The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 19, 1903, Page 4

Tz o N A\ S A S HZ. e - . — 5F 2 T = S S el . SR e - N S > // N 27 yZ= S A '\'f' T S = ’ which must be told to Mrs. Gray quite so hopeless. present circumstances it was & hard © al to go and interview dramatic agents. By this time her name and her face were very well known in London. She had made an immense “hit,” for which she had her charming person- ality and her extreme girlishness to thank, even more than her talent, per- hape, and earlier in the season she would have had no difficulty in obtaining a ‘shop”—as theatrical slang has it. Many agers would have been only too glad to have such an addition to their com- panies, for Winifred had proved an actual attraction in herself at the Duke of Clar- but now almost everything worth story would not be In Winifred" ence's kirg would be gone and there was Iy a chance that she would have ck. Besides, she must forget that she a powerful enemy. However. Winifred had a great deal of courage, and, thinking of her she screwed it to the sticking Iy hoping that she might not be sh when she was questioned as to she had so suddenly left Mr. Ander- bed made why son She had had two years of provincial ex- perfence, but 'she had begun in a school directed by an actor who took his most ing pupils out on tour, therefore ad never had to do with agents. She knew, nevertheless, where they were to be sought, and, turning into a street off the and, she soon found the name of the n most believed in by the profession. The room was packed with actors and ses who were “resting” and yearned t no more; and the walls were cov- with photographs of other actors i0 hoped; no doubt, that s or figures might strike visiting as suitable to their require- Almost all the portraits ware autographed it was a tribute to Mr. Fitz-John Doulton’s benevolent talent trat so many professional people were and his with the “kindest “his grateful remembrances.” The occupants of this room were not of the theatrical haut monde, with which Winifred had been assoclated since join- ing Mr. Anderson's company. They were more of the sort she had known on tour, but there were no familiar faces, and she vas thankful for that, as she was in 1o mood for greetin questionings from acqualntances. At intervals a youth threw open the door which led to Mr. Doulton’s inner of- fice, calling a name; and then, with an alr of importance which might almost have been a lever to move the world, a man or woman rose, moved across the room, followed by envious eyes, and was shut out of sight into the place where all fain would be. Winifred thought it very likely that if she chose to say “I am Miss Gray, from the Duke of Clarence’s,” the golden scep- ter would be heid forth to her without the tedious necessity of walting for her turn; but she wo! not do this. It was not fair that she should be preferred before p.-o- plc who had waited for hours, perhaps. So she sat outwardly quiet, raging with- as she mentally reviewed her scene with George Anderson, until at last the self-sufficlent youth announced that Mr. Doulton had been called away on business and would not be back. “There was no good any ladies and gentlemen waltin’ longer.” With grumblings the disappointed ones rose and made for the door. It was ai- ways like this, they complained. There was very little good coming unless you had an appointment, and even then you weren't always sure of Mr. Doulton—he was “so erratic.” Winifred went with the rest, and among them all there could scarcely have besn a heavier heart than hers. It would be hopeless to call upon another agent until afternoon, for she had been here an hour, and it was now luncheon time for most business men. Mrs. Gray was particular about the places where her pretty daughter lunch- ed alone, and Winifred had frequented a daintily decorated establishment in Bond street, where charming girls in purple frocks, with frothy muslin aprons, smiled upon customers against a background of dull green wall and old blue Delft china. But there were to be no more Bond-street feasts for her at present. She gloomlly ate & bath bun at an A B C shop, and went to another agent’s. Here she was more fortunate. Mr. Brownwood was in and only a few persons were before her. In half an hour she was with him, and had introduced herself. He was polite, had seen her act, and would be pleased to serve her; but there was nothing— “really nothing doing.” If only she had come to him two months ago it would have been a different story. He feared that she would hear the same thing every- where. Btill, she might look 1:. from time to time, and certainly he would keep her in mind. “By the way, rather a queer thing,” he remarked, as the girl rose to go. “I was —er—informed that you would come to me to-day.” Winifred opened her eyes very wide. “How very strange!” she exclaimed. “Will you tell me who ‘Informed’ you?” Mr. Brownwood smiled. “That's exact- ly what I don’t know. Tne fact is, It was an anonymous letter. I attached no im portance to it, and had almost forgotten the thing until you came in.” Winifred was scarlet. “Please tell me what the letter said. I think I have a right to