BIRDIE.

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume 4, Issue 1043, 8 April 1882, Page 1 (Supplement)

BIRDIE.

. A S rAGE MANAGER'S STORYv ' By Hi Herman, ' " If you plcaso, sir, mother's sent mo .to ,; say that Sho can't come to-night, her cough, is so bad, and she'll come to-morrow; ana, if- , you please, sir, you won't send her away.be; causo sho is ill 1" I looked, first around me,, then down in front of mo. The speaker was a fair haired' little girl of about four years, "And who is your mother?" I asked,. V "Mrs. Birkeley, if you please,^sirand can sho stay away from rehearsal .to-uiglit ?", Mrs, Birkeley was ono .of, the" extras'." ,1 remembered noticing that aristocratic name on the list which .the prompter had handed, me the previous evoning, ( "Tell your mother," I .answered, "that.' she can stay away to-night, and. that I will not fill up her placo." ] Tlio child'vanished, and amid tho work and worry of the night rehearsal, and tho continued work aud worry of the day that followed, the poor sick extra girl and her child were forgotten. The next ovening brought the dress rehearsal—the final preparation for the pantomimo. Everything went as smoothly as could bo expeetedi in .fact, more than/usually so, ,The wholo of the opening had been satisfactorily gone through, when I was called into the green-room,' One of tho extras was ill—dying, they thought, 1 found that the report was only too true, The poor creature had. beon suffering from consumption, and, being in great want, had endeavoured to earn a few shillings for herself and her child, Tho bitter cold of the winter nights had hastened the, end. She died in the green-room that night. , We got up a subscription among ourselves .and a few friends to pay the expenses of the funeral, hnd to provido something like a Jioine for the little waif that had been.left to tho mercies of this cruel world. About sixty pounds were soon collected for that purpose, and Birdie—that was the name we gave the little one—wasplaced witha woman who, in consideration of the sum of fifty pounds paid down, agreed to provide for the child until sho was fifteen years of age, I knew the woman personally; She was a de-f cent, motherly sort of person, the widow o the former master-carpenter of the theatre,' childless,-and in every way fitted for the ftlmrge, I, for one, felt that I had done my duty, and went on with my daily work and forgot all about Birdio Birkeley and her dead mother.

Years had passed—thirteen or fourteen of them—and I was again rehearsing a pantomime, It was in London this time, Among the applicants was a tall, fair girl, with eyes like those of a frightened fawn—eyes that I thought I remembered to have seen before, but kuow not whero. I asked.her her name. "Isabel Birkcley is my name," she said, " but everybody calls me Birdie," In the flash of a moment iny memory carried me back to that December night when I !had seen her mother die - for here stood the child. " How did you come to London ? " I asked her. "I have been here five years—Mrs. Sim. mons brought me."

- o ' " And where is Mrs, Simmons ?"

"She has been dead moro than three years." "And how have you been living siuce then ?"

" Oil, sometimes I have helped in dressing, and sometimes I 'went on,' whenever I could, but it has been very hard." The girl evidently did not know me, and still she spoke to me as if she thought 1 knew all about her history. I gave her a small part, to which a salary of fivc-and-twonty shillings a week was attached. . She played it very creditably, and looked very handsome. She soon attracted the notice of those hangers-on of stage-doors, who seem to mako it the business of their lives to play the role of Mephistophcles to the Marguerites of the ballet and the chorus. Many and varied wero the letters that were sent to her from the atage-door—tlio little crated envelopes that contained so many temptations. She brought them all tome. We would laugh over them, and then throw them into tho green-room lire. I was proud to think that my protegee, with her scanty pittance, had tho courage to withstand these tempting devil'a baits. Then tho little notes ceased, and small parcels became the rule, Night after night she would show mo gold bracelets, earrings, diamond pendants, and other varieties of tho Mcphistophelian paraphernalia; but the glittering trifles were always packed up again and returned to the donors. And amid all this Birdie Birkeley .came nightly to the theatre, in the cold '.winter weather, in her thin jacket and hci iplain dress, and the stage-hands who wer< smoking their pipes on tlid pavement grinnec when th.ey saw the looks of disappointment on the faces of her admirers as she swept pas l them into the theatre, without even deign ing tolook at them,

