Leaves of Destiny

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 383, 18 June 1928, Page 5

Leaves of Destiny

by

Vorothea Corbould

Author ot "A Fata ',, Fr ! e HpM' P in •• Hit Fair Enemy.' Held '« Bonaaoe.” * c

CHAPTER I. Her last shilling! Barbara Denning sat gazing at the coin in mute despair, for it represented her entire fortune. Already she had turned everything of value she possessed into money, and in a few days' time another week's rent of her one room would be due. Hers had been the fate of man) others left penniless to fight the battle of life. Her father had been the vicar of a pretty country parish upon whose death but a few hundreds were left to support his widow and only child. Barbara had received a good education, however, and she and her mother resolved to come to London so that she might obtain work. Unfortunately, Mrs. Denning became a confirmed invalid, requiring constant nursing, and thus Barbara’s chance of getting work was lost. When, a few months ago, her mother died, the girl found that their little nest-egg had been entirely swallowed up by the poor woman’s illness, and that there was not only nothing loft for herself, but that all her efforts to find work were unsuccessful. She had no experience and no references to give those who required governesses or companions, and day by day her hopes grew fainter, her heart more despairing. “This shilling will be my last!” she murmured, “and what shall I do then? I declare I’ve a good mind to go out and sing in the streets as that woman *as doing last night. She seemed Quite a lady and had what must once have been a lovely voice, well trained. And after all, why shouldn’t I?” The colour came into her pale cheeks. She r ose and went to the window, through *hose broken pane of glass the autumn wind came cold and chill, making shiver. "It’s a fine evening!” she murmured. “I’ve a great mind to make the attempt. My voice is good, 1 know. old Signor Erdis, at the Pension, used to say I ought to train for a professional. I can remember several songs I used to sing, and it can’t be colder out of doors than it j 3 in this draughty place. It is not •ate either, only just seven, and if I sit at home I must listen to that poor “ttle child crying downstairs. I am ®ure the woman, his mother, beats uim. it is horrible to hear her curses and swearing at him when she is Q ot sober. I daren’t speak to her 3 hout it again, she frightened me so las t time I remonstrated with her. I

wish the Society lor the Protection o£ Children would interfere ” Barbara put on her coat and hat, wrapped a warm shawl round her shoulders, and with a beating heart sallied forth on her strange adventure —catching her breath as she passed a door on the landing below, which was standing slightly ajar, so that she could hear the pitiful sound of a child sobbing, and the coarse tones of a woman’s voice, whose accents said that she was by no means sober, threatening dire disaster “if he didn't hold his noise.” Barbara was very much interested in the child, a pretty little boy about five years old, whose pathetic expression gained much sympathy from passers-by when his mother, whom Barbara guessed to be a professional beggar, took him with her on her daily rounds. The girl wondered if he could really be the woman’s own child, his whole appearance, notwithstanding his coarse ragged garments, being too refined, and he shrank from her every time she touched him, with a look not only of fear but repugnance. Barbara longed to be able to do something to lighten his terrible existence, especially when his mother left him for hours alone at night, effectually keeping him a prisoner in their room during her absence by dark hints of a “bogey man” who lay in wait for little boys downstairs. But fear of the woman herself, prevented any interference on the part of the little boy’s would-be friend, and Barbara had to content herself with keeping a sort of watch upon him from a distance in case he came to hand, and lying awake to do so till his mother’s return. She little knew how important a part the child was to play in her own future life —that life which uow looked so dark and drear. It was a lovely evening, the stars beginning to shine brightly in the darkening sky, and though the keen north wind made Barbara shiver, there was a freshness in the air which was decidedly invigorating, while a quick walk toward the West End soon took the chill from her bones and seemed to give her strength and courage. She reached at last a big square, whose tali houses suggested comfort and affluence. In one or two the blinds were not fully drawn, showing the glitter of plate and glass on the dinner tables and the savoury smells which came up by the area made Barbara feed more hungry than ever. She stood a moment trying to gain confidence in fulfilling her uncongenial task, then, in a rather weak, uncertain voice, began to sing “Annie Laurie.” But after the first two or three bars Barbara felt her courage return. She possessed a beautiful soprano voice, and while abroad had received an offer from one of the foremost teachers of singing, to train her for the concert platform, but her father objected so strongly that she had to give up the idea, to her own great disappointment and that of her master. The beautiful bird-like notes came sweetly on the evening air, and Barbara, carried away by her own love of singing, was at her best. She finished "Annie