know that. I—should llke to see ™34 “I'm afrald it went into the waste-paper basket—the best place for such things.” hs replied. “But I can remember almost the exact words; there weren't many. Let me see. ‘If Miss Winifred Gray calls upon you wishing for an engagement, ask her why she was discharged from the Duke of Clarence' i “You haven't asked me!” broke in the girl. “Of course not. I don’t suppose for a moment you were discharged. Bome jeal- ous, malicious woman—"" “I was discharged,” Winifred stam- mered. “Every one will know it, and—1I know who sent you the letter. But—" and .she paused for a moment—*“I can’t tell anybody. It would only do me harm, and the person who wrote it counts upon “I wouldn't think of it if I were vou,” #aid the agent. “I oughtn't to have men- tioned it—but I spoke cut impulsively. ‘Well, good-day. Come and see me again.” Winifred scarcely knew how she got downstairs and into the street. She was as sure as if she had been told that the same Jetter which Mr. Brownwood had received or one like it had been sent to every respectable agent and every mana- ger in London. So gossip would be born and grow apace. And then, when the question was going the rounds: “Why did Mr. Anderson discharge Miss Gray?" some horrible answer would be ready to meet and blend with it in a hateful mar- riage. Stlll, she would not go home discour- aged to bewall herself in idleness. She went to such other agents as might possi- biy help her, but, as Mr. Brownwood had sald, there was “nothing doing.” One asked her bluntly why she had left the Duke of Clarence’s; another hinted at his d_sire to know. They had the letters. Now it occurred to her that she might call upon managers, telling them—if they 77 still needed the information—that she was at liberty. So she went from theater to theater, but found no one. She must write and ask for an appointment If she hed to succeed, she was told. At last there was nothing more to do but go home, tired out, and break the news to her mother. As it happened, this was thelr “at home’ day, and if all had been well Win- ifred would have hurried back after re- hearsal and her late lunch to dress and help receive some of the friends they had made since coming to live in London. But now she had forgotten all about it, and did not remember until she was fitting her latch-key in the door that she could not expect to find her mother alone, for al- ready it was close upon § o'ciock. As she stepped into the passage a buzz of feminine voices greeted her, with a Ceeper undertone which told that women were not the only visitors. For a mo- ment the girl hesitated, for it seemed al- most more than she could bear to meet people and smile and chat as if she had not a care In the world. Winifred walked stralght into the draw- ing-room without stopping even to take ofi her hat. Their Thursdays were quite popular, because non-theatrical people thought it rather nice to see the pretty young actress off the stage and In her own home, while the few professionals who came really liked the girl and her wother. But never had Winifred seen the 100m so crowded as it was to-day, and Ler heart gave a bound as she saw that several members of Mr., Anderson’s com- pany were there. One glance she gave round the room, and then her eves turned to Mrs. Gray. The little woman’s face was white and Grawn, despite the smile it wore, and the gaze with which she met her daughter's was piteous as that of some trapped, dy- ing creature in the woods: It was all that Winifred could do to restraln herself frem running to her mother, oblivious of every one, and begging her to say what Lind caused that look of agonized dis- tress. For the girl knew the elder woman well enough to be sure that physical pain and fatigue alone would not account for it. But there was an appeal In the great, soft eyes which seemed too large for the £mali pale face, with its frame of whiten- ing hailr. They begged Winifred to act as If nothing were wrong, to go on to the end bravely, as her mother meant to do. CHAPTER XL THE LETTERS. It was half-past six when the last rustle of the last smart gown was heard in the drawing-room of the Grays' little flat. Winifred murmured, “Thank heaven,” when she had smiled her last smile, and could fly back from the door, to which she had escorted a gossiping old lady. “Mother, dear, what is this dreadful bugbear that somebody’s been frightening you with?” she had begun, when the still- ness of the small figure reclining with closed eyes on the sofa struck her heart. She left her question unfinished and moved swiftly, breathlessly, from the door to the lounge. The strain endured for hours had been too much for Mrs. Gray and she had fainted. It was not until her forehead and hands had been bathed with eau-de-cologne and smelling salts held to her nostrils that the opened her eyes, and many minutes passed before she was able to speak. But her first words were: “Oh, Winnie, how much of it is true—how much have you been keeping from me?"’ “Must we talk about it now?” the girl asked. “Mayn’'t we wait till you're bet- ter? “I can’t be better until I know the whole truth about my dearest one,” Mrs. Gray whispered. *I shall be all right—propped up by these pillows. That awful Miss Duplessis—she gave me the most terrible shock. And everybody had read it in the paper. That's why they came—in such droves, I know. To—spy out the naked- ness of the land.” “Everybody had read what?" Winifred. “Don’t you know, dear? Has no of- ficious person done you the same kindness Miss Duplessis did me and shown you a copy of the Evening Impressionist?” Involuntarily Winifred's hand tightened on her mother’'s. It was known in theat- rical efrcles that Lionel Macaire had late- 1y bought an extremely sensational paper, the Evening Impressionist. “I haven't seen any paper to-day,” she answered, with dry lips. “I've been—too busy. What did the Impressionist say? Something about—me?" “It's here in the room, darling, Per- haps you had better read it for yourself —and yet—I can’t bear that you should have to see it. It's not so much what it says as what it implies.” “Tell me, dear,” pleaded the girl don’t want to let your hands go.” It is almost too hateful to speak of. There was a hint that there had been a sensational occurrence at the Duke of Clarence’s Theater; that a ‘scandal’ was threatened, followingga young and popu- lar actress’ elopemefiit with a man of high position. And then, after veiled suggestions, to save itself, no doubt, from being sued for libel, it added that Miss ‘Winifred Gray's connection with Mr. An- derson’s company had been suddenly sev- ered, Miss Henrietta Cotter taking her place as Lady Kitty in ‘The Green Sun- bonnet," and also playing Cella in the forthcoming production of ‘As You Like Jt' Those were the words as nearly as I can remember them, and, of course, my dearest, I don’t need to tell you that I know the first part is the most wicked fabrication; but the last—Miss Duplessis told th&‘room that you were not at re- hearsal; that your understudy rehearsed your part, and that Mr. Apderson said—"" “What did Mr. Anderson say?’ broke in Winifred, lonately. ‘‘What did he dare to say?" “Merely that he ‘regretted your connec- tion with his company had come to an end. Every one was astonished and ex- cited, Miss Duplessis took the pains to inform us, and somehow the most mys- terious and romantic rumors were started, nobody exactly knew how. She remem- bered that this was our ‘day,’ and deter- mined to come up. And on the way, ap- parently, she bought this horrid paper, which seemed only to hawe whetted her ghoulish curlosity. Oh, I thought I should have to faint before them all, in the midst of the chatter about ‘how you would be missed at the theater, how people would ‘boycott’ Mr. Anderson if he really had treated you badly, and all sorts of wild things. But I tried so hard to keep up—and I did, till it was over, thank heaven! Words grew to be meaningless to me before those cruel creatures went. 1 didn’t know what I said myself or what others said. It was just a babel of sound, breaking on my ears like a ceaseless tide, ‘What is true, darling? Have you left the theater?” . “Yes,” sald Winifred, in a low tired volce. And then, kneeling by her moth- er's side, she told her all the story—for it was best to keep back nothing now; and even the strange incident of the cab, which seemed to gain a new meaning in the fierce light of later developments, was not forgotten. y It appeared not improbable that the echoed wp W / 7 0 J man on the box seat who had “looked like a prizefighter in his best clothes,” Wini- fred thought, had been in Lionel Ma- calre's pay, though precisely what his mission might have been she failed to see. Nowadays even actresses were not ab- ducted by those who loved or hated them, or she and her mother, talking it over, might have gucssed that the cabman was to be bribed for something more than al- lowing the man to sit beside him on the box seat. At all events Lionel Macalre was clearly at the bottom of every other misfortune which had befallen her; and he must have had his hands full in accomplishing all so quickly. Somebody must be told this story,” the elder woman sald at last. ‘“‘Somebody who is strong and influential and can etem the tide of scandal. Some one who will be able and willing to denounce this wicked wretch for the viilain he is.” “What man do we know who would be able and willing?’ asked Winifred. “Cun vou think of one among those we call our friends?"” “You don’t realize, dear, what a power Mr. Macaire is in London,” Winifred said, when her mother remained silent. “I don’t believe there are many who really like him, but he is very lavish with his money, and people don't see why they shouldn’t have the benefit of it. He gives the most gorgeous entertainments, they say, which have ever been seen in Eng- land. He thinks of the most wonderful surprises for his guests that seem like things out of fairy stories, and his houses are palaces I've heard. That's the rea- sou they've nicknamed him ‘Nero the Second’'—because whatever he does or has is so extravagantly splendid, almost bar- barie. Don’'t you remember, I was in- vited to his house at Richmond last June with Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Peter Carl- ton, but I wouldn’t go because Mrs. Peter didn't like me very much, and I