Leaves of Destiny

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 394, 30 June 1928, Page 21

Leaves of Destiny

By

Dorothea Corbould

Author ot •• A Fatal Friendship, “ Hl* Fair Enemy." - Held in Bondage." Ae. •*<

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER J.—Barbara Denning - has lost both her parents and is now on the brink of starvation. Her sympathies arc divided between her own necessities and the sufferings of a little boy in the same lodging-house whose mother is a drunkard. She goes out singing iri the streets that night, and with the money earned she gets a supper for both the child and herself. A man gives her his card, advising her to go to a Mr. Simpkins, the manager of the Diadem Theatre. CHAPTER Tl.—Barabara Denning sings and he is satisfied. He decides she will do for the. Birds’ Chorus, and introduces her to a Mr. Beal, the musical director. He thinks she could understudy the Nightingale, Miss Mac Arthur’s speciality, as that lady is often absent through illness. The salary is £3 a week, and £5 when she takes the Nightingale. Returning to her lodgings she finds some excited women chattering Mrs. Brown, the drunken mother of the little boy. Reggie has been run over and taken to the hospital. Barbara promises to be responsible for the child, goes to him and takes him to her own quarters, CHAPTERS 111 and IV. —Barbara goes to the hospital and is taken to the bedside of Mrs. Brown. She places a packet in Barbara's hands, and bids her to give it to Don, her husband, who is a soldier, should he return. Barbara asks her husband's name, and while trying to tell her married name the woman dies. Shortly afterwards Miss Mac Arthur is ill. and Barbara takes her place, and her singing brings the house down. The following day there is very favourable criticism on her performance. This notice bv the Press of Miss Denning’s capabilities throws Miss MacArthur into a transport of rage. Cunningly she sets to work by inviting Barbara to join herself and Miss James at Romano’s Restaurant for luncheon. There they meet Sir Uindsay Charters, who had seen Barbara singing in the streets and he pays her attention. A new lodger at Harker sis asking for a Mrs. Anstmther snd child. He discovers that Mrs. Brown was his wife, and becomes friendly with Barbara. Then he goes out of town, having made arrangements for the girl to bo driven home from the theatre each evening. CHAPTER VIII (Continued) “Oh, that is easy enough. I was married very young, and kent my marriage a secret. My wife died while I was away in France and left a child — my son —whom 1 am now bringing home to Colllngham Hall ” . “Well, you must marry again, that Is the only thing to do,” Mrs. Ans-

truther said, after an uncomfortable silence. “How old is your boy?” “Flv.e on his last birthday,” was the reply. “The young lady I spoke of, with whom he is staying at present, is teaching and looking after him, but of course, she cannot be allowed to go on doing so. Therefore. I purposed going to London on the twelfth, and fetching him home here, that is to say if you and my father consent—if not I must find another home for myself and him. He is very fond of his 'Auntie Barbara,’ as he calls his kind friend, and I am sure will feel parting from her very much. I thought, perhaps, you would let her come here with him to stay for Christmas.” “What?” " Mrs. Anstruther leaued forward in her chair again, and regarded her son with cold amazement —“ask a stranger here? Impossible! Besides we have several people coming—the Maynards and Lord aid Lady Adeane, Mrs. Mordaunt and Teddy, and Ida Cravenshaw. It will be very awkward as it is, having an unknown grandson to introduce to them “Reggie need not interfere with your house party,” Donald said coldly. “He can have his own rooms, I suppose, and a nurse to look after him, but, of course, if you’d rather he didn’t come———” “Oh, I never said that, it was the girl—l must learn more about her before I could invite her here—besides, this has been sprung upon me so unexpectedly that I cannot realise it yet. I must talk it over with your father--” “And I will talk it over too,” Anstruther interrupted. “I am sure you will both be proud of Reggie, he is a fine little chap, and very lovable, ’ and he went on to speak in praise of his son, and of his good looks and cleverness, but he did not mention Barbara Denning again, his mother noticed, and she made up her mind that once the child was safely at Collingham Hall, ail connection with the girl who had rescued him from the life of a waif and stray—for it is probable that Donald would never have traced him—should be severed for ever. Mr. Anstruther received the news of his son’s marriage better than either Donald or his mother expected. He blustered at first, called j his son a fool and demanded whet : he meant by dragging the Anstruther j name through the dirt by marrying i beneath him, but the fact that death | had stepped in to avert a dire calam- j ity in the presentation of an undesir-J able daughter-in-law to the county, |

