THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 321, 22 February 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE PRINCESS AND THE VILLAGER ! 1. I She was only a pantomime princes's, and her subjects wen) entirely voluntary; but never did princess rule over a more enthusiastic court, tier appearance in tiie realm of limelight was nightly greeted with loud applause; her songs were whistled and sung in street and factory; playgoers vied with each other in drawing attention to her dainty charm. But her chief—though undeclared — slave was "W. Jones*"—a name which was only to be found, after much search at the foot of the programme, where it figured in small print among the common ruck of fairies and attendants. A pale, quiet young fellow was "\V. Jones." with just a whimsical twinkle in his dark eyes to hint that, on occasion, he cou'd be less' reserved. He had no friends among the company, and made no efforts to secure any. He was only cast for the role of "A Villager/' and lie was paid so much—or so little—a week to join in the rollicking choruses. And there interest in him ceased.

One evening, as sue stood awaiting her cue to enter, the Princess spoke a few words to him, caught by the wistful look in his eyes. And on most nights after that the Villager contrived to have a short audience with his Princess. Her quick, girlish sympathy divined a mystery about his person; but when she questioned him more closely he stammered and mumbled.

"How did you come to be in this pantomime?" she asked him one day.

"I—l don't know," he answered slowly. "You see, I—l wanted something to do, and my landlord mentioned the pantomime, and—and here I am!" "But is the stage your profession?" "For the present," he replied, and was silent. >-^. "Have you tried anything els'e?" "Most things," was the answer. "I'm just a man who is no good at anything. So I suppose I must get along as beat I can. There was a time when I. hoped to make a career for myself, but— —" He ceased speaking, and turned away, A couple of days later the Villager, in the midst of a conversation with the Princess i suddenly displayed signs of acute nervousness. Fumbling in his pocket, he drew out a tiny cardboard box, and confusedly begged the Princess to accept it. Within the box was a small gold ring set with a few stones—just a simple girlish little ring. "I—l want you to have it, "said the Villager, m great embarrassment; "just as a—a souvenir of the panto, and because you're my only friend. Please accept it!" The Princess glanced up at his face, and, altering her mmd. accepted the little ring. She- had read in his eyes' that to have refused the gift would have been to nurt the giver; and he meant the offering so sincerely.

For the last few days the Villager had held alooi from his Princess. At last, one evening, she came upon him standing in the wings. "And what are you going to do at my 'Benefit'?" she asked him brightly. "It's my benefit performance to-morrow evening, you know." "T am afraid I can d 6 nothing, except wish you luck." lie replied. "But I want you to do something on Cue stage," she persisted. "What can I do?" he asked. "I'd give worlds to nelp a little, Out '• "You might sing/' she suggested. "Mixed with a crowd or. others," he told her, "my voice scrapes through. To expose it alone would "fie to court disaster." "But surely you can do Something?" "T wish I could; but I'm just a man who's no good at anything. I—l can fiddle a bit." "Can you?" asked the Princess, a trifle dubiously. For she naturally desired her benefit lo be as perfect a performance as possible. "Of course, if you'd rather I didn't—" "Oh, no; I want you to!" she said quickly. And s'o it came about that next evening the Villager, smocked and redcheeked, strode nervously on to an empty stage, a violin beneath his arm. In the wings was the Princess, on tenterhooks lest the Villager's performance should draw down on him the witticisms of the gallery. Scarce had half a dozen notes come tripping from the violin when the whole house settled itself to rapt, silent enjoyment. The smock and red cheeks were forgotten; the-audience saw before them only a musician who compelled their very souls' to respond to the lilt of the instrument, who swayed their emotions as easily as he did his bow. Thunderous applause greeted his' performance, and the Villager strode fr»m the stage to find the eyes of the Princess swimming deep in tears. Then and there the manager offered him an appointment in the orchestra. The accident happened about an hour later.

No one quite knew how it came about, but suddenly a mass of scenery had eome hurtling from the "flies," and crashed down on to the stage. Someone had been hurt—no, no one of any importance, merely one of the s*upers, Jones, as he called himself—the quiet chap, who fiddled rather well. So came the tidings to the Princess, as she quitted her dressing-room, and instantly she dashed to the stage. A number of performers and three or four stage-hands formed a group round Someone on the floor. : •■£

The Villager opened his eyes languidly at the Princess's voice, and closed them again in a dead faint "Someone's gorn for a cab." said the stage-carpenter. "We'll suou get ini up to the 'orsepital, now. Lucky it wasn't you, miss!"

