ivith it and not grow annoyed with;' because youngsters in a rroupe are generally no cud of a nuisance, being " neither man nor woman, neither ghost nor human," as Poe puts it, of the bells, but 11 ghouls." Henrie was, far 1 indeed fro.being a ghoul, though, to tell the truth, she was as uncanny a baby ac ever kept grown people guessing; anc it was easy enough, from the look oi*j her, to tell why her father always call- | ed her his Liti'le Red Hen, for she wat J copper-coloured as a cranberry. This comprehensive description has a disoburagingly ugly found, and it fits to a T; nevertheless Henrie was as prett\ ue, a bronze elf, with ha^r exactly the colour of a new one-cent piece, arm ©yes and brows and lashes to match. Her father, Jack Germaine, was pleas-\ ed as peacocks about this colouring, j and used to drees her in bronze velvet, iwrith fixings in keeping— «hoes, glovet Iyvui ribbons all of the same hue — s<; hat she was a red-brown shine fron> tos to ; toe ? like a 6prout of young oak in springtime. , ty ßhe never said smart things. We bouldn't have stood that. But she saip ttirfally '■ 6hrewd ones, or at least a 15fa;rew4 thought -6howed back of the Raptor words, as once when 6ho askeq ter father : > •■■ <SFaek, why didn't you name -me ,C|ejiey.aj--.after my mother?" The tragejjy.'of the business, all uncompren€inded, though it was, cast a shadow .©js&rvt#e brilliance of her glintias eyes ■CT^hoea. red-brown eyes threw lights ytftQ epirks. • # . naturally it wa6 in Jack Gerttaine's mind that he would rather ccc his b'abv daughter dead than named after ' his untamable waif of a wife. btrt, of, course, he c-ould not voice such avteentiment, so quoth cheerfully: "What's the matter with being^ . naijuid after an Aunt Henrietta?" As a good many of us were standing around within earshot, Jack Germaine put extra heartiness into his bluff, and the child shrank sensitively. She brooded to herself for quite a while sod then dropped asleep in a frightening fashion that she had — frightening for. the reason that she always looked •6 if she had died — great brown circles underneath her red lashes and an odd pallor ou her tiny face. We a$ kneiV that there was a quirk wrong with her heart action, it was too fast or two Blow or too something; at any rate, its/ abnormal behaviour was the reason < whyV'Hehrie travelled around with her fatfagr instead of remaining with thai Atiriifc Henrietta in question. The doc-tbf-;''*saJL<T. the child worried too mu,ch t?n^n;MS€!|parated from both father and 'matter and had better be with one of, thejn. tt would be a clever doctor who covftd induce Geneva Germaine to saddle her artistic career with the care ' pf'.a baby, so the charge fell to Jack. { Of feourse, Jack and Geneva were in cßtterent companies Theatrical agon6m» khd managers always carefully see i 6 , : i$ that husbands and wives do not tfayeJ together. Even if they bad^not ia"this'ca6e, Geneva would. Geneva, Gerrnaine needed plenty of room, and gicft'it. All that Jack needed was a | htfine.f. atd didn't get it. That such pcg>p.l&;,should marry each other is quite inevitable. 1 It: is a wonder Jack Germaine did not' go all to pieces during a sea6ion, Uir, in addition to an arduous part and the duties which fell to him as actingtnknager, the care that he put upon , hi"B clelicate baby was exhausting in itBeMPu lit js a popular witticism that s. man can't take care of a child, whereas the : fact is that a man outwomans a w<ttnan- in tenderness aud intelligent skill- when the fates ordain that he •ball play mother as well as father. Henrie wouldn't haye lasted five minutes if left to the gentle, mothering or". Geneva. Geneva looked the part ajl right though— had eyes as velvety a3 purple pansies, and a soft beauty of face that would have knocked spots out of Niobe for devotiona.l affection. Though Jack held out during a season, Henrie never did, drooping from day to day till it was always a race for life to get her into the country in the summer. What she wanted was a woman's companionship. We had two lovely girls w>th us, Essie Airly and Helen Keith, and Henrio loved Essie but wouldn't tolerate Helen, which was a' pity, for Helen /was the mothering kind, while Essie, though sweet and winsome^ was as unmaternal as a chicken — you know how a hen can stand on a chick, which squawks its life away underfoot, ' while the hen looks kind of heartivrung and miserable, but hasn't the sense to step off the victim. Well, that was Essie. She could play with a child, work for it, - lee^'Jt,; metaphorically scratch for it a,pa present it with juicy bits, but she couldn't " mother, couldn't coo and cuddle and croon and cure aches with a kiss, in mystic mother fashion. A^sfojr. Helen — well, Helen and Jack loved each other, and Henrio divined It and resented it for Geneva's sake^ — »nd there's the thing in a nutshell. .Really, we haven't any private life. When we are not before the footlights performing to an audience, we are in a Pollmsn car or a hotel lobby performing, though unwillingly and often unwittingly, for the delight _and diverBlb^'of a public which doesn't pay for tlie ! privilege. Our letters are handed oiit to us by the hotel clerk or the ■iage doorkeeper, or, rather, those Worthies allow us to root among them, and we all know the others' business. If a man loves his wife and she doesn't wnte to him, we know it ; if he isn't overkeen about correspondence and she is,. we know that, too. And if the Writer is, another man's wife, or another" woman's husband, why /we're apt to hop on to a combination of that sort quick as streaks. , And the things wo hear ! We are ail idiots, together in the matter of talking ftbo much. We shut a door of a room;