thought I shouldn’t enjoy it? How thankful I am now that I didn’t touch anything of his! “They all came back with marvelous stories of glass tables that rose out of the floor and were lighted by different colors that seemed to run through the glass. And at dinner the ladies had diamond bracelets in thelr bouquets. Well, when men entertain like that, and have all sorts of pleasures to give their friends, and can tell them how to place their money on the Stock Exchange or on a horse race, or find positions for their sons and brothers on newspapers, they can do whatever they llke without being afraid. Nobody wants to speak against them; no- body wants to have them for enemios. ‘What would people think if I went about telling them that Mr. Macaire had made love to me, and because I wouldn't listen he was trying to ruin my career?”’ “I should think that any one who had ever seen him might believe anything of him!” exclaimed the little woman, who had always been the most charitable soul on earth, speaking evil of none, defending sinners for the one spark of good which she supposed still to be lurking in thelr hearts. “If they aid belleve it they would say they didn't. They would probably think instead that T had angled for his atten- tlon, and, finding that he didn't notice me, I had maligned him out of sheer spite. Oh, Mr. Macaire's quite safe from any- thing you and I can do, mother; we might as well make up our minds to that.” “If only Dick were older, and—differ- ent!” sighed Mrs. Gray. “He isn‘t, darling. I don’t despalr, though. I won't despair. We'll fight Lio- nel Macaire and his wickedness, and in the end I belleve that we shall win."” But the silent battle had only just be- gun. Within the next few days Winifred had seen, or tried to see, all the London man- agers, One or two were thinking of put- ting on new productions, but none of them had a part to offer her. The girl, who had met several of these important pérsonages In the brief heyday of her suc- cess and found them most agreeable men, fancied that their manner had changed. She felt that they looked at her diifer- ently, and there was a hollow ring in their regrets that she had not been able to come to them a few weeks earlier. Al- most with one accord everybody said that. After she had met with disappointment on all sides Winifred troubled herself by the fear that she had seemed to expect too much and wished that she had clearly specified that she was ready to accept a small part—a very, very small part. After the position she had held at the Duke of Clarence’s and in public estimation it would be a humiliation to appear as a mere “walking lady”—a humiliation which only an actor or actress can thoroughly appreciate—but the poor girl was ready to do anything honest for the sake of the money needed by her mother. That need was not mentioned again now by the two women. Mrs. Gray would have given much if she had kept the doctor’s verdict to herself, that Win- nie’s anxleties need not be increased for her sake; but it was too late for such a wish to be of avail, and she could only hope, since Winnle sald nothing more on the subject, that other troubles had for the time being crowded that one out of the girl's mind. She would have thought differently, however, could she have seen how her daughter's wide open eyes gazed into the darkness every night as the clock ticked out the small hours. Winifred no longer went to bed to sleep, but to lie turning over plan after plan. CHAPTER XII. ‘WINIFRED'S LUCK. { One morning Mrs. Gray, aching in heart and soul at the thought of her own help- lessness and the sight of Winifred's faca growing whiter every day, impulsively re- proached Dick for only trying to get the sort of work he llked, not striving for what he might really obtain, no matter 1t it were irksome. The burden thrown upon ‘Winnle was too great; he must shoulder his part of it. ‘Without a word Dick took up the smart silk hat he had been playing with, and ‘walked out of the room with such a look on his beautifully chiseled face—wonder- fully like his handsome, improvident father's—that the mother's heart smota her. 2 That afternoon, while Winifred was out wearlly interviewing the agents who had always the same answer, a note in Dick’s handwriting was brought to Mrs. Gray by a messenger. “Dear mother—I have done what you wished, and shouldered my half the bur- den,” it curtly ran. “As you truly said, 1 ought not to mind whether it is irksome or not, and as there seemed to be only one door open to me, I've gone in by it. I suppose you won't scorn my father's profession for me, even though I begin at the bottom. This means that I've taken the King’s shilling—or would, if they'd bothered glving it me. And I'm now Pri- vate Richard Gray, First Battalion North- amptonshire Regiment, but still your son, who—I hope you'll think—has done the best he could.” .