CHAPTER XV.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 1890, 23 April 1892, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XV.

THE BAXDOLIXI3. " And now the world is winterly The first love fadea too : none will see When April warms the world anew

The place wherein luva grew.'"

The great round globe ha 3 one more year added to its hoary age. So much the more of blossoming that wore hitherto a wilderness in the far away Southern Hemisphere, where the emigrant and the squatter has set the print of his civilising feet.

Fair and pleisunt New Zealand ! How many fair and lovely places within thy bright domain have suTfjred wreck and pillage at tho bo -k of the angry War God ? How many blackened ruins yet smoulder that had been happy, smiling honns? North, south, east and west, the ravages of strife and rapine ate everywhere visible.

An autumnal evening, soft, grey and mi^t}', in the country, as if thick wish the smoke of burning homesteads. A p.tched battle has boon fought on the banks of the

Waikato between Titori and the colonists, and Titori and his hos.ts of dusky warriors havosu&red a signal defeat. Tiie city of Auckland is jubilant, the citizens en fete over tho battle won. Many of these grouped together in the streets are poor, unhappy people, who have been driven from their tenements in the surrounding district by the rebel hordes, and have had to take refuge in the city.

Ifc is the la3fc night of August, and the first night of Alton Lyndhurst's new and original comedy, "Love's test."

Spite of tha excitement and the depressing influences of war, spite of the sanguinary conflicts being waged almost within the precincts of the city, this was to bo altogether a great night in the dramatic world. Ttie old Princess in Queen street had been demolished at the nod of one Amos Ward, a large millowner, and mayor elect, and in its stead had risen the statoly "Bandoline," capable of seating three thousand people. The new theatre ha 3 coit tiie Mayor of Auckland £30,000. But what of that ? Amos Ward is rich, a bachelor, and at forty is head-over-heel 3in love with the popular and universally admired Victorine Giyland. Save for that terrible engagement on Drury's plains, wherein so many Pakehas and Maories lie side by side in death, the "Bandoline " and the beautiful young actress have constituted the sole topic of conversition. The St. James's, Liberal, Bohemian, and other clubs have discussed, with that after dinner nssumption of conscious ignorance which dstinguishes the dramatic Sir Oracle, the artificial mode, and the extravagances of ioilette which astonish and delight the multitude. Even the terms with which the favorite actress has consented to remain on the boards for another season have been stated with an exactness which passes current for acctiracj'.

Victorine Garland is something more than a mere favorite wiih the play-going public of Auckland. Her patriotic whim has been bruited abroad, and it is a matter to be counted upon that whenever she appears, the seats, from gallery to private boxes are at a premium.

Tho all important night of a new play has come. At a quarter before eight the dainty theatre is packed as closely as if it were a bon-bon box filled with chocolate creams. The critics are there in full phalanx, some of them with handsome wives at their elbows, to assist them in forming their opinions, or at least to expound the merits of Mrs. Gayland's dresses.

The general public is here in full force, having paid its money eager for the favorite's triumph ; but that particular public of literature and art, which in many cases has not paid for admittance, is the most noticeable. All these critical gentlemen display a lively interest in the events of the night, and have such a good natured air that it is hard to believe that gall may flow from their pens instead of honey. Tiio private boxes are all occupied ; pretty faces and bright dresses line the theatre. It has been so artfully designed that the gallery, though a fair place for seeing from, is almost invisible to the parterre and boxes, being as it were, effaced by the dome of a gilded lattice, the most noticeable feature in the house which screens the sunburner, and tempers its effulgence. Above this perforated dome there are large skylights which open to the cool night, so that in warm and fine weather the "Bandoline" may be made almost an open air theatre.

The one private box which is not well filled is the stage box on the left of th c proscenium.

Here sits a gentleman in solitary state — a gentleman of about forty in faultless evening dress. His hair, moustache and beard are of that rich brown which murks the type of tho handsome and stalwart Anglo Saxon breed, all the world overSeated on a stool outside the box — but with his head above the cushioned partition, and where he can see his master — Phil Brock waits upon Amos Ward.

Phil is an Irishman of the old school. Fifty years of age or thereabouts, but as hardy and as supple in mind and limb as an athlete of half his years. Hot tf>mpered and passionate, almost to the verge of insanity when fairly crossed, yet Phil is ona of the most kind-hearted and faithful fellows alive. For fifteen year 3 he has followed the varied fortunes of his master, during which time master and

man had bocono si ae'ustoned and no pendent on cio'.i other tint the oil confidential servant does and says almost what he pleases with the Miyor of Auckland. Iv p3r3on.il appanranca F<iil is " ot elegant or beautiful, but he is scrupulously neat in his attire, and carries his short cropped head high in tho air, like a man who feels the importance of his position.

" There's Ward already in his den," says Captain Jack Flemington, of Pye's Horse. " 1 wonder how he feels now tho builder's bill has come in ?"

" Pshaw I" grunts his companion, Colonel Howe, a chemist by profession^ but who has been obliged to take up arms in defence of hearth and home, "Amos Ward thinks no more of settling for a building like this than you would of paying for a bottle of ' fiz ' at the ' Albion. He has more saw mills than I have boots."

Opera-glasses are directed to the solitary gentleman by this time, by many a marriageable missand designing mamma.

It is pretty well known that Amos Ward's money is to pay for the building, that it is his venture. Of course Mrs Gayland has taken -the lesseeship in good faith, and will pay her five hundred pounds rent for the season ; but the straw colored quilteil satin, the amethyst velvet cushions, chair cover 3, curtains, the crystal girandoles, with clusters of parian candles; tho cloak rooms, with their luxurious appliances tho smoking divan, opening upon a wide stone bilcony, overhanging the streets, where smokers may sit en warm night 3 ; these and a hundred other details thu bachelor Mayor of Auckland must pay for.