around them; their sorrow set them apart. "Will the saying help, Jack?" she asked, and there was warning in her words. He honestly pondered her question. "Yes," he said finally, but with evident depression, " I think it may."' "Say what you like, then," ehe permitted, depressed , too. "It's — it's Fenton Lessing. He r s a nice chap. Helen. He comes of a ;?oo<l family, <and — well, the boy's all ridht.' 1 That eeemed to be all, absolutely all. 'Termain© was entirely finished. With his eyes fixed sadly upon the woman who understood him. he quietly patted the sleeping child who lay between. They were silent, but it cannot be said that they did not speak, for every thought which his heart held leaped into her eyes and answered him there. Whatever it was, they fought the fight through to the end, and the mastery ■.vas hers, and he was glad, for he quietly lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. " And I shall never marry Fenton, or anyone," she concluded, as if to some masterly array of argument. / Reaching out to the table, he picked np one of Geneva's pictures. " Any Kourt would free me m an hour," he said quietly, almost dispassionately, 'tut the cords leaped into view in nis clenched haiuL ne struck the radiant, pictured prettiness and threw it from 'iim. His glance travelled back to rtenrie, resting there devotion ally. " But Geneva shall never say that I .shut her from the little child who loves her,. Geneva knows, and always must know, that it is possible for her to some back to me — for Henries sake, for Heurie'o sake, for Henries! I — hate her." "Don't say that before, the , baby," begged Helen, " or to me." \ Again the pause fell. " Eelen, what good can come of it?" queried Germaine ; "your wasting words for " There were no words for him to finish. "None," she san*, drearily smiling. "But I shall do it— to the end."- --" No letters," eaid Fenton, reappear? ing as sulkily as he had gone. We were all saying good-night. " And if you want any help, Jack," said Essie earnestly, " never scruple to call me, at any hour." "Want help?" echoed Jack blankly. Then his eyes stole anxiously to Henrie. hie went white. " Why, you don't think " And he put his hand to his throat to strangle the words there. " Henrie is all right," said Helen quickly. "Let her. sleep." He looked mighty lonely, as we shut the door upon him. How nice and 1 normal the daylight is, to be sure; next day things were back to the usual. And next night the play went nnely. The house just shouted at Germaine's scene in the last act. He did jp] ay it exceptionally well, exerting every effort of _ his mind and heart to 'bring a smile to the face of his audienco, Avhich ito him was an audience of one only — ;tired little Henrie propped disconsolately in the wings, waiting for the tributary roar of laughter. It cheered her like wine. " But what in the world ails my Little Red Hen that she sinks back so quickly?" asked Gercnaine, worried, to death, as he bundled the baby into her wraps after the performance, bhe iay as inert as a doll. ' " She's just spindling away for a woman," blurted Chapman Childs. '• Girl children are lots like that. They need a mother's arms around 'em to keep 'em alive." Wednesday night Henrie was not strong enough even to sit in a chair, so a sofa was fixed for her in the wings. Again Germaine rollicked throu^a his part, again he put his best work m his last scene, and again his reward was less the tumultuous applause of the audience than the glimmer of light that lit up Henries face — a little bit of a face, no bigger than a penny kite. One line in ( particular had been made Henries own, for Jack used to fling it at her in comradeship, "If you love me, look at me I" It was a "catch" line climaxing an absurdly funny courtship scene with Essie Airly. The stage was set for a moonlight garden, just off a ballroom, bits of waltz music playing softly all the time. The line, simple- as it was, invariably "brought down the house," so full was it of ludicrously ardent exultation. During its delivery, Germaine would smile at Henrie, she smiling back, the rippled mirth of the audience a pleasure to them both. A pleasure while Henrie was well, that is; but very little pleasure now, tor as the week dragged to its close it was more than plain that the child was in a seriously bad way. Sunday night her father couldn't even dress her, but put a blanket around her little white wrapper and tucked her on the sofa in his dressingroom while he made up. Her sleep wasn't sleep exactly, but a sort of \ stupor, so that she was oblivious of , what was going on. Essie never , thoueht of lowering her voice. , She hurried in with Hejen and came • right out with the thing. "Jack," she said, "Geneva's com- , pany is in town. They evidently don't ■ ; play Sunday night. 1 thought you i ought to know. I passed Geneva in > the street not a minute since." : "Speak lower!" ordered Jack, furiL OU6. j "Geneva!" cried Henrie, pushing , away the blanket and struggling to get . up. "Jack, did you hear that? Ge- - neva in our town — at last 1 My mo- ' ther! My pretty 'Geneva! Is she here? Will she come? Jack, talk to . me ! Will my mother be here soon !" The firo in her eyes wrung truth ; from him.