and that he was particularly fond of children and longed for a grandchild, made a considerable difference in his views, and after a long confab between Donald and his parents, the advent of Reggie Anstruther became not only an established fact, but one to be looked forward to by both his grandparents. About a week before Donald’s departure for London, Mrs. Anstruther received another shock—and this time it. came at the hands of Mrs. Grantley, who after her sojourn with her daughter in town had joined her husband in Paris and accompanied him on a toui' in Switzerland, from whence they had now returned to their country seat about a mile from Collinham Hall.

She and Mrs. Anstruther were close friends of many years standing, and until Lady Ida Cravenshaw appeared on the scene it had been the general idea that a match would be arranged between her only daughter Maud and Donald Anstruther. One of Mrs. Grantley’s first calls rvas at Collingham Hall, and after discussing her tour, and the doings of herself and Maud in London, the conversation turned upon Donald’s return to settle down at home. T.t was taken that Mrs. Anstruther made the first mention of the fact, of her sou’s early unfortunate marriage and the existence of a grandson.

“Of course, we shall have the b6y here,” Mrs. Anstruther added, at the close of her recital, to which both Mrs. Grantley and her daughter had listened with many exclamations of amazement and sympathy. “He is at present living with some girl who was a friend of his mother’s, the latter having begged her to look after him. We shall compensate her, of course, for all her trouble, but Donald actually wanted me to ask her here for Christmas,” with a contemptuous smile. “Why, I know literally nothing about her, except that Donald said she was the daughter of a clergyman. She doesn’t appear, however, to have anyone belonging to her, and I fancy earns her own living.” “Oh, I wonder, mother, if she could be the iri who was dining with Donald at the Savoy one evening when we were there.” Maud Grantley put in, before her mother could reply. “Sir Lindsay Charters, who was with us, told us she was one of the chorus girls at the Diadem Theatre; she was awfully pretty, wasnt she, mother? and we heard her sing one evening in ?, solo when she was supposed to be a nightingale—lovely! ” “A—a chorus girl in a theatre, did

you say?” gasped Mrs. Anstruther — “Great heaven!”

“Oh, well, it might not be the same,” Mrs. Grantley said soothingly. “But I must say I was very much surprised when Sir Lindsay told us—for she certainly looked most ladylike—and Don aid was exceedingly attentive to her. Teddy Mordaunt knows her and gave her an introduction to the manager of the Diadem —he is theatre mad, you know, and, they say, finances the play -—the girl was a sweet-looking creature.”

“But—but a chorus girl, and my grandson under her care. It must be put an end to at once!” Mrs. Anstruther mentally wrung her hands in her wrath and dismay; and, the door opening just then to admit Donald himself, she turned upon him, giving him no time to greet the visitors — with — “Donald! What is this I hear? — that the girl who has charge of your son is an actress singing in the chorus at a theatre every night ” “It is quite true,” was the quietlyspoken reply as Donald shook hands with the Grantleys. “I suppose you told the Mater that,” —addressing Mrs. Grantley. “I carefully suppressed the fact myself, knowing her prejudices against play acting; and you, of course, gained your information from Charters. I saw him with you at the Savoy. He is a shiuiug light, if you like—l wonder he gets anyone to be seen with him, only he is rich, of course, and ” “I'm sorry you are offended, Donald," Mrs. Grantley said plaintively, “and 1 had no idea of making mischief, or Maud either. The girl was perfectly lovely. I haven’t said anything disparaging about her.” “Except the one thing likely to prejudice my mother against her,” Donald replied, coldly. “She is quite a gentlewoman, and took to the stage as a last resource to make a livelihood.” “Still, she is not the person to have the charge of my grandson,” put in Mrs. Anstruther. “And the sooner he is removed from her influence the better.”