Laurie” and next tried a favourite of her mother’s, “Cherry Ripe.” Then from one of the houses a servant came out with half-a-crown, a passer-by gave her a shilling, and some maids on the area steps near by offered her another if she would sing the “Last Rose of Summer.” “Four and sixpence for three songs! A good beginning indeed,” Barbara said to herself. Then, as a small crowd began to collect she hurried away homewards, pausing at a provision shop to buy some cooked meat, w-ith which, and a loaf of bread, she reached her room, well pleased with the result of her venture. The child was still crying as she passed, and she heard the woman say: “If you don't hold your noise, Reggie, you’ll get the stick again! I haven’t got any supper for you. That's enough.” Barbara went quickly on her way upstairs to her own domain, and lighting a candle, set the food on her table and proceeded to cut some thin slices of bread, putting a little meat between them for sandwiches. Then taking the plate she left the room again and went downstairs. “I don’t believe she will let the child have them,” she murmured, as she knocked at the door of the room on the next landing—“but I mean to try.” The door was flung open, and at the sight of her the woman uttered an angry exclamation, and was about to close it again when Barbara said quickly: “Oh, do take these few sandwiches for your little boy! I am sure they won’t hurt him. I have cut them very thin. You can let me have the plate another time.” The woman snatched it from her with a muttered “1 don’t want charity, if that’s what you’re after.” and slammed the door in the girl’s face. Barbara stood and listened a moment to hear it' the child was given the food, and a cry of delight and the sudden ceasing of the sobbing cry satisfying her on that point, went back to her own room, where she was soon enjoying the first really good meal she had had that week. The next evening she tried her luck again and made eight shillings, but five of them came from a couple of men in evening dress evidently on their way to some function, whose familiar mode of address made Barbara wish she could afford to refuse their donation. “You’ve an uncommonly good voice, young woman!” one had remarked. “I wonder you don’t try something better than this.” “Yes, by Jove! You'd make no end of a hit on the music hall stage!” The other put in. “Take the tip from me —there’s the Diadem Theatre now—they’re wanting chorus singers I know, and ——” “Thanks, but I prefer to do as I am doing,” was the reply, and Barbara walked away. “Hello! Put your foot in it this time, Teddy! You're so jolly officious, dear boy!" “Humph, yes, perhaps—but all the same I wish old Simpkins could get hold of her with that voice, and she was pretty, too! Simpkins would take her if I asked him, I know—however ” the speaker shrugged his shoulders, and the two went on their way, the little Incident quicklv forgotten. But not by Barbara. The girl felt humiliated, realising perhaps for the first time that her present means of earning a livelihood was scarcely in keeping with her posi tion in life, and might expose her to many experiences similar to the foregoing. Yet the men were evidently guiltless of any intention to insult her. they had merely failed to treat her as belonging to their own class, but as an object of their charity. “I must try the afternoon In future,” she said to herself, when she reached home that night. “I cannot face the evening again,” shuddering as she recalled her narrow escape from a party