I ■ " Henrie. I don't think co." ho said, 1 slov.-lv, 'hoarsely. " I don't think sho wil!. 1^ Tlio child dropped back as if shot, and Helen ran to her and knelf by her. "Henricl" sho cried, frightened. <{ Can I do anything for you?" "Yes; you can go away," whispered Hen rio hostilely. Perforce, Helen went. Quickly making up and dressing, Jack sat beeide his baby and ■watched the havoc of change which deepened !on her face. Her breathing was all , wrong. That 6mall, uncertain heart of here had got the shock the doctor was always warning against. Something . must be done to set it right.^ I Germaine rose blindly to his feet and ! scrawled out a telegram. Going to his : I door, ho chanced upon Fonton Lessing j and wrung his hand as if lie had not i j seen him tor weeks. "You'll send this, won't you?" he j asked. "To Geneva." Lessing glanced down at the message . „ , , "Come to the theatre immediately. Henrie is dangerously ill." "Sure, old. chap," said Lessing. Then, pityingly, " Don't, worry, Jack; i please, don't." _ I Gomtr back to th& sofa, Germaine ' s«id with impressive distinctness: " Little Red Hen. listen : I've changt ed my mind. I think Geneva will i come." • , , I Henrie opened her eyes and seemed to com© back from somewhere; she > spoke coherently but passionately : " You always tell mo the truth, don t you, Jack?" " Always." , , " And you really thm* sne may come?" „ "I really think she may coaie. _ " Carry me to the wings, Jack. Xt will he your cv© pretty soon." Lovingly he carried her to her accustomed place. He comprehended that she dare not speak of the hope which gathered strength- from his promise, but the life of it was tingling happily through her. Then commenced his torture, for tiio play was on. Every minute that he could he stood beside Henrie, trying to reply assuringly to the constant question : "Jack, is Geneva here yet?' "Not yet, Little Red Hen. 3 ' Finally Henrie sickened of the asking and dropped into a heavy stupor. Just as Jack tore himself awayv to go on for the laist act, Lessing brought a telegram: " Your ruse is to flimsy, Jack. Invent something else. — Geneva." Crusning the paper in his fist, Jack went up on the stage and plunged into the gaiety of the scene, carrying his audience cheerily with him. . Aaid Henrio never moved, her pet scene, too. To her quiet form Jack played as he had nevex played before, till the groat house rose at him in applause. Yet still she never stirred. Then he came to the test line, the line of their freemasonry. Into his voice, there leaped a loud fear — it rang commandingly : "If you love me, look at me I look at me!" To this he added, unknowing, "Henri© l" And again: "Henrie !" Unable to continue, he paused—the silence intense, except for the music. Dazed and obeying the command of his spirit, Henrie sat up and slipped from the couch. Swaying and faltering, she went out before. the footlights ; not that sho saw them; blind, indeed, and drawn but by the homing-instinct, she staggered across the centre of the stage till she eamo to liej father's stricken feet. There, she raised her hands. And he lifted her to his breast. From the audience came a stir of expectant amusement. The music swelled a little louder. To raise her feeble voice above these noises, Henrie spoke ivery clearly. > j "Jack," she said, and her voice "carried" to the galleries. "Is Geneva here?" "No, dear." ' | As if the words had been a stab) she blanched beneath them. Across the stage, Essie Airly sank into a chair and turned away her face. " Jack," continued Henrie, still clearly, "is Geneva coming}''' j Before the trusting honesty of her big bright eyes of brown, his lie was silenced. • "No!" he said at last. Into her glance there came a quick gleam of reproach that he should hurt her so. Her) wee wasted hand crept slowly to her. heart, clutching at ite burden of pain. The music kept on and a little laugh wafted up from the audience. Then Henries head, fram- j ed in its red-gold curls, dropped hea-- 1 vily back upon Jack's arra. j At that, someone behind the scenes, with awful tuition, gave an order. And the final curtain made its slow descent.