—(Dick had not been able to re- sist this last reproachful little stab). *“As 1 thought it would be better not to shame you and Win by calling on you in the uniform of a private soldier, I have en- listed in a regiment quartered at a dis- tance. This, to save you pain; and so good-by."” - A week later followed a letter imploring his mother, for heaven's sake, to get money somehow, no matter how, and buy him out. The life was awful. A gentls- man couldn't stand it. If he weren't saved from it he would not answer for himself. He would be tempted to commit suicide, for existence as a ‘ranker” was worse than death. Supposing he did take his own life? the mother and daughter asked each other. He was rash enough to do anything, and his present mood seemed a desperate one. Yet they could not help. It was while Mrs. Gray still held Dick's passionate appeal in her hand, just read, that the bell rang sharply. Winifred her- self went to the door, as Jameson and the cook had both been paid and seat away. A district messenger boy had come with a letter for her. “I was to wait for an answer, miss.” he sa‘d. The letter was from Fitz-John Doulton, the agent whom Winifred had called upon in vain on the first day of her trouble. Since then she had seen him not once but several times; yet he had never any hope to hold out. Now he wrote in haste, asking her to come down at once, as there was a chance which might suit her. ‘Winifred was too voung and healthy a girl not to be sanguine. In the past weeks of suspense and disappointment she thought that she had learned not to hope for anything until it should be a certain- ty, but now her heart leaped up with a bound. She had lost a certain superficial radiance of her prettiness lately through sleepless nights and weary days, which had drained her face of color, robbed her eyes of brightness and her cheeks of their childlike contour, but as she ran in to Mrs. Gray with the letter from Mr. Doul- ton all her bloom and sparkle had come back. “We'll wire poor old Dick to keep up his courage and that we'll do our best for him,” she cried. ““And for you, dearest— oh, it shall be all right for you soon— soon. You didn't think I'd forgotten. It does really seem as if there were some- thing in this. Mr. Doulton wouldn’t have troubled to send up in such a hurry other- wise. And I've sent the boy back to say that I'll be at the office almost as soon as he will."” The two kissed each other with a kiss that meant much: all they had suffered together in the past and all they dared to hope for in the future was in the close touch of the fading lips and the young, red mouth. Then Winifred hurried off to her room to put on her prettiest frock, that—thin and slightly worn as it already was—she might favorably Iimpress the manager, who was presumably walting to interview her. For once, though others were assembled in the outer office, she had not to wait. Mr. Doulton was expecting Miss Gray, and had given orders that she was to go to him as soon as she arrived. “Well, my dear, your chance has come at last!” were his first words;, as she was shown in. A few weeks ago he would not have ventured to call her “my dear,” though it was his habit, In common with a cer- tain type of stage manager, to address young ladles’ applying to him for engage- ments in such familiar terms. But now Miss Winifred Gray was only a girl among other girls, “out of a shop,” und dying to get one; and to-day wus not a day when she would dare to resent a small famillarity, which, after all, meant " nothing to the cars of a professional. She only blushed and tightened her lips a little at the agent's greeting, murmur- ing nervously that she had come down as quickly as she could to hear his news. ““Well, so far as I can see, you're in for a ‘soft snap,” our neighbors across the big pond woull y,” went on Doulton. “‘Leading part, good salary and {imme- diate engagement. The only difficulty is “Oh, there is a difficulty?” echoed Win- ifred, when he paused. “That’s for you to judge. You might or might not think it one. Anyhow, at this season of the year leading parts with twenty gulneas a week screw don’t grow on blackberry bushes, even for the pick- ing of such charming young actresses as yourself.” “Twenty guineas a week!" exclaimed the girl, with a wiry beating of the blood in her temples. ‘‘Are—are you sure I can get the engagement?"” Doulton grinned at her childlike be- trayal of eagerness. ‘‘It's for you to take or leave, it appears;” h- answered her. “Marmaduke Wantage, a man very well known all over England some years ago, is going to revive an old play which was once very celebrated and intends to make a great production of it. In his opinton you are exactly what he wants for the principal part, and as it's a big one he _makes a big offer.” “What is the play?”’ asked Winifred. “The play's ‘Mazeppa.’” As Fitz-John Doulton spoke he slyly watched the girl's face from under lowered lids. But it only showed surprise. “ ‘Mazeppa,”’ she repeated, slowly, as if the name conveyed no particular mean- ing to her mind, or as if she hunted vainly for an elusive recollection. “Yes. Have you ever read Byron's fa- mous poem?”’ “No,” Winifred answered; quite asham- ed of the necessity for a negative. “I've read very little of Byron. I've heard of ‘Mazeppa,’ of course, but I don't evew know what it's about. Wasn't it played a long time ago?”’ “Long before your day, or even mine. But Wantage thinks it's old success can be repeated, with a lot of scientific effect, and a good company. The way of it is a panto's fallen through, and he's got hold of the theater. He's golng to try this instead, te, open on Boxing day. So you see there’s just time to do it, with rehearsals beginning on the 15th; that's the day after to-morrow. It's sudden, but he only just_got the date, and must do the best he can. I don't say that you'll like the part, though a very hand- some creature, Ada Isaacs Menken, made a tremendous hit in it forty or fifty years ago. You can sigu the contract to-day if you like, and get not only your raflway ticket (you'll be expected to stop in Brighton for rehearsals. and not to travel to and fro between there and town), but full salary during the flve weeks of re- hearsal “Why, 1t's unheard of!" exclaimed Winifred, who knew enough of the stage to understand how quixotically generous such an offer was. “Good, Isn’'t it? But a rich amateur, who has an enormous fancy for Byron in general and Mazeppa in particular, is the ‘angel,’ it seems, and there was some fear that it would be difficult to get just s a sort of hook to catch the fish.” nd I am really the fish they want!"” ejaculated the girl. ‘“‘Surely I must be‘ second or third chofce.” “Well, Wantage did Intimate that he'd suggested making overtures to Miss Nell- son before applying to me at all for any of his people. But she’s under contract for January, €0 it was no use. And there aren’t many of the right sort free just now. He'll be lucky to get you, and he's evidently keen on you. Why, look here, my dear, if you'd Hke to get something out of this chap I'll give you a tip. You might make it a point that you got a few weeks’ screw in advance—say you've got to have it before you can leave town, or it down like a bird rather than lose you —for, you see, he's up a tree, as if the thing's to be ready by Boxing day he must have all his arrangements in work- ing order at once.” Winifred's i.cad swam in a gladiness of £heer joy in the intensity of sudden relief after long continued straining. ““Could I really do that?' she asked, her breath coming and going quickly. “Of course you could. I'll see to th:t. It's all the better for me, you know,” and the dramatic agent laughed. ‘“As for Wantage and his angel, they'll be glad to put salt on the bird's tail. You're valu- able to them, and once you've handled their money you're double bound to keep your contract; no fine lady whimeles such as some sweet malids in our profession induige in, and matrons, too.” ‘Winifred thought within herself there was little enough danger that she would try to escape from the contract. Why, it seemed too good to be true that so won- derful an opportunity had come to her at last! Twenty pounds a week—and for rehearsals, too—when she had reached a pass to have been thankful for three or four. She was sure that the hand of Providence was in it, and she was glad that the matter was to be arranged so quickly, for i her enemy had heard of her great luck he might have found some way of prejuuieing this Marmanduke Wantage and his rich backer against her. Mr. Doulton committed himself to a virtual promise that, if she cuose to ask, through him, for salary in advance, t.ree or four weeks' money would in ail prob- ability be ready for her taking when the contract was signed next day. That night there was much rejoicing in the little flat near Bryanston Square. The reaction from suffering to joy was almost too keen, and Winifred and her mother cried in each other's arms. Next morning Mr. Doulton’s prophecy was proved true. She did not see Mr. Wantage, who was attending to import- ant business in Brighton, it appeared, but the contract was ready for her signature, and a check for a hundred guineas. In this regard, the agent informed her, she was especlally favored. No one elise among the people engaged for the forth- coming production would have got an advance if they had asked for it, but her part, whether she liked it or not, was considered that of a ‘“‘star.” Besides, Mr. Doulton added confidentially, he had fan- cled she might be a “bit hard up” owing to the sudden severance of her connection with the Duke of Clarence’s, and he had made a special point of the accommoda- tion with Mr. Wantage. So the agent got his commission,, and ‘Winifred had still a goodly amount left. Arrangements were made for Dick's release ffom bondage; and then Winifred placed the rest of the money, all but five pounds (upon which she resolved to Ilive during the weeks of rehearsal) in their old bank to Mrs. Gray's credit to pay for the long delayed operation at the hos- pital. So it would be safe when it was needed and presently she would tell her mother what had been done, assuring her that she had kept plenty for herself. CHAPTER XIIL A QUESTION OF COSTUMB. ‘Winifred had left London in the morn- ing, and at 2 the first reading rehearsal was appointed at the Brighton Theater. She found cheap lodgings—not In the same house with Miss Sinclalr, for whose companionship she had no fancy—lunched on oread and milk, that her flve guineas might last the longer, and arrived promptly at the theater. The stage manager and prompter were already at the little table on which lay