Woman, however,, is but woman after all,; and Birdie Birkoley was bound, sooner or < later, to. meet the man who would make a deeper impression, upon her heart than the rest of tho gilded youth who'lay nightly in wait for her at the stage-door. He came, he I saw, and .ho conquered, He did not overcome her sense of duty, her feeliiigs of purity ; aud truth, but ho captured hdr heart. Lord I Ballam, the eldest son of the Marquis of i 'Warren, r ; was a handsome young fellow of MX-and-twenty. His protestations of love and honour seemed so sincere, so truthful, that thgy would have turned' the head of many a rich and nobly-born girl j how then could tho poor actress, struggling , through the hardships, of winter on five-and-twenty .shillings, a week, fail to be impressed by them? I'.was still; her friend, her adviser; She showed mo his letters, They were cer- 1 itainly straightforward and outspoken-he' ■yowed ho would make her his wife. I was glad to see that with all this her attire was not changed. Sho still wore the plain dark dress, the poor jacket that had been hers all the while, and no diamond rings glistened jia her fingers, She was a sensible girl, She that his family 1 would n'ever consent to his with her—that his father'would disown lii'u l s ' ie His reply to her protestations was that he. was his own 'master-that the estates, were; entailed and could .neither., be encumbered without his consent nor, taken from hini, and that, come what may, laabol Birkeley should be Lady 15ilium.. Ho askeil to lie allowed to contribute to her income, hut: this she peremptorily refused, "If I love you," she said, " it is for yourself; I should despise myself at-the possibility of a thought that you had bought mo," The pantomime was drawing to a close and I came to seo inoro of Lordßallam., Ho was certainly most earnest in his dosire to make Birdie his wife, and her resistance, excuses, •and pleadings for delay only added to the fire of his passion,' Ho could hardly get himself to understand how it was possible | that this poor girl should hesitate to accept the coronet which so many of her richer Bisters would liavo clutched at as a great prize, Birdie had insisted on his telling his father of his intended marriage, and a3 she audi had both expected,the old Marquis was furious at the bare mention of the poBBi-

bilifcyiof such",aching. I( The youlig man, however, ! obstinate, -and, no .threat, 'flo'" entreaty could lriovo bim from his'purpose. ' , ! One evening, shortly s before t(io performance was.to commence, I, wits sitting in my iroom. answering: my usual pile of letters,' W;heii : ray messenger brmiglit! me a card," Tlio •Marquis of /Warren.' 1 ' Somehowior otiier I had oijpected this ..visit,' , I could not tell why, but .the idea/had for some days been predominant in my mind that Lord Mlam's come to,see me,' A tall, wliito-' haired, stern-looking inan entered.' J'l am Lord Warren," ho said; "you '.hardly,expected to see me hero."' ."Ibej-your pardon, my' lord,' I 'l replied, "but, 'atraugo totoy.ihavebeen expecting this.visit for.some days, '.You come to see me about your son and Mi& Birkeley.'But I ranat confess that I cannot see'wliat possir bib iniiuctico I "can. baveiu this'mattor, ''except 1 to give advice." ... .Ho looked ati'me for, a mbment, and then said quietly— '"' '' . .'"'You can'prevent.'this marriage,' and you must,'.' : ~ .. . ' ' . "... ' "I!" _. '... ■ • "Yes, you.;; 'You have cosiderable'influence with this girl, You must, explain 1 to her; the' impossibility of 'her marrying iriy son,".

; I wasjnettled at tho peremptory tone assumed by tho old man, ■ "I cdnfess," I replied,' "that I cannot see the drift of your argument. .Mypowor over Miss, Birkeley 'extends only to cancel her engagement by a fortnights notice; but as she has done nothing which 'wduldjustify such a step, I could not even Use it far. Besides" that, sh'e has made a .success, and were I to send:,her,.away to-day, 'slid' wOuld' obtain another' engagement without the slightest' difficulty.". . " ' •' : • "Thit is.not iyhat I mean, and you know it,"- he taid,'rallier sharply. ; I waited to reflect for a moment, " Perhaps you, will ' tell me what you do mean, my lord?". "Yoli.must give .this girl to understand thatshi cannot be my son's, wife." ''Anil why, pray?" '!' ' ■ Hepaused for a,momcnt.again,,and looked straight into my face; then lie got lip, and, | walking across the room to whero I sat, he ■ said:—!

"Yei, I will tell you why. This is not the first case, unfortunately, of a young man of our family marrying beneath him, I had a koto—an only brother. One 1 morning— I remember it as if it were to-day—wo were lit breakfast when ho came in and told us that he had 1 married. . His wife, it turned out, had beik iu the ballet. .'I shall never forget my mother's anguish, my father's shame and anger. }l will hot dwell on that terrible scene, but thje upshot of it was that my father struck 'him. My brother left the house that morning, never to return, add from that day to thisjie has been lost to ns; Ido not know if he is! alive or dead. You will now readily understand why I resist .this proposed marriage v|itli all my might;" ! "Aud have you never seen your brother since t(ien?"l asked, "Only once, in Paris ; his wife was with him, atall, fair woman-—" Suddenly the speaker's eyes beoame fixed, gazing jtowards the door; his face grew ashy ; pale, and lie clutched at the table for support. j "Look!" he'cried, "look ! there she stands;" Isabfel Birkeley had entered the room. Birdie is now Lady Ballam.