ai E> R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 S23 
 
 ATI
 
 MY SISTER THE ACTRESS 
 
 Jl ^obtl. 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE MARRYAT 
 
 (MRS. FRANCIS LEAN), 
 AUTHOR OF 'love's CONFLICT,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 Honour and shame from no condition rise ; 
 Act well your part : there all the honour lies. ' 
 
 Pope. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 F. V. WHITE AND CO., 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO 
 
 SAMUEL TINSLEY & CO., 
 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1881. 
 
 [All Rights Reserved.l
 
 
 
 d 
 CC 
 
 
 'A 
 
 TO MV DAUGHTEK, 
 
 VIOLET THEODORA, 
 
 As A TOKEN OF MY LOVE AND IN REMEMBRANCE OF 
 HER 'sister the ACTRESS,' 
 
 EVA BOSS CHURCH, 
 
 J; WHOSE PUKE AND UNSELFISH LIFE AS DAUGHTER, WIFE, 
 
 C AND MOTHER, IS THE BEST PROOF THAT A WOMAN 
 
 
 "^ LIKE MY HEROINE CAN — AND DOES EXIST — 
 
 NOTWITHSTANDING THE INJUSTICE AND 
 FALSEHOOD OF THE WORLD.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 II AFTER 
 
 I. * WHERE IS MY MOTHER f - 
 II. 'I WILL GO AFTER HER!' - 
 
 III. 'YOU NEVER RE-ENTER MY HOUSE' 
 
 IV. 'TAKE THAT WOMAN AWAY' 
 V. ' I HAVE DECIDED ' - 
 
 VL 'I WISH HE WOULDN'T COME HERE' 
 VIL 'FOR hyacinth's SAKE' - 
 VIII. 'I WILL ALWAYS BE YOUR FRIEND' 
 
 IX. 'I AM BETTER NOW' 
 
 X. ' IT IS IMPOSSIBLE !' 
 
 XL 'GIVE ME A WEEK TO DECIDE' 
 XIL 'YOU WILL SUCCEED' 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 18 
 
 26 
 
 35 
 
 55 
 
 73 
 
 SQ 
 
 111 
 
 125 
 
 136 
 
 149 
 
 166
 
 iv Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGK 
 
 XIII. * don't tell MR. frere' - - - 183 
 
 XIV. ^YOU HAVE DISGRACED YOURSELF' - 198 
 XV. *BE A GOOD GIRL ' - - - - 220 
 
 XVL 'I CANNOT STAY AT BLACK ABBOTTS' - 231 
 
 XVIL 'don't TELL HER' - - - - 241: 
 
 XVIII. * I NEVER THOUGHT TO MEET YOU HERE ' - 2G0
 
 MY SISTER THE ACTRESS. 
 
 >>»<c 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHERE IS MY MOTHER f 
 
 It is a black, bitter afternoon in December. 
 The snow lies hard and deep upon the 
 ground, its pristine whiteness defiled by the 
 track of wheels and the tramp of multi- 
 tudinous feet, and the north-east wind 
 catches unwary passengers at the corners of 
 the streets, and stings their faces and makes 
 their ears burn. Throuo"h the dino-y windows 
 of the London squares, gas-lights may be 
 seen, feebly fighting with the surrounding 
 gloom, and every lamp of the great hall of 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 M}j Sister the Actress. 
 
 the Princess College is blazing to enable the 
 visitors assembled to watch the proceedings 
 of the pupils' Christmas examination. 
 
 A young girl of sixteen stands upon the 
 platform. Although tall for her age, there 
 is a look of slightness and fragility in her 
 appearance that seems to mock the intel- 
 lectuality stamped on her broad forehead, 
 and shining in the depths of her dark-grey 
 eyes. She is not pretty, but she is striking. 
 You might mix that girl up amongst a 
 thousand ordinary school-misses, and pick 
 her out as the one most likely to exert an 
 influence over her fellow-creatures. For it 
 is not the handsome women in this world 
 who are the most dangerous. It is those 
 which possess the power of swaying the 
 minds of others. 
 
 She has just finished the recitation of a 
 difficult scene from Schiller's ' Joan of Arc/ 
 and the remarkable energy and precision 
 with which she delivered the lines, combined 
 with her knowledge of the German language,
 
 ' Where is My Mother T 
 
 call forth a round of applause from her 
 audience. Seldom has the performance of a 
 schoolgirl elicited such admiration. The 
 walls of the college resound with the clap- 
 ping of hands : two masters, who have been 
 standing by in proud anticipation of the 
 approval that shall reward their efforts on 
 her behalf, leap on the platform to con- 
 gratulate their pupil on her success : and the 
 soft voice of Miss Denny, the lady super- 
 intendent, is heard murmurinof her mild con- 
 gratulations. 
 
 But the girl herself seems more disturbed 
 than pleased by the ovation. As the last 
 words drop from her lips, and the applause 
 bursts on her ears, she starts as though sud- 
 denly awaking from a dream ; she pushes 
 her fair hair impatiently from her brow ; her 
 eyes rove wildly over the faces turned 
 towards her, and then, with a hurried but 
 exquisitely graceful obeisance, she fairly runs 
 off the platform. A dozen voices are raised 
 in query as she disappears. 
 
 1—2
 
 My Sister the Acti^ess. 
 
 ^ Who is she, Miss Denny V 
 
 * What is her name V 
 
 ' What an extraordinary talent she appears 
 to have !' and * What a perfect German 
 accent !' being amongst a few of the ques- 
 tions and remarks that the lady super- 
 intendent is called upon to answer. 
 
 Miss Denny smiles with her head on one 
 side, and coos with contentment, as if the 
 praise were all intended for herself 
 
 She is an extremely self-satisfied, middle- 
 aged lady, whose claims to gentility are chiefly 
 based upon half- closed eyes, a pursed-up 
 mouth, and a voice scarcely ever raised above 
 a whisper. It is so difficult to be vulgar 
 when you never open your mouth. Nothing 
 that is not ' elegant ' finds favour with Miss 
 Denny. She is wont to say that ' elegant ' 
 is her favourite adjective, and any action, 
 however innocent in itself, that runs counter 
 to the ordinary groove sbciety walks in, 
 shocks her as much as if it were criminal. 
 