all the parts for distribution. The for- mer rose with more punctiliousness than most provincial managers show as Wini- fred drew near, and a tall, slightly lis- sipated looking man who had been talk- ing with him and the prompter advanced to meet her. “Miss Gray, I think?" asked the tall man. *“Ah, yes; I have had the vieas- ure of seeing you act in London. [ am Mr. Wantage. Glad to meet you and to have secured you for my production.” Thereupon he proceeded to introduce the stage manager, whose name was Jeffreys, and Winifred was given her part. By this time the company was assembling, and the girl could not help noticing how differently she was treated from the rest. It was as if she had been a princess among peasants, and she was at a loss to understand the way in which she was distinguished, since the fact that she was engaged to play a leading part was hard- ly enough alone to account for ft. Mr. Marmaduke Wantage, too, was a puzzle. Once he had been what is called a “fine man,” but he looked as if he had been buffeted in the battle of life. His nose was red; there were bags under his eyes, and his flashy clothing was ostentatious- ly new. He gavé the impression of a per- son who had been down in the world, having come so suddenly up again as to be almost disconcerted by his own good luck. After an Introduction or two had been effected Winifred opened her part with curiosity and began to skim over the lines before the rehearsal. Then came a shock. Sbe hurried from the wings where she had been sitting to the stage manager, and as soon as he had finished giving cer- tain directions to the prompter she at- tracted his attention. “These read like a man's lines,” she sai “Mazeppa was a man, you know,’ answered. For an Instant Winifred could not epeak, but by an effort she controlled herself. "I dldn’t know,” she returned. “No doubt it was stupld of me, but T never read the poem or heard any one speak of it, except casually. I—I—can't She was about to say that she could not possibly play a male part when she remembered how completely she was bound. “Mr. Wantage thinks it in your line,” replied the stage manager. “You're ‘spe- clally engaged.” I should have thought a larger person would look it better; but I've no doubt you'll act charmingly.” His eyes glanceéd over her face and figure. “And In your great scene you will be perfect.’” “‘Oh, is there a ‘great scene’?” she echoed. “Yes. It was a big sensation once. No or. why it shouldn't be so again.” *““And the costume?’ Winifred faltered, her eyes large and anxlous. “Oh—the costume? You'll find that all right. Picturesque, you know—anclent perfod. Plenty of time to discuss that later. Now, we really must call the first he T Winifred felt cdia ail over. She had never played a part In male attire save Rosalind, when she had dressed In long leggings, the drapery of a cloak constant- ly falling about the figure or forming a background. Even that costume had caused her embarrassment at first, al- ‘though Rosalind, being really a girl with all a sweet, wholesome minded girl's mod- esty to shleld her even in disguise, made it less distasteful to an actress than gen- ninely aping a man. Yet there was nothing to be done except to go through with it. Not only was the centract signed, but she had accepted full salary in advance for the weeks of re- hearsal. It was partly her own fault. anything you like. I believe he’d plump 'Bho ought to have thought less of the ad- vantage she would reap and more ab: the part; then she would have asked more questions. But even so, Winifred did not see, if she had known the trith frem the beginning, how she could have acted different.y. It was for her mother's very life, too—and she must not th.nk of herself and her own serupies. Many good, modest women dressed in the stage and no one thought the | them, nor did they lose their ow k respect—which was even more Important So Winifred read her lines and iearned her stage business and nobody guess what she was feeling. But as the hearsal went on she wondered more and “Mazeppa more at the cholee of & town like Brighton at the beginning of ihe twentleth century. It was sald to be a “new version,” but it was ciumsy and old-fashioned “What do you think of 1t?" asked the man destined to play the t who dooms Mazéppa to a ghastl He spoke in a confidential undertone, such as one “pro” uses to another when tha eccentricitics of the management are to be disucssed. They were not “on,”” but were waiting in the wings and nobody was near enough to hear the words. “T don't know what to think of it,” re- eponded Winifred. “If it has a chance it will be your big scene that will save it.” “You mean the one with you?" “No—oh, dear no. I mean when you come on strapped to the horse. They say the house used to rise to Ada Isaacs Menken."" I—have e?" Don’t tell me you don’'t know that?” “I @idn’t. Oh, I can’t do it. I shouid be too frigntened. They must leave out that scene. “I expect they'd sooner leave out all to come —strapped to a h rest of the play. Why, that is ‘Mazep- pa'— all it's worth being put on for. get a reliable ‘gee’ for yon. of But there'll have to be re- Fact is, Miss Gray,” and he chuckled a