There 13 excitement everywhere on this the opening night of the " Bandoline." But excitement the most intense, because the most suppressed, reigns in Victorine Gaylaud's dressing room, an exquisite apartmeub in which is concentrated tl c costliness and taste of the whole buikiins. Amos" Ward had siid to the architect, " Let this one dressing room be as perfect as art can make it. Simply that. If you do not succeed, I shall consider the whole design a failure."

According to his light and the material al command, the architect has obeyed. Tne Duchess of Maryborough in the plentitude of her power, hau no rooms more elegant or costly.

Yictorine G-ayland stands before the cheval glass dressed for her part. The long straight robs of white cashmere rather improves than hides her slende r figure. Each round slim arm is clasped with a golden serpent, and a golden serpent binds her glossy hair. These are her sole ornaments.

In an easy chair by the fire-place sits Alton Lyndhurst, who has just been admitted to an audience, being altogether a privileged person this evening. He sees the magnificent dressing room to-night for the first time, and is warm in his praise of its beauty.

" Beatrice Carson could have nothing better,'' he says. "The place is worthy the heroine of ' Love's Test.' "

Mrs Garland shrugs her slim shoulders with a depreciating air.

" How much more useful the money tins room cost would have been to the Patriotic War Fund," she replies.

"No doubt ; but His Worship the Mayor of Auckland is not so imbued with the spirit of patriotism as yourself. People say he has built this room as a tribute to

your genius."

Victorine's dark eye 3 flash upon him angrily for a moment, and then grow grave even to gloom.

" People must have something 1 to say. I suppose every puppy of the club thinks it the thing to scandalise a lady," she replies, looking down at the folds of her drapery.

" You did not expect to escape when you allowed Mr. Amos Ward to erect thiß theatre for you ?"

" The Mayor of Auckland built this house as a- speculation," she says, proudly. "I am in no wise concerned if he squandered his money upon thi3 foolish room. I take it the place was not built absolutely on my account."

" Pardon me," he says, in a quiet tone. "The dressing-room is an honor to His Worship's good tasie. And now, honestly, do you feel that you are going to make my poor effort a success ?"

"1 feel as if I were going to break down, my head is burning and my hands are like ice."

She gives him her small Blender hand, stone cold nnd trembling.

" You will not fail," he says, decisively. " The play will be a hit."

He knows that w ith her highly strung nature she is sure to be greatest when she suffers most.

'• Oh ! I have never acted in a play of yours before, think of that."

"And never shall I have a character of mine so interpreted. You will breathe a soul into my mould of clay," he answers, warmly.

She gives him a look which glorifies her pale face, very pale indeed now.

"Say one kind word to me, Alton, before you fio," she pleads, with tenderest, saddest beseeching in her voice.

He conies to her slowly ; takes the small braided head between his hands, and kisse3 her forehead. So might a father or brother have kissed her iv some solemn crisis of her life. He is so utterly an artist that he understands every shade of the subtle feeling of art by which they uve allied, that this hazard of success seems to him a solemn crisis.

Victorine Gayland is not thinking of the play. There comes to her a picture of a green tone in summer time, the warm glowing tfnts of late summer, a steep grassy bank, on which wild ferns grow tall ; and two figures, her own, and that of the man standing near her new ; they are clasped hand in hand, her head upon his shoulder, her eyes looking up at him proudly, fondly as a girl's eyes turn to her first lover ; but the picture is over six years old, and Victorine G&yland's thoughts and feelings had gone through many a change within the compass of these years. She has changed her standard of value, and that which she longed for now loathes as basest dross. All that

isho h is of worldly wealth, all praises and li')in;i = 'o that she his now. she would givo in exchange for liis honest love again.

" How much .you have altered since iasL year," she says, thoughtfully. " For the worse, perhaps." " Nay, I mean you have grown serious, sternly serious.

" May not a man be in earnest now and then ?"

" Perhaps."

Alton Lyndhurst finds they are drifting away on dangerous ground. He, therefore, takes up his hat to depart.

"I have invited some friends to witness the performance, and must join them," he says. "Before I go, let me take this opportunity to thank you for the kind and friendly interest you have shown in the production of my play."

A sudden feverish light comes into her dark hazel eyes. " Kind and friendly," she echoes, with a vehement gesture of her arm. " How can you talk of kindness and friendliness from me to you ! Alton, do you think I have forgotten ? Can you so utterly have ignored the past as to believe it possible for me to forget V (With passionate tears which she tries in vain to suppress) " I threw away your love when it was verily mine, foolish, ignorant ©f my own heart. Oh ! Alton, can it never be mine again ? Can the clear old days never come back ? I was little better than a shameful huckster when I wronjred you, but the wrong was based upon the outcome of biting necessity, not upon the knowledge of your worth. I have been educated in sorrow to a clearer view of things, and my love has grown with my growth. Can I never win back what I lost ? Am I so worthless a creature, I whom the world praises, that my penitence and my love count for nothing with you, Alton ?" she asks, with piteous pleading.

It is m vain pleading, for her, now.

Five minutes ago, and to Victorine Garland this confession would have seemed of all tilings the most impossible. The words have burst from her in. a gust *f passion, sudden as a stormy blast rushing in at a rashly opened casement. After that last question, she bows her head upon the mantelpiece to hide her crimson, tearful face. lie approaches her, takes her hand in his, ever so gently, and with grave tenderness, replies: "Victorine, the age of miracles is past, and in our days the dead do not come back to life. I shall be your friend always ; your lover — never again."