 * Yes, she is a most promising pupil —
 
 ' Where is My Mother f 
 
 indeed I may say, our most promising pupil 
 — though not always as ready as I could 
 wish to employ her unquestionable talent in 
 the right direction,' says Miss Denny, with 
 folded hands and drooping eyelids. ' Her 
 name, Lady Harcourt, is Miss Elizabeth 
 Durant, a daughter of Major Durant of 
 Northallerton Crescent — perhaps you may 
 have heard of the family V 
 
 ' I think I have,' replies Lady Harcourt, 
 shortly; and as Miss Denny moves away, 
 she whispers to the Jady next her : ' You 
 remember my telling you that story about 
 Major Durant and Mrs. Wallerton V 
 
 * The Irish widow ? Is it the same 
 man ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! They live in Northallerton Cres- 
 cent — not half a mile from here.' 
 
 'But he must be quite old to have a 
 daughter of that age T 
 
 ' Not a bit of it, my dear. He's not a 
 day over forty. Kosa Money says it's a 
 most miserable household. I have never
 
 6 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 seen Mrs. Durante who is a great invalid ; 
 but I suppose this girl takes after her. 
 She's not a bit like the major 1' 
 
 ' She'll be handsome by-and-by ; don't 
 you think so X 
 
 ' I am not sure/ replies Lady Harcourt, 
 hesitatingly (she is one of those women 
 Avho never can see beauty in another) ; * she 
 is very peculiar-looking, there is no doubt : 
 but that fair hair is so apt to lose its 
 colour, and turn out like brown-holland, 
 and clever women are very seldom attrac- 
 tive. They get into such a habit of screw- 
 ing up their features and looking sharp.* 
 
 Meanwhile Miss Denny, who has been 
 asked by several ladies in the company 
 to introduce her talented pupil to them, 
 follows Miss Durant to the antechamber, 
 where the girls who take an active part in the 
 examination are assembled. Here she finds 
 the object of her search, completely indif- 
 ferent as to what her late audience may be 
 saying of her, but in a state of the most
 
 ' Where is My Mother T 
 
 violent agitation nevertheless, which no ex- 
 postulations of her companions have been 
 able to subdue. Her bright hair, which is 
 the colour of ripe corn at the roots, and 
 gleams as if the sun shone on it at the tips, 
 is disordered and untidy ; on her pale cheeks 
 and the dark lashes of her eyes are trembling 
 tears, and her thin and unformed hands are 
 clasped together with what Miss Denny 
 considers to be ineleo^ant enerofv. 
 
 * My dear ^liss Durant !' says the lady 
 superintendent, reprovingly, ' pray try to 
 conquer this needless excitement. I have an 
 honour in store for you. Mrs. Carmichael 
 and Lady Silver have asked for an introduc- 
 tion. Just smooth your hair, my dear — I 
 cannot allow you to present yourself in that 
 condition, and I will conduct you to the 
 Hall' 
 
 But the ofirl she addresses takes no notice 
 of the request, 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Denny 1' she exclaims 
 anxiously, ' why is my mother not here f
 
 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' Your mamma, my dear ! I was not 
 aware that she was absent. Are you sure 
 she is not amongst the company V 
 
 ^ Oh no ! no ! Do you suppose I should 
 not have known her face amongst a 
 thousand ? And ' — with a scared look — ' I 
 am so afraid she is ill !' 
 
 ^Come, come, my dear Miss Durant, this 
 is mere fancy on your part ! You are over- 
 excited by the success you have obtained 
 this afternoon. Why should your good 
 mamma be ill '? Was she not in her usual 
 health when you left her this morning V 
 
 ^ Yes ; but she has suffered so much with 
 her heart this winter. And — and — I don't 
 think anything would have kept her from 
 the College Examination except — ex- 
 cept ' 
 
 ' Miss Ellery, will you have the goodness 
 to step down and ask the housekeeper for a 
 glass of port wine for Miss Durant '?' says 
 the practical lady superintendent. * I cannot 
 permit you to give way like this, my dear,'
 
 ' Where is My Mother F 
 
 she continues to Betha Durant, 'you will 
 disfigure yourself terribly ; and Lady Silver 
 and Mrs. Carmichael will be offended if we 
 keep them waiting any longer.' 
 
 ' Must I be introduced to them V says the 
 girl, despondently. 
 
 ' Surely! You ought to consider it a great 
 honour.' 
 
 ' But I w^ant to go home, Miss Denny ! 
 I want to hear what has detained my mother. 
 Oh, do let me go home 1' 
 
 ' Go home /' echoes Miss Denny, with a 
 lady-like little shriek of dismay. 'What, 
 before his lordship the Bight Beverend 
 Bishop of the Cockatoo Islands has dis- 
 tributed the elegant prizes ! Miss Durant, 
 I never heard of such insensibility and in- 
 gratitude in my life before !' 
 
 ' And when you are going to get Jive of 
 them, Betha !' whispers her friend and con- 
 soler, beautiful Martha Kemyss. 
 
 ' I don't wish to appear ungrateful,' says 
 Betha, sadly ; ' mother would blame me for
 
 10 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 that ! And I will do exactly as you think 
 best, Miss Denny.' 
 
 What Miss Denny thinks best is to order 
 her to smooth her hair and drink her wine, 
 and then to drag her back into the body of 
 the hall, and coo details of her birth and 
 parentage — age, and number of attainments 
 — into the ears of her admirers. Some of 
 the ladies remark her pallor, and ask her if 
 she is unwell, or fatigued by her exertions ; 
 and Betha is compelled to pass through the 
 ordeal of answering their questions, whilst 
 her heart and thoughts are far away. At 
 last Miss Denny feels her twitch violently 
 at her arm. 
 
 * What is the matter, my dear V 
 
 ' There is a lady whom I know — Miss 
 Greene, may I go and speak to her V 
 
 ' Certainly, if she is a friend of your 
 mamma's.' 
 
 Betha needs no second permission ; in a 
 moment she has darted to the side of the 
 lady in question.
 
 ' Where is My Mother f 11 
 
 * Miss Greene 1 have you seen mj mother 
 to-day V 
 
 Miss Greene is so startled by the tone of 
 anxiety in which these words are uttered, 
 that at first she hardly knows w^hether to say 
 yes or no. 
 
 ' Oh, Elizabeth ! how are you ? How 
 beautifully you recited that scene, my dear 1 
 I am sure I felt half inclined to cry, though 
 I didn't understand a word you were saying. 
 Your mamma ! Let me see I Have I ? 
 Oh no ! of course not, but how funny you 
 should have asked me, for I did call at the 
 Crescent on my way here, but the maid 
 said your dear mamma couldn't receive me. 
 It is a pity she did not come ! She ought 
 to have been here to listen to your recitations.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Miss Greene, she w^as coming — she 
 would have come, I am sure of it, if she 
 had been well enough. She must be ill 
 again. What shall I do ? And Miss 
 Denny won't let me go home till the prizes 
 are given.'
 