little—"“we're all rather look- ing forward to that scene.” Somehow Winifred was angry. He was rot a gentleman, she told herself, and there was a look and an emphasis which she disliked, though she could not quite have explained why. After the rehearsal Mr. Wantage called her aside. The gentleman who was ‘“backing” him—a great lover of Byron had a horse which he was going to lend for the big sceme. It had been bought from a circus, and was a clever and do- cile beast, and would arrive in a few davs with its groom, and there must be re- hearsa's. Did Miss Gray understand horses? She had ridlen when a child. and agan sometimes in the park since she had lived in London; that was her sole experfence She did not think that she was a coward, bhut if she had known what she would be required to do as Mazeppa she would have thought twice before taking the part. ‘I hope you don’t accuse me of unfair- ness in my treatment of you?' asked Mr. Wantage. “Every request you have made has been granted, and if there is any- thing else—" “Only to escape from that scene, If it were possible.” “That's the one thing that fsn't possible. Everything depends upon that. Oh, it won't be half as bad as you think. And it will be the success of your life. All England will be talking about you.” There was little consolation in that, but Winifred did not say so. When she wrote to her mother in the evening she ¢éid not mention her new troubles. When the invalld was well again then the requirements of the part might be gently broken to her and the best made of them. After all, Winifred could not obtain permission to go to town on Sat- urday, but a telegram was walting for her after the long hours of suspense dur- ing rehearsal to say that all was well. The operation had been successfully perform. ed. On Sunday she did go to London and was allowed to see Mrs. Gray, though not to speak. There was only a gentle pressure of the hand and a meeting of the cyes, which sald as much as words; but it was hard for the girl to go away again, knowing that, as she had left her- self so little money, she could not afford another visit until she began recelving salary once more. To her relief nothing further was sald ahout the horse for some days. Then, one morning, it was announced that the animal had arrived in Brighton, but he was to be accustomed to the stage by his groom, who would rehearse him several times privately before Miss Gray need try tke scene. creature meanwhile? At first she refused, for the thought of what she must be prepared to do was Sateful. But-after a day or two a kind of nervous curiosity triumphed and she informed Mr. Jeffrey that she would like to be present when the others were out of the theater the next time that the ani- mal was rehearsed on the stage. So she sat In a box and watched the Queer scene with an unpleasant fascina- tion. The footlights were lit that the horse might become accustomed to the effect, and then Winifred heard the echoing ring of hoofs on wood. The horse was in the wings, being got ready for his entrance. Suddenly he dashed on at a gallop and with a thump of the heart she saw that a slim young man, almost a boy, was strapped across the creature’s back, with his head hanging down. The horse went through varlous evolutions, such rear- ing with his rider and flinging up his hind legs as if desiring to be rid of the burden, then galloped off the stage aglan. This was Mazeppa’s “great’” scene. This was what she—Winifred Gray—would be called upon to do. It seemed even more horrifying than her fancy had palnted it. After that day the girl looked forward ‘with shuddering to her own first rehearsal with the formidable animal. He was sald to be gentle, yet she was not reassured. But at last the dreaded moment came. In cycling “bloomers”—since a skirt was impracticable—she was strapped to the horse’s back as the groom had been, sub- mitting to the loathed necessity in silence, with white, set lips—for she was not a girl to Indulge in hysterical outcries. The groom ran by the horse’s side at first, then retired to the wings, and before she real- ized what had happened the ordeal was over for the day. By this time the company had been re- hearsing for several weeks. They had all been measured for their costumes, which were to be supplied by the management, and would be ready In time for a dress rehearsal. Brighton was placarded with huge col- ored posters, and Winifred's name was to be seen on every boarding iIn large let- ters. She was “‘starred.” and, of course, as Mr. Wantage pointed out, it would do her a great deal of good in the prores- sion. To be a “star” was, in his opinion, a step up even from playing Lady Kitty. On the day of the dress rehearsal all ‘was suppressed excitement at the theater. The costumes had come and were very handsome; but there had been one mis- take, Winifred was informed. “Your things for the great scene were forgotten ‘when the rest were sent off from the cos- tumer’s In town,” Mr. Wantage said, “but 1 have telegraphed, and they'll be here in Would she care to see the Faa SN | 9/ | WEY it it n/ inf | > N N& BR > B 2N - N " = 7R 8 N B > Z 1% z4] 2 A 77 22 @. N -~ AR 7 7 / 7 NN 77, L 7 7 Wz 2, -