of half-tipsy youths standing outside a public house, who had tried to seize upon her to sing to them “for tho price of a glass of gin.” Luckily, the appearance of a policeman had enabled her to escape, but she made up her mind that it was the end of her evening performances, perhaps the end of her singing in the streets altogether. After all, why should she shun the light of the day? No one knew her. She was a comparative stranger in London, and after once or twice facing the curious glances of passersby, she would get used to it, and regard them only as an audience, appreciation meant money, food and lodging. “If only I could get a certain sum,” she said to herself, “I would take a room in a better neighbourhood; that child’s crying affects my nerves and keeps me from sleeping at night. The poor, little soul was all alone last evening, I am sure, till quite late, for I heard hjs mother stumbling up the stairs long after the clock struck twelve, and I daren’t go down to him for fear of her comiiig back and finding me in her room; and the last day or two she has not taken him out begging with her, so the poor little soul has been all alone. I wish somebody could interfere about it!” Barbara found that singing in the afternoon was far better than being out in the dark, and the people who formed her audience decidedly appreciative. She had been singing one afternoon near the quiet square, where she had made her debut in her new venture, when she saw again the young man who had suggested her going on the stage. He was crossing the street alone, and at sight of her, waited till she had finished her song, and the few loungers, after bestowing silver and copper upon the singer, had dispersed, then came Lip to her as she was walking away. “Excuse me,” he said, raising his hat, “but I fear you thought me very impertinent the other evening—if so, I must apologise, though I had no intention, I assure you, of offending you. I only thought it such an awful pity you should be wasting that rippingvoice of yours, singing here in the open, I really meant what I said about your trying for the stage. The manager of the Diadem Theatre is well known to me, and he wants really good voices for a new Revue they are bringing out there shortly. Of course, anyone can see you are a lady—a bit down on your luck, perhaps, but if you’re not above trying for a in the chorus to begin with, I can give you a card to take to old Simpkins as an introduction; he’s not a bad sort, and would oblige me, I know, if he could.” “You are very kind.” Barbara had drawn herself up in haughty displeasure when the young man first began to address her, but his evident desire to make amends for speaking to her as he had done before, and his almost boyish way of trying to express his interest in her, appealed to her craving for sympathy in her present desperate need, and„her voice had nothing in it now of the cold resentment which had characterised her former reception of his remarks and those of his companion—“but I fear I can give no references.” “Oh, that wouldn’t matter a bit with Simpkins,” was the reply. “He doesn’t trouble about that sort of thing as long as he gets what he wants in the way of singing and acting. By the way, can you act?” Barbara smiled, and the young man was struck anew at the beauty of her oval face, pale now* from sorrow and want, with its perfect features and deep, violet eyes. “Old Sam will bless me to his dying day,” he thought to himself, “for such fa find as this!” j “I used to act in the little plays we ' got up at the Pension I was at in Paris,” Barbara told him, “and they ! always said I was good. I can speak | French and Italian.” I “Really?” The young man looked l the astonishment he felt, that such an

accomplished young person should be singing for a livelihood in the London streets. “Well, here’s my card,” handing her one from his case; “if you take it to the Diadem to-morrow morning about 11.30, and ask for Mr. Simpkins, saying I sent you, he’ll give you a chance, I’m sure.” The card bore the name: Captain E. J. Mordaunt, 133 The Albany, S.W., Junior Carlton Club. “Stay! I’d better explain matters,” and in the corner Captain Mordaunt wrote: “Try this lady. I think she is all you want. Will explain when we meet. —E.J.M.” “I am exceedingly grateful to you,” Barbara said, as she took the card and read it. “My name is Barbara Denning, and for the present my address is 3 Harker’s Buildings, Battersea; but I hope to be able to move into something better if I can only make money enough.” “Well, I feel sure you’ll find old Simpkins quite ready to take you on, when he hears you sing. I’d better keep your address,” writing it on the back of one of his cards, “and I wish you luck.” Barbara thanked him, and raising his hat again with the same courtesy he would have accorded her had she been a personal friend or acquaintance, Captain Mordaunt walked away, leaving her with the impression that she had at last found a chance of getting employment, and that Dame Fortune was going to befriend her. If only her interview with the manager of the Diadem Theatre was successful, she would be able to get on. At the same time, the thought of herself in the role of a chorus girl was not a congenial one. Her parents had been old-fashioned folks, her father holding strict ideas on religious matters, and regarding the theatre j as one of the wiles of Satan to lure j the unwary to perdition. “But, then, daddy would have thought it wicked to sing in the streets, too,” Barbara argued with Each summer’s night, when stars shine bright, We may revel in rapture pure, But winter’s season brings urgent reason For Woods’ Great Peppermint Cure. For influenza, coughs and colds Prompt relief we must al! as ure— Get the best at first and aw t the worst With Woods’ Great Peppermint Cure. —34