 12 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * The servant did not say a word about her 
 being ill,' remarks Miss Greene. * She only 
 said Mrs. Durant couldn't see me, so I 
 thousfht she was dressing^ to come to the 
 college. But if she should be ill, my dear — 
 there's no need to be frightened — your 
 mamma's so often ill, you know !' 
 
 'You don't know — you don't understand,' 
 replies the girl hopelessly, as she moves 
 away. Two more pupils are playing a duet 
 on a couple of pianos by this time, and 
 under cover of the noise they produce, Betha 
 leaves the hall unperceived, and seeks re- 
 fuo^e in the ante-chamber. 
 
 ' Just listen to those Matthews !' exclaims 
 lively Miss Ellery ; ' hammering away as if 
 they w^ere in a blacksmith's forge, Ada three 
 bars behind Ella as usual — which do you bet 
 gets in first, Betha V and then observing 
 her companion's expression, she continues : 
 ' What ! still in the dumps about your 
 mother — what a baby you are ! The idea 
 of bothering yourself about anything when
 
 ' Where is My Mother T ] 3 
 
 you've gained the five first prizes at the 
 Princess College. Why it will be in the 
 papers, Betha — fancy that ! in the papers ! 
 Mercy on us ! the whole of my family, 
 grandfathers and grandmothers included, 
 might go to Jericho if I could only win the 
 half of them. German, French, Elocution, 
 Composition, and History ! You're disgust- 
 ingly clever, you know, Betha. It's a 
 shame you should walk off with all the best 
 prizes in that way ; it's enough to make a 
 girl kick you !' concludes Miss Lively, with 
 a playful lunge in the direction of her school- 
 fellow. But Betha does not smile in re- 
 turn. 
 
 'Never mind Harriet's nonsense/ says 
 Martha Kemyss, as she bends over her and 
 kisses her forehead ; ' I am sure you will find 
 your dear mother safe and well when you 
 get home. She has, most likely, been de- 
 tained by business.' 
 
 Mattie is a lovely girl of eighteen, the 
 picture of an Eastern houri — sweet-tempered
 
 14 Mij Sinter the Actress. 
 
 and lovable, but not over- burdened with 
 brains. But Betlia looks up to her grate- 
 fully. 
 
 'You are always so sweet and so kind, 
 Mattie. You ought to have a happy life, 
 for your great anxiety is to make others so ! 
 Tt is this bitterly cold weather that makes 
 me afraid for my dear mother ; you cannot 
 think ' — with a shudder — ' how terribly she 
 suffers when she gets an attack of the heart ! 
 I would o^ive anvthins^ to know that she is 
 well. But Miss Denny says I cannot go 
 home until the prizes have been given 
 away.' 
 
 ' Of course not, dear ! And think how 
 disappointed Mrs. Durant would be to see 
 you come back without them, Betha.' 
 
 The girl smiles faintly — she is but a girl 
 after all — and she knows how proud her 
 mother is of her attainments. 
 
 * Come on !' cries Miss Ellery, who has 
 been peeping through a crack of the door. 
 ' The Matthews have finished — thank g^ood-
 
 ' Where is My Mother V 15 
 
 ness that's over I — and I can see old Cockatoo 
 marshalling Denny up to the table with tlie 
 prizes. I hope he will give me one. If 
 he doesn't, I've got a splendid bread-pellet 
 to shoot at his bald head. Feel it, Betha, 
 it's as hard as a stone ! I've been kneadino- 
 it for him all day !' 
 
 But in another minute the young lady's 
 liveliness is subdued, as an under-teacher 
 appears to conduct them in state to the 
 presence of the bishop, who has been in- 
 stalled with becoming ceremony behind a 
 table, piled up with volumes bound in red 
 and blue. Who has not officiated or assisted 
 at that dullest of all dull exhibitions — a 
 school examination ? His Lordship of the 
 Cockatoo Islands delivers a ramblino-, 
 twaddling little speech with each volume, 
 that makes Miss Denny coo, and the 
 majority of the girls giggle, and works up 
 poor Betha Durant's over-strung nerves to 
 such a tension, that before she is called up 
 for the fifth time, she has made a hundred
 
 16 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 resolves not to wait for the end of it. But 
 it is over at last, and instead of mixing with 
 the visitors, as she is expected to do, and ex- 
 hibiting her prizes for the benefit of the 
 college, Betha rushes into the ante-chamber, 
 and throwing her books upon the table, com- 
 mences hurriedly to reassume her walking 
 attire. 
 
 * Betha dear ! you must wait for a cab. 
 You cannot carry all those books through the 
 streets,' says Mattie Kemyss. 
 
 ' I can t wait ! I shall be half-way home 
 before they send for it. I must go and see 
 after mother !' 
 
 ' But does not Miss Denny expect us all 
 to take tea with her to-nio^ht V 
 
 ' I can't help what she expects I Mattie 
 dear, don't try to detain me ! I have been 
 going mad with anxiety for the last two 
 hours.' 
 
 She twists her scarf about her throat as 
 she speaks, and turns towards the door. 
 
 * But your books !' cries Mattie.
 
 ' Where is My Mother r" ] 7 
 
 ' They must remain here till to-morrow, I 
 cannot stay !' are Betha's vanishing words, as 
 she hurries throug^h the corridor and out into 
 the chill eveninsr air. 
 
 V^OL. I.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' I WILL GO AFTER HER 1' 
 
 It is about six o'clock, but the streets are 
 as dark as at night. Crowds of pedestrians, 
 stamping their feet, or holding their muffs 
 to their faces, throng the pavement, eager 
 to complete their Christmas purchases 
 and return to their firesides as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 It is ' seasonable weather,' they say con- 
 solingly, as they salute ea^h other in passing, 
 but they are glad to get out of it all the 
 same. The boys have made slides along the 
 pavement, and the roadways are a sheet of 
 ice, so that traffic has become dangerous, 
 alike for man and beast ; and more than one
 
 'I Will Go After Her!' 19 
 
 poor cab-horse, struggling on its side, has 
 attracted a little crowd of spectators, whose 
 curiosity outweighs their sense of cold. 
 