Donald said nothing, but quietly changing the conversation by a remark on the Grantleys’ tour, effectually prevented any further reference to Barbara. Nor did he allow his mother to renew the subject, merely remarking that Miss Denning was quite satisfactory to himself as a guardian to Reggie, and that presently he would be removed from her care. None knew of the secret happiness in his heart at the prospect of seeing Barbara again. The days seemed all too long till the twelfth —and then cruel fate stepped in to dash his happiness to the ground. Going after a hall on the golf links the day before his departure for London, he slipped and sprained his ankle badly, and the doctor gave it as his opinion that it would be some weeks before he could get about again. It was a great disappointment—but as

he reflected, his mother was right, and it was a pity to put off Reggie's return, while he himself could quite well go to London later on, and see Barbara. So he listened and acquiesced in Mrs. Anstruther’s arrangement to send a trusted maid of her own to London to bring Reggie back, a telegram preparing Miss Denning for his departure, and Donald wrote a long letter of explanation. telling Barbara that directly his foot allowed him to walk he would come to town and see her. This letter his mother carefully suppressed. writing one of her own in its stead, which Barbara received on the morning after the telegram had arrived, and which succeeded, as the writer hoped it would, in convincing her that Donald Anstruther’s entry into her life’s history had been merely a fantastic dream.

CHAPTER IX. He was not coming! She would never see him again! The words repeated themselves over and over in Barbara’s brain, as she read Mrs. Anstruther’s coldly-worded letter, and above all the grief and regret she felt at having to part with Reggie Vas the terrible realisation of the fact that she and Donald Anstruther were never likely to cross each other’s paths again in this world! And she loved him! Barbara no longer disguised the truth from herself, for her heart told her that this man had won the first love of her life, and she no longer wondered why the expectation of seeing him once more had obsessed her dreams by night, her every thought by day, till it had become a bright beacon of light across her shadowed life. She had never thought about Anstruther’s feelings toward herself, but now’ she had to face the fact that he had never regarded her in any other light than as Reggie’s rescuer from the sordid miserable existence of a workhouse waif whom nobody claimed. This idea was proved by his family having offered her money in recompense for her care of the boy since his mother’s death. “Dear Madam,” wrote Mrs. Anstruther, “My son, Mr. Donald Anstruther, requests me to inform you that he regrets being unable to go to London to fetch his little boy, owing to many engagements at home. I am, therefore, sending a trustworthy maid of my own who will arrive at the Euston Hotel on Thursday afternoon, and I should feel obliged if you would see that Reggie is at the hotel about 5 p.m. to meet Susan Parsons, who will take charge of him that night, so that they can start for home by an early train next morning. We are greatly indebted to you for your kindness in giving him a home after his mother’s death, and I am enclosing a small token of our grati-