Presently a cab rumblea up to the stage door, and they lifted the Villager tenderly, and bore him to it. "Take niiu to his said the

Princess"The 'orsepital, you mean. miss. 'lvd be much better looked after thereproper nursing and everything." "I'm going to nurse him myself." announced the Princess. 111.

For three days the Villager lay silent in his tiny room, unaware that the Princess' was spending every available moment at his bedside.

"We may expect the crisis to-day," said the doctor. "Has he any people of his own?"

'Then you think he might—might—' faltered the Princess.

"It's just a toss-up," said the doctor, as he left. "Princess'," came a weak voice from the bed. "I—fi don't mind so very much. Perhaps I dreamt. You'll hold my hand, won't you? I shaVt be afraid then." He was silent for ?- while, and.then recommenced: "Perhaps it's not so great a tangle after all. You see, I always wanted to follow my bent, and my father wanted me to do as he bade me. I was keen on music. I wanted to win a place in the world for myself. He wanted me to follow his footsteps' in politics. You see, we're—we're pretty well off, and an old family, and all that sort of thing. And at last I was turned out of doors. My father said I might starve, and I said I would, sooner than apply to him for help." "And you have nearly starved?" suggested the Princess. "Often and often. I could get no further in my profession. I even began to doubt whether I was any good at music at all. I tried other things, »u!t still I could get no further; but I, never wrote to my father. And then, wnen ij got work in the pantomime I hadn't a. penny. And then, Princess, then I met you, and —fell in love with you." There was silence in the little room. "I knew I could not hope to win you —you with a bright future before you, and me just a failure. And that made' the tangle worse than ever. Now 1 have heard what' the doctor said, and I can tell you that I love you. You—you don't mind?" "No, no, dear, for 3 have learnt to love you, too." "Ah, that makes things easier. The other night ; when the manager offered me a post, it was nothing to me, for your love was the one thing in all the world I cared about, and I knew T could never hope to marry you. What did anything else matter beside that? You were going out of my life—" Again there was a long pause. "I should like to see my father again before—" That evening, while the Princess was away at the theatre, a cab drew up at the Villager's lodgings, and an old man stepped hastily out. "My son—my son!" was all he could murmur; and when he came to the Villager's' bedside, he just took his hand, and held it tightly.

"Dad!" murmured the Villager.

Six weeks and more had passed, and the pantomime was over. The Princess still remained to nurse the Villager, who, lean and pallid, was rapidly Hearing convalescence. "I want to speak to you," said the Villager's fatiier, one morning, to the Princess. "My son is on the road to health now. What do you propose to do?" " . The Princess hesitated. "You know I am rich; you know the honorable name the family bears," went on the old man. "You must recognise that an alliance between my son and—forgive me—a pantomime girl is impossible. There are his prospects to oe considered." The poor little mountebank Princess bowed her head sorrowfully. « |

" He has hinted to me that he intends to marry you. If he does—well, his health is delicate; but he may call me from his deathbed, and I will not come to his aid."

"No, he must go back to you." said the Princess sadly. "He is not strong enough to rough it." "Precisely! And so, if you love him, you will not stand in his way." "I am going at once." she said, holding out her hand. "Good-bye!"

The old man took her hand with some show of feeling.

"Yours has been a sacrificing love," lie said, quite gently, for him. "I, too, am grateful to you. And. wTien my son has—has forgotten you, he will be grateful too." "Your son will never forget me," she said gently. " But I will not stand in his way. Good-bye!" The old man's eyes were fixed on the ring she was wearing. "Your son gave it to me, long ago," explained the Princess, answering the unasked question. "It was his mother's ring," said the old man, in low tones, speaking almost to himself —"his mother's ring." •'iou loveci nia motnei - ;' wnis'perea the pantomime Princess, of a sudden. "Let her ring plead for me. Let vanished love speak to you of present love." The old man stood staring out of the window. The Princess handed him the circlet, and he put it passionately to his lips.

"Love is strongest," he murmured. Then, taking her hand. lie led her to his son, and awakened him gently. All was well for the Princess and the Villager.—Answers.