 But Betha heeds nothing and nobody — not 
 even her own uncertain footinsf. She is like 
 a dog on the right track returning to his 
 home, and looking neither to one side nor 
 the other for fear of losing: the scent. She 
 winds her way amongst the crowd, almost 
 running over the slippery pavement in her 
 anxiety to make haste, and arrives at the 
 portals of her father's house, panting and 
 out of breath. Even then she is afraid of 
 knocking at the door, lest the sound should 
 startle her nervous and easily alarmed 
 mother, but is obliged to content herself by 
 ringing the bell, and dancing in an agony of 
 impatience on the step until her summons is 
 attended to. Simultaneously with the ap- 
 pearance of the servant, the question bursts 
 from her lips : ' How is mamma V 
 
 ' Your mamma, miss,' is the answer ; ' shes 
 (J one /'
 
 20 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' Gone /' echoes Betha in a tone of horror : 
 * gone ivliere T 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Betha dear ! this has been a 
 terrible day/ says a muffled voice from the 
 staircase ; and Betha looks up and sees her 
 old nurse Bentham on the landing with her 
 apron to her eyes, and her little sister 
 Hyacinth hanging on the banisters, her- 
 childish face brimming over with important 
 news. The girl pushes her way into the 
 passage, and supports herself against the 
 wall. 
 
 ' What is the matter ?' she utters faintly ; 
 * tell me the truth. Is she dead? 
 
 ' Dead ! lor no, my dear. Don't go to 
 fancy such a thing ! It ain't come to that 
 yet, please God. But whatever will become 
 of the mistress on such a night as this I can't 
 think. It's just enough to kill her, and no 
 mistake.' 
 
 * Where has she gone ? Why did she go 
 out ? Why did you let her go V demands the 
 gh'l, roused from her first dread fear.
 
 '/ Will Go After Her P 21 
 
 Hyacinth, a beautiful sharp-looking imp 
 of ten, with dark eyes and chestnut curls 
 down to her waist, lays one finger on her lip, 
 and with a look of ineffable wisdom, points 
 with the other to the closed dinino^-room 
 door. It is to warn her elder sister that the 
 master of the house is likely to overhear 
 their conversation. 
 
 ' There's been an awful row,' she whispers 
 in the parlance of chits in this slangy 
 generation. ' Oh, Betha, if you had only 
 been here ! Come upstairs and we will tell 
 you all about it.' 
 
 Betha needs no second invitation. Curi- 
 osity combined with a terrible fear that the 
 end of all things has arrived, make her 
 eager to hear what has occurred during her 
 
 absence. 
 
 The ' awful row ' is unfortunately no 
 novelty to her or any of the household. 
 The novel thing is to reach bedtime without 
 having overheard one of Major and Mrs. 
 Durant's wordy disputes ; but her mother has
 
 22 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 never gone the length of leaving her home 
 before. 
 
 / Oh, nurse ! what is it all about V she 
 exclaims, weeping, as she finds herself alone 
 with Bentham and her little sister. 
 
 * Well, my dearie ! don't cry now, but it's 
 just this ! Your ma, she was going to dress 
 and drive down to the college, and I had my 
 orders to get Miss Hyacinth ready to go 
 with her, when your pa, he came home, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Yes !' interrupts Hyacinth without cere- 
 mony, ' papa came home, Betha, and he 
 went into mamma's dressing-room, and began 
 to make an awful noise and stamp about, and 
 we could hear him talking, couldn't we, 
 Benty "? and then papa banged the door and 
 went down into the dining-room, and mamma 
 followed him ; and she cried and they had 
 another row, oh ! much worse than the first 
 one ; and then mamma came upstairs again 
 and put on her bonnet and shawl and went 
 out, and she says she'll never come back
 
 'I Will Go After Her!' 23 
 
 again — never — never — never ! not as long as 
 ever she lives she ^von't, will she, Benty X 
 
 ' Oh ! Cinthy, it can't be true ! you don't 
 know what you are talking about,' gasps 
 Betha. 
 
 The girl's filial love amounts to a passion ; 
 from her infancy her mother has been the 
 recipient of her truest and tenderest affection, 
 and from the moment she was able to com- 
 prehend the misery of her domestic life, she 
 has elevated her to the position of an idol. 
 
 * Indeed, Miss Betha, I'm afraid she's not 
 so mistook as you seem to imagine/ remarks 
 the old nurse, who has had the charge of 
 both these children from their cradles ; * for 
 your poor ma, she seemed terrible put out, to 
 be sure, i've never seen her so bad before, 
 long as I've served her ; and the last words 
 she say to me was, '* You'll never see me in 
 this house again, Bentham," says she, " not if 
 you hve for another fifty years," says she.' 
 
 ^ But surely you asked her where she was 
 going, nurse 1'
 
 24 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * Lor ! Miss Betha, it wouldn't have been 
 no manner of use. She didn't know herself, 
 poor lady. She was all off her head-like, 
 with your pa's treatment of her, and ran out 
 into the snow, for all the world like a wild 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Mother ! mother !' cries Betha, in a tone 
 of anguish. ' Oh ! where can she be on this 
 bitterly cold night '? It will kill her, nurse ! 
 You know how strictly Dr. Field has for- 
 bidden her venturing out on foot in the 
 ice and snow. She will get an attack of 
 those terrible spasms — she will fall down and 
 die in the streets from exposure to such 
 weather.* 
 
 * Aye,' acquiesces the nurse, with the usual 
 style of consolation adopted by her class ; * I 
 shouldn't wonder if she did, poor lady — that 
 is if she's heedless enough to keep on her 
 feet on such an evening. But let's hope, my 
 dear, as she'll have more consideration for 
 herself/ 
 
 The dauofhter's face becomes white and
 
 'I Will Go After Her!' 25 
 
 strained as her nervous system is thus 
 cruelly played upon, and she clutches the 
 old woman's arm with an energy that con- 
 siderably startles her. 
 
 ' Why didn't you go with her, nurse ? It 
 was your duty to have done so ! you knovv^ 
 how ill and feeble darling mother is.' 
 
 ' Lor ! !Miss Betha, I was only too willing 
 to go along with her, but the master he 
 wouldn't let me.' 
 
 * Yes! Betha/ interpolates the imp, 'Benty 
 cried and asked mamma to let her go too ; 
 but papa stood across the passage like a bear, 
 and declared that anybody who w^ent with 
 mamma or fetched her a cab or did anything 
 for her, should be dismissed from his service 
 without warning : and mamma told Benty 
 that the kindest thing she could do for her 
 was to stay here and look after me; didn't 
 she, Benty V 
 
 ' Then / will go after her,' exclaims Betha, 
 with decision.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * YOU NEVER RE-ENTER MY HOUSE.' 
 
 The old nurse lifts her hands in amazement. 
 
 ^ You J Miss Betha ! Lor, my dear ! if 
 your pa wouldn't let one go, do you suppose 
 he'll give his consent to a child like you 
 running about the streets alone at this time 
 of night V 
 
 ' I shall not ask for his consent,' says the 
 girl proudly. * I shall act on my own au- 
 thority.' 
 