herself, “and as to my living alone, the very idea would have been horrible. It was dear mother’s only regret at leaving this world, and she always prayed that a kind Providence would watch over me and keep me from harm, and so far her prayer has been answered. Perhaps now the thought that fortune is going to smile on me will give me courage to face the ordeal of an interview with Mr. Si: pkins to-morrow. Captain Mordaunt said he was not a bad sort, and if he will only take me on for the new play, it will certainly be better than singing in the street, in all weathers, and more especially at night ” —she shuddered —“I don’t think I could ever do that again! ! ” The Diadem Theatre was situated in one of the streets off Holborn, a large, ornate building, with flaring posters outside announcing that “The Japanese Girl” was being presented every evening at 8.30 with Clarice Raymond in the title role. Barbara felt her heart sink into her shoes when she arrived at the stage door next morning and asked to see Mr. Simpkins. | The doorkeeper called to a youth who happened to be passing. “A lady for the boss,” he said. “Says she’s got an appointment with him.” The youth eyed Barbara with sup- 1 ercilious curiosity. “Mr. Simpkins is always engaged at this time,” he said. “I don’t think you can see j him this morning.” Barbara’s cheeks flushed at the tone and manner. “I have brought a card,” she said, and handed it to the youth, who, on glancing at it, seemed to think better of his lack ; of courtesy. “I’ll take it to Mr. Simpkins,” he I said more politely, “if you’ll come , this way.” Barbara followed him to a room i nearby, and with a request that she i would take a seat, he disappeared, j It seemed hours to the anxious, j frightened applicant for an interview, | before he came back, then, “Mr. i Simpkins will see you, miss,” he said ; j “this way, please.” and presently Barabara found herself following him up a steep, dimly-lighted staircase, | past a short corridor leading to a ! door, with “Stage. No Admittance.” I in large letters on it, and from behind, which came faintly, the sound

of female voices singing a chorus, interrupted now and then by a sharp reprimand in a man’s harsh tones and the tap of a baton. At last they reached a door, and after a preliminary knock it was opened by her conductor, and Barbara found herself in a large, well-furnished room, where a big man, sleek, and welldressed, was dictating to a typist, the tapping of whose machine ceased as she entered. “Morning!” said Mr. Simpkins, but without rising from his seat at his writing-table. “That will do, Miss James, for the present. I’ll ring when I want you again.” The typist rose and glided from the room, a tall, rather distinguishedlooking girl, whose glance at Barbara Denning as she passed her seemed to the latter suggestive of resentment, not to say antagonism. “Well,” said Mr. Simpkins, as the door closed, “what can I do for you, Miss ?” “Denning is my name,” wa3 the faltering reply—“ Barbara Denning.” “You’re a friend of Captain Mordaunt’s, eh?” Mr. Simpkins looked at the card in his hand. “Certainly not,” Barbara replied haughtily. “Captain Mordaunt heard me singing one day, and was kind enough to say that he thought my i voice good enough for the stage. He j gave me that card in order that I | might see if you could give me an eni gagement. He said he knew you very well.” “Quite right,” Mr. Simpkins nodded, “and I’m always glad to oblige him—but I’m sorry to say we are full up at present, and I haven’t a vacancy in the chorus. However, if you like to leave me your address, Miss Denning Barbara’s face showed the disappointment she felt. “I don’t think J could wait,” she said. “You see, I must earn my living—and it is so difficult that I have been obliged to sing in the streets lately—that is where Captain Mordaunt heard me. T am much obliged to you for seeing me. Good morning,” and she turned away to hide the tears in her eyes. | But Mr. Simpkins had no intention | of ending the interview so abruptly. ! To begin with, it was always his cus- | tom to pretend he did not require any

■ ■ - addition to his company, thus making » a great favour of taking an applicant I and offering as small a salary as posr sible in consequence. Secondly, he - did not wish to run the risk of offend- : ing Captain Mordaunt. who was - wealthy, and had already put money . into the theatre, by refusing to see for - himself what this girl could do. More--3 over, she was pretty, and in spite of 3 her shabby attire, undoubtedly a lady. (To be Continued.)