tude which we beg you -will accept.—Yours faithfully. Jean Anstruther.*' The aforesaid token of gratitude was a cheque for fifty pounds. Barbara flung the slip of paper from her as though it burnt her fingers. Money was a necessity' to her. but she would starve, she told herself, before she would accept one penny from these people who evidently considered that, by repaying her for the expense of Reggie’s board and lodging, their obligation to her would thereby cease. She wrote a curt little note to Mrs. Anstruther, acknowledging her letter and promising to deliver Reggie up to Susan Parsons—adding: “I return you the cheque, and while thanking you for sending it, assure you that l require no payment for anything I have been able to do for Reggie. Mr. Anstruther gave me a sum of money for his clothes, and I have bought him all I think he will need at present—the balance of the amount l have comes to £3 15s 3d, which I enclose, together w’ith an account of how r the rest of the money was spent.” This letter Mrs. Anstruther carefully kept from her son, who had not the faintest idea of how his mother’s offer to settle matters with regard to Reggie’s coming to Collingham Hall had been carried out, nor that Barbara never received his letter. What a different aspect it would have given to everything had the girl but known of Anstruther’s accident, and that he meant to come later to London! And how’ much sorrow’ the knowledge w’ould have saved her! It was a difficult task to get Reggie to understand that he was going away from his Auntie Barbara, and dire was his distress at first. But Barbara took pains to instil into his mind the fact that “Mr. Smiff” was going to be his daddy and meant to keep him with him always, that he w’as going to a beautiful place where he would have a pony to ride and heaps of toys to play with, and a kind grannie and grandfather who would love him very much. By and by Auntie Barbara w’ould come and see him, or his daddy would bring him to see her. She could not go with him because she was too busy just then, but he must be a good boy and not forget her—etc., etc. Thursday came all too soon. Mrs. Bloggs w*as told that Reggie was going away to live with his father’s relatives, whom Barbara had discovered by chance, and fortunately eviuced no curiosity about the matter, her opinion being that Miss Denning was fortunate to have found them before Reggie became “too much of a handful for her.” “Which.” added Mrs. Bloggs. “must ’appen when ’is schoolin' begins—an’ boj*s’ clothes costs money.”

Bates brought the car to take Miss Denning and Reggie, together with his luggage, to the Euston Hotel—the novelty of the drive and his anxiety as to Teddy Bear’s opinion on the changes in their lives, occupying Reggie’s mind till they reached their destination. Here Barbara delivered him into the care of Susan Parsons, a

pleasant, kindly-faced woman who told her she had bee*i Mr. Donald’s nurse, and was proud to have the charge of his son, and who immediately won Reggie’s heart by admiring Teddy Bear, so that Barbara felt she could safely leave her to comfort the child after her own departure.

But the parting between him and his beloved “Auntie Barh’ra” was a terrible grief to both, and only by reminding him that they might meet again to-morrow, was the girl at last able to tear herself away. It was perhaps fortunate that she was obliged to go to the theatre as usual, and had perforce to put away personal feelings for the nonce. But she spent a sleepless night, and by the time morning dawned, had made up her mind upon two points—one being that, though she would go and see Reggie off, she would not let him see her, and run the risks of a second farewell to upset him —the second that she would cease to use the car Mr. Anstruther w'as paying for and would tell Bates that evening that she no longer required his services. “I am so miserable and wretched, that nothing matters,” she told herself, “and I shall soon get used to going back to my original mode of getting home from the theatre.” Barbara found the platform from which the train left for the North—it was rather crowded, and she took care to efface herself —an easy task. Susan Parsons and her charge were in good time, and Barbara soon saw that the mUid bad already worked her way into Reggie’s favour, for he was chattering away to her in his usual happy vein, and the girl felt that bis grief at her non-appearance would be transient, there would be so much to amuse and interest him on the journey. She would keep to her resolution, not to risk a second parting, and so she stood aud watched the train pass out of the station, and just as Reggie, with his head out of the window of a first-class compartment, j caught sight of her with a joyous shout of “Auntie Barb’ra!” she waved her handkerchief many times, and the last she saw was Teddy Bear being made to wave a paw in response, till the long line of railway carriages passed out of sight. Then blinking away her tears to be shed at a more ! convenient season, Barbara Denying betook herself back to her now lonely : home. Bates was considerably astonished, when on reaching Harker’s Buildings ! that evening. Miss Denning informed him that she had decided to give up j using the car. and therefore w’ould not I trouble him to be at the theatre after i this evening. “I cannot trespass on Mr. Adsrruther’s kindness in the matter any longer,” Barbara added at the codI elusion of her little speech. "Therefore you will tell your employer that you are agaiu free in the evenings.'* (To be continued)