 * Oh, Betha I don't be so stupid,' interposes 
 Hyacinth, as she shakes back the curls from 
 her selfish little face. ^ You'll only get cliil- 
 blains, and what good can you do mamma ? 
 She's just as well able to walk as you are.'
 
 * You Never Re-enter My House,' 27 
 
 * Do you suppose I can lie down in my 
 bed and sleep/ replies the elder girl, Avitli 
 scorn, ' unless I know that dear mother is 
 well and safely sheltered ? But it is only 
 your ignorance, Cinthy, that makes you talk 
 in such a heartless manner. You cannot 
 understand the terrible risk that mother runs 
 on such a night as this. No one shall pre- 
 vent me from going to seek her I' 
 
 ' I understand just as well as you/ says 
 Hyacinth pertly, * but mamma went out of 
 her ow^n accord. She wanted to go — she said 
 so — didn't she, Benty ?' 
 
 * Where will you go to find her. Miss 
 Betha V asks the servant, without heeding 
 the younger child's query. 
 
 * I don't know\ To every house she has 
 ever entered until I hear some new^s of her.' 
 
 ' She's sure to go and tell Mrs. Wallerton/ 
 pipes Hyacinth. 
 
 ' To be sure, Miss Betha. Miss Cinthy 
 always has the right thiug to say, bless her I 
 There's no lady been more to this house
 
 28 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 during the last twelvemonth than Mrs. Wal- 
 lerton. I'd certainly go there first to hear 
 news of your poor ma. But you'll be sure 
 to be back in good time — won't you, my 
 dear V 
 
 'I don't know. I'm not sure. Don't 
 worry me with useless questions/ cries 
 Betha, impatiently, as she prepares to leave 
 the nursery. ' All I can say is that I am 
 going to look for mother, and I'll never 
 come back again until I've found her.' 
 
 ' But, Betha, do stop and tell me about 
 the prizes first !' exclaims Hyacinth, hanging 
 on to her sister's dress. 
 
 The only answer vouchsafed her curiosity 
 is the violent jerk by which Betha disen- 
 gages herself as she runs down the staircase. 
 But when she reaches the hall a barrier 
 presents itself to her design. The door of 
 the dining-room is suddenly opened and Major 
 Durant stands in her path. 
 
 It is evident at once from whom Hyacinth 
 inherits her dark beauty. Major Durant
 
 * You Never Re-enter My House.'' 29 
 
 possesses the same brilliant eyes and curling" 
 chestnut hair as his younger daughter. 
 There is no trace of similitude between him- 
 self and Betha, and from the manner in 
 which he scowls at her, the disparity would 
 appear to be as much in their dispositions as 
 their persons. 
 
 'Where are you going?' he demands sternly. 
 
 ' I am going to mamma.' 
 
 ' I forbid your doing so ! Go back to the 
 nursery.' 
 
 'Papa, someone must go and look after 
 her. You know how long she has been ill, 
 and how seriously the cold of such a night 
 may affect her heart. It was cruel and 
 wicked to let her go out in it. I must and 
 I will follow her !' 
 
 ' It was your mother's own wish to go, and 
 she is quite old enough to look after herself. 
 She left my house against my express orders 
 to the contrary, and I forbid any member of 
 my family holding communication with her 
 until she returns to it.'
 
 30 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' She left the house because you have 
 made her life so miserable that she cannot 
 remain in it !' cries the girl, with flashing 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Do you mean to insult me, miss ? How 
 dare you speak to me in such a way V 
 
 ' I dare to speak the truth, papa ! Do 
 you think I am blind or deaf, that I do not 
 understand that my poor mother is an un- 
 happy woman ? Why, there is not a servant 
 in the house who does not know it, and pity 
 her for it. And she has borne it for years — 
 dear mother ! — with the patience and good- 
 ness of an angel, and now that she can bear 
 it no longer, and you have driven her nearly 
 mad, you want us all to turn against her, as 
 you do. But I won't — I ivont. I love my 
 mother dearly — devotedly, and I will never 
 forsake her — not even if she were in the 
 wronof, which I know she isn't.' 
 
 Major Durant looks very uneasy. He 
 shuffles his feet and changes colour, and lets 
 Lis eyes rest anywhere but on his outspoken
 
 ' You Never Ee-enter Mtj House.' 3i 
 
 daughter's face. It is not pleasant to be told 
 of our faults, boldly and undisguisedly, and 
 more especially when the rebuke comes from 
 the lips of a mentor so many years younger 
 than ourselves. And Major Durant hates 
 Betba at that moment in proportion to her 
 honesty. 
 
 ' You have a very sharp tongue, young 
 lady, and you have inherited the gift of 
 making use of it,' he replies angrily ; ^ but I 
 repeat my prohibition : I will have no open 
 scandal made of this business, and I refuse 
 to let you quit the house.' 
 
 ' Then I must send a note to Dr. Field,' 
 says Betha decidedly. ' He has given me 
 strict orders to tell him if mother is ever 
 careless of his directions, and I know he will 
 say' that it's enough to kill her to be wander- 
 ing about the streets when they are covered 
 with ice and snow.' 
 
 Major Durant begins to feel very uncom- 
 fortable. Like all bullies, he is a coward, 
 and Dr. Field has already seen too much of
 
 32 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 the inner working of his married Hfe to make 
 the idea of his being appealed to on the 
 subject a pleasant one. On how many occa- 
 sions has the doctor not been summoned to 
 revive Mrs. Durant from those fits of ex- 
 haustion which usually follow the excitement 
 of their disagreements'? Once, did he not 
 warn the husband that if he could not better 
 control his temper and his language his wife's 
 death might lie at his door ? Yes ; the 
 major has reason for not desiring the inter- 
 ference of the blunt and plain-spoken Dr. 
 Field. He attempts, therefore, to treat the 
 whole matter in a lighter spirit. 
 
 *My dear child, I do wish you would 
 learn not to exaggerate one's little domestic 
 difficulties in this way. It is a ver}^ bad 
 habit to get into. Wandeiing about the streets! 
 Bubbish ! what will you imagine next ? Is 
 it likely your mamma would be such a fool ! 
 She is more probably toasting herself by the 
 fireside of some acquaintance, whilst she 
 pours the whole story of my iniquities into
 
 * You Never Re-enter My House.'' 33 
 
 her syQipathising ear. She'll be back again 
 before midnight, you may take your oath of 
 it. Come now ! show yourself to be the 
 sensible girl you are. Go upstairs again and 
 dress for dinner, and come and take your 
 mother's place at the head of the table.' 
 
 * I cannot !' says Betha, deter minately. ' I 
 must follow my mother.' 
 
 ^ Then I shall prevent your doing so.' 
 ' Papa, you cannot prevent me. I am not 
 a child, remember I I was sixteen on my 
 last birthday, and where mother's health and 
 safety are concerned, I refuse to be controlled 
 by you or anyone !' 
 
 * Oh, indeed ! Perhaps you are also aware 
 that, being a woman, and beyond the control 
 of your natural guardians, I am not compelled 
 to receive you back into my house if you 
 quit it without leave.' 
 
 ' I know nothing about it, but I don't want 
 to come back unless mother comes too. My 
 lot for life is cast in with hers.' 
 
 ' Go to your mother, then !' exclaims the 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 major loudly and passionately, as he throws 
 open the hall-door; *but, remember, if you 
 once cross that threshold you never re-enter 
 my house. I give you your choice, Betha, 
 between your mother and myself. Follow 
 your own headstrong will if it pleases you, 
 but if you do so, against my express com- 
 mand to the contrary, I will never receive 
 you as my daughter again !' 
 
 ' I must follow my mother 1' cries the girl, 
 as she runs lightly past her father down the 
 flight of stone steps into the little garden, 
 and so out into the gathering blackness of 
 the winter's night.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 'take that woman away.' 
 
 For a few minutes Betha runs on, heedless 
 of what direction her feet shall take, until 
 she finds herself in the oflare of the lij^hted 
 shops, and under the scrutiny of a crowd of 
 strangers ; then she stops suddenly, and as- 
 suming a soberer pace, tries to collect her 
 scattered thoughts and consider what is best 
 to be done. There is no fear nor indecision in 
 the ofirl's mind : no reo^ret for the harsh words 
 with which she has been driven from her 
 father's door ; she has but one idea in her 
 brain — where best to turn in order to find 
 her mother ! Her youthful appearance and 
 ignorance of the world are the only childish 
 
 3—2
 
 36 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 things about Betlia Durant. In reasoning 
 faculty and mental strength she is in advance 
 of many women of twice her age ; and the 
 unhappy occurrence that has taken place in 
 her own home to-day, seems to have forced 
 into fruition every power she possesses. 
 
 As she halts, ostensibly to look into a shop 
 window, in reality to press her hand against 
 her brow and decide upon her course of 
 action, she feels far more like a mother 
 going in search of her child, than a child 
 bent upon finding its mother. The words 
 of the nurse and Hyacinth concerning Mrs. 
 Wallerton recur to her mind. There is no 
 doubt of their accuracy. Mrs. Wallerton is 
 the most intimate friend her mother pos- 
 sesses. During the past year she has been 
 constantly at the house, running in and out, 
 without invitation, at all sorts of odd moments, 
 and bringing the most charming presents of 
 flowers and fruit to tempt the appetite of the 
 invalid. 
 
 Betha has often seen Mrs. Wallerton hang
 
 ' Take that Woman Away.' 37 
 
 over Mrs. Diirant, and kiss her, and call her 
 her ' dearest Mary !' has even heard the 
 lively widow take the major roundly to 
 task for neoflectino; his wife, or refusinof to 
 believe in her illness, until her mother's 
 cheeks have been crimson with shame and 
 mortification. There is no doubt in Botha's 
 mind, but that Mrs. Wallerton likes her 
 mother as much as she professes to do, and 
 that she is the person to whom Mrs. Durant 
 would be most likely to fly for protection and 
 advice in a moment of distress. Betha has 
 scarcely settled this point satisfactorily in her 
 own mind, before she finds herself in front 
 of Mrs. Wallerton's house, which is situated 
 at no great distance from Northallerton 
 Crescent. 
 
 As she enters the hall and asks hurriedly 
 for the mistress, she can see, through the 
 open door of the dining-room, the table laid 
 for dinner, gay with hothouse flowers and 
 bright with silver and cut glass, for Mrs. 
 Wallerton is rich and luxurious in her tastes,
 
 38 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 and loves to spend her money on herself. 
 She runs down the stairs as she hears 
 Betha's voice in the hall, and draws her 
 visitor into the privacy of the dining- 
 room. 
 
 * My dearest girl ! What brings you here 
 on such a terrible eveninof ?' 
 
 Mrs. Wallerton, standing^ under the full 
 blaze of the gaslight, presents the picture of 
 a handsome woman of about thirty. She is 
 tall, full-bosomed and broad-shouldered, with 
 a waist of five-and-twenty inches — that owes 
 its size to compression rather than to Nature, 
 a fact that is evidenced by the stiffness of 
 her figure and the flush upon her face, though 
 the widow stoutly denies it. Her Irish na- 
 tionality is betrayed in her dark, coarse hair, 
 and her prominent eyes and heavy jaw. But 
 she has small white even teeth and ripe pout- 
 ing lips, and a certain fascination of manner 
 that is very attractive to such people as have 
 not the power to look below the surface. 
 This fascination is greatly enhanced by the
 
 ' Take that Woman Aivay.' 39 
 
 fact that Mrs. Wallerton's conscience is of 
 that easy description that permits her to lie 
 without scruple, whilst she has her wits suffi- 
 ciently about her to prevent her lies being 
 found out. To utter a falsehood is as natural 
 to those cherry lips as to say ^good-morning;' 
 indeed, so long and faithfully has she practised 
 the art, that it has become a second nature 
 to her. 
 
 How many ladylike liars do we not meet 
 as we pass through the world ! They are the 
 poison of society — that make it the vile sham 
 it is of subterfuge, and backbiting, and un- 
 truth — yet they possess the ablest weapon 
 with which to cut their own way through it : 
 the power of appearing all things to all men. 
 Each one of Mrs. Wallerton's acquaintances, 
 whilst listening eagerly to her carefully 
 veiled detraction of the rest, believes firmly 
 that she is true at least to her listener. And 
 each one is gulled in turn. So how should 
 Betha, fresh from her schoolroom experience, 
 think otherwise than that all the honeyed
 
 40 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 words proceeding from that sweetly smiling 
 mouth are true. 
 
 ' Oh ! Mrs. Wallerton,' she exclaims, hur- 
 riedly, ' is mother with you V 
 
 ' Your mother, Betha ! No 1 Why — 
 what makes you ask me such an extraordi- 
 nary question V 
 
 The girl has made up her mind so firmly 
 that she will be successful in her search, that 
 the disappointment overcomes her. 
 
 ' She has left home/ she replies, sobbing. 
 ' Papa has been unkind to her again, dread- 
 fully, cruelly unkind ; and she has run away, 
 and no one knows where she has gone to.' 
 
 At the receipt of this intelligence the 
 widow's face grows dark, and she bites her 
 lip sharply to hide her evident annoyance. 
 
 ^ Run away ! Betha ! Impossible ! Some 
 one has exaggerated the truth to you ! 
 Were you at home when it occurred ? What 
 did your papa say to make her so angry V 
 
 ' I don't think she was angry, Mrs. Waller- 
 ton, only very unhappy about something. It
 
 Take that Woman Aivay.' 41 
 
 is nurse who told me the story. I was at col- 
 lege at the time; it is our examination-day, you 
 know, and I knew nothing of it until I returned 
 home. But indeed it is true, for papa told me 
 so himself, and he ordered me not to follow 
 her; but I was too frightened to obey him.' 
 
 'And you imagined you would find your 
 mamma with me, my dear !' 
 
 ' I could not tell. You have always been 
 so kind to mother, Mrs. Wallerton; I thought 
 she would think of you first. And now I 
 don't know where to go, or what to do.' 
 
 The widow's face is portentously grave. 
 It is pleasant for an independent woman to 
 have admirers floating in an easy, nonchalant 
 manner about her, but not so agreeable to be 
 suddenly wakened to the truth that her care- 
 less flirtations are likely to be made the occa- 
 sion of a public scandal. 
 
 ' I wish Mrs. Durant had come here,' she 
 says. ' Betha, you have distressed me be- 
 yond measure with this news. I have such 
 a high respect for your dear mamma, and
 
 42 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 indeed for your papa also, that these domes- 
 tic quarrels shock me terribly. I have not 
 been used to them ; they are matters alto- 
 gether beyond my sphere of cognisance. 
 Why cannot people live happily and plea- 
 santly together, as they were intended to 
 do '{ Not that I have the least wish to 
 blame either your mamma or your papa, my 
 dear. They must know their own affairs best. 
 Only it is so terrible for their friends. But 
 it cannot last. They have fallen out over 
 some little trifle, may be; but depend upon it, 
 that in a day or two they will come to see 
 their folly, and all will be right again be- 
 tween them.' 
 
 ' I don't know : I can't say, Mrs. Waller- 
 ton. But meanwhile, where can mother be ? 
 Oh ! I am so frightened for her in all this 
 frost and snow.' 
 
 ' No doubt she has gone to your aunt, Mrs. 
 Chapman. I wonder it did not strike you 
 before, Betha. Mrs. Durant is far more likely 
 to o-o to Earl's Court than to come to me.'
 
 * Take that Woman Aivay.'' 43 
 
 ' To Aunt Janie ! But she lives so many 
 miles away. 
 
 ' My dear child, a cab will take you there 
 in half-an-hour. But stay ; sit down for two 
 minutes, and I will take you there myself.' 
 
 * But you have not had your dinner yet !' 
 
 ' Never mind my dinner. It must wait for 
 a little while.' 
 
 * Oh, Mrs. Wallerton ! how kind you are !' 
 
 * Not at all, my dear ! Do you think I 
 would allow you to go alone ? Your papa 
 ought to be taking you himself, but as he is 
 such a naughty man, 1 will try and fill his 
 place. And I would do anything in the 
 world for your dear mother, Betha,' continued 
 the widow, in a lower voice, ' and shall not be 
 satisfied till I know where she is. Have a 
 glass of wine before we go I It will do you 
 
 good r 
 
 As Mrs. Wallerton utters these words, and 
 encircles the drooping girl's form with her 
 arms, Betha thinks she is the kindest and 
 most sympathetic friend they have ever
 
 44 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 possessed; and as they drive together, as fast 
 as the state of the roads will permit them, 
 towards the house of Mrs. Chapman, Mrs. 
 Wallerton blames her father's conduct openly 
 to her young companion, and declares she shall 
 not rest day nor night until she sees his do- 
 mestic relationship restored to its former basis. 
 ^ Such a dear, sweet creature as your 
 mamma is, too, Betha ! I am sure I could 
 not venture to say what I have to the child 
 of any other woman, but then you are so 
 sensible and beyond your years. You take so 
 much after her in every respect, you will be 
 nble to understand the feeling that dictates 
 my words. But to see a person like her un- 
 appreciated, so elegant, so refined, and so 
 amiable, cuts me to the very soul, Betha, 
 and I can't think what your papa can be 
 made of, to be so shortsighted. I shall not 
 rest until we have found her — be sure of that I 
 and if she is not at your aunt's, we will drive 
 round London all night long, until we have 
 discovered her hiding-place.
 
 ' Tahe that Wowxin Aivay' 45 
 
 Betha presses the soft, plump hand that 
 holds her own, and feels as if she had indeed 
 found a friend in need. 
 
 As their cab draws up before the door of 
 Mrs. Chapman's house, a sober-coloured 
 brougham, which they do not perceive in the 
 darkness, moves slowly onward to make v^ay 
 for them ; and before they have time to knock, 
 a maid-servant, evidently on the watch, 
 quietly opens the hall-door, and admits them. 
 
 ' Is Mrs. Durant here V asks Betha, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 ' Yes, miss ! she is, but ' 
 
 Betha waits for no explanation. In the 
 same moment she has pushed open a door on 
 the ground-floor and stands upon the thresh- 
 old of the room. The first glance tells her 
 the whole story. On the sofa, with closed 
 eyes, is extended the form of Mrs. Durant, 
 whilst by her side sits Dr. Field, an3 over 
 her bends Mrs. Chapman. Pillows, a blanket, 
 mustard, brandy, and a faint pervading odour 
 of eau-de-Cologne, give the usually neat
 
 46 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 apartment the semblance of a sick-room, and 
 Betha's worst fears are realised. For well 
 she recognises the accompaniments of the 
 complaint : her mother has been suffering 
 from an attack of the heart. 
 
 ' Mother — darling mother !' she exclaims 
 impulsively ; ' Mrs. Wallerton has brought 
 me to you !' 
 
 A prolonged ' HushP comes simultaneously 
 from the lips of both doctor and nurse as they 
 turn and perceive the new presence in the 
 room — but it comes too late. Mrs. Durant 
 has heard her daughter's words, and before 
 they can prevent her, she has risen to a sitting 
 posture. Her eyes gleam like living fire, and 
 her cheeks glow with the sudden excitement. 
 
 ' Take her away !' she screams, as she points 
 with one white thin hand in the direction of 
 the buxom widow ; ' I will not speak to her ! 
 It is she that has done it all ! It is she that 
 has killed me !' 
 
 ^ Dearest Mary, pray compose yourself ! 
 pray lie down !* says Mrs. Chapman^ per-
 
 ' Take that Woman Aivaij.' 47 
 
 suasively, but the sick lady continues to cry, 
 ' Take that woman away — take her away !' 
 
 * Betha stands horror-struck between the 
 two. What has occurred ? Has her poor 
 mother lost her senses, that she should speak 
 to her best friend in so extraordinary a 
 manner ? Before she has time to speculate 
 on the probable answer to her question, her 
 aunt Janie advances to Mrs. Wallerton. 
 
 ' I must ask you to retire,' she says, in a 
 voice which seems to Betha unnecessarily 
 harsh. * My sister is very ill indeed, and quite 
 unfit to see strangers.' 
 
 ' Strangers !' echoes the widow, 'I should 
 think I could hardly be classed in such a 
 category, considering that I have left my 
 dinner-table on a night like this to bring Mrs. 
 Durant's daughter to her side. It is the 
 first time I have ever heard myself spoken of 
 as a " stranger " before, either by the lady or 
 any of her family, and I must say her con- 
 duct is rather inexplicable to me.' 
 
 For still the cry of ' Take her away !' is
 
 48 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 sounding from Mrs. Durant's pale lips, whilst 
 Dr. Field is doino^ all he can to calm and 
 
 o 
 
 pacify her. 
 
 ^ I have no doubt it is,' replies Mrs. Chap- 
 man, who has contrived to edge her visitor 
 outside the door ; ' but she is dangerously ill, 
 as you may see, she hardly knows Avhat she 
 is saying ; and at all hazards we must try and 
 keep her from further excitement. Indeed 
 it will be kinder of you to leave us alone !' 
 
 ' Oh ! I have no desire to intrude — it is 
 not my nature/ replies the widow, shrugging 
 her shoulders ; ' of course, I have done a 
 great deal for poor Mrs. Durant from time to 
 time, and I was actuated by the purest pity 
 in coming here to see her to-night ; still, if 
 my presence is not welcome, I can but be 
 sorry and withdraw it. I hope to have better 
 accounts of her in the morning. Good-night, 
 Betha dear !' 
 
 But Betha cannot with sincerity return the 
 salutation. Those terrible mysterious words, 
 ' It is she that has killed me/ are still sound-
 
 ' Tcike that Woman Aivay.' 49 
 
 ing in her ears, and she is leaning, sick and 
 faint with astonishment and wonder, against 
 her mother's couch. 
 
 * Mother, mother dearest ! don't you know 
 me V she wails in a low voica. The agony 
 which succeeded her recognition of Mrs. 
 Waller ton has passed again, and Mrs. Durant 
 is lying back on the pillows, looking as white 
 and exhausted as a lily beaten down by the 
 rain.' 
 
 * Yes, child I yes !' she replies faintly, ^ you 
 are Betha ! But never let me see you with 
 that ivoman again.' 
 
 ' My dear lady, I cannot allow you to 
 excite yourself,' says the doctor, in a voice of 
 warning. 
 
 ' Very well, doctor, I will not speak of it ; 
 but you must let me talk to Betha. Betha 
 dear, it is all over ; the end is coming fast 
 now !' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, mother ! don't say that !' 
 
 Was this, then, to be the reward of her 
 loving search ? To find her mother pale and 
 
 VOL. 1. 4
 
 50 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 exhausted, her face covered with the sweat 
 of death ; the fierce agony over, but her poor 
 worn-out heart beating fainter and fainter 
 with each laboured respiration. The girl has 
 often seen her, apparently as prostrated as 
 she is now ; but something tells her — perhaps 
 the unmistakable look in the eyes of the 
 dying, perhaps the mercy of a watchful, 
 though invisible guardian — that this will be 
 the last time, and she feels stricken dumb 
 with the agony of despair. 
 
 ' But it is true ! This has finished it all. 
 His conduct, the ice, the snow. I have 
 suffered such unutterable anguish ; but I am 
 quiet now. May he treat my poor children 
 better than he has treated me ! Oh, my 
 Hyacinth ! my darling, my best-loved child ! 
 What pain it is to leave her !' 
 
 The true, brave heart of the daughter, 
 leaning over the dying woman's couch, seems 
 suddenly to stop. Yes ; this has been the 
 unrecognised, though not unfelt, disappoint- 
 ment of her girlish life. She has loved her
 
 'Take that Woman Away.'' 51. 
 
 mother with entire devotion — as the one 
 great object of her existence, and her 
 mother's best affections have been lavished 
 on her younger child. Betha has been the 
 ever-ready sympathiser and nurse and friend, 
 but pert, pretty Hyacinth, with her sharp 
 tongue and her gipsy curls, has been the 
 pride and darling of Mrs. Durant's life. And 
 now the last few precious moments of that 
 life are to be devoted to her. 
 
 ' Betha, take care of Cinthy !' she gasps. 
 ^ Be a mother to her I My sweet child ! 
 Try and supply my place ! Don't let her 
 miss me. And yet she must miss her loving 
 mother's care — my beautiful darling ! Oh, 
 my God ! it is so hard not to see her again !' 
 
 * Shall I go and fetch her V exclaims Betha, 
 anxious only to please her mother; but a 
 warning look from Dr. Field silences her 
 again. 
 
 ' Too — late !' murmurs Mrs. Durant 
 faintly, and then she puts out her hand and 
 feebly draws Betha's face to hers, and so lies 
 
 4—2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINO
 
 52 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 silent, whilst the others stand beside, watch- 
 ing each breath, as it is drawn more and more 
 lingeringly from her ashen-grey lips. 
 
 ' Cinthy ! — be good to Cinthy !' she whis- 
 pers presently, and Betha, kissing her pas- 
 sionately, assures her that she will. 
 
 And then Mrs. Durant turns her head two 
 or three times on the pillow, as though to 
 settle herself into an easier position, gives a 
 soft, contented sigh, and with a faint smile 
 on her lips, gently droops her lids upon her 
 eyes. 
 
 . * She is asleep,' whispers Betha, turning 
 her tear-stained face towards the doctor. 
 
 He has his finger on the patient's pulse, 
 and for a moment he does not answer her. 
 Only he raises his eyes to meet those of Mrs. 
 Chapman, and, with a grave look, replaces 
 the hand he holds upon the breast of Mrs. 
 Durant. 
 
 * You had better come away, darling,' says 
 Mrs. Chapman, as she attempts to raise 
 Betha from the floor.
 
 ' Take that Woman Away.' 53 
 
 ' Oh no ! Aunt Janie, let me sit and watch 
 by her till she wakes. I will be as quiet as 
 a mouse, and the time is so short, you 
 know ' — with a gasping sob — ^ she might 
 want me. I cannot bear to leave her for a 
 minute.' 
 
 ' My darling Betha, she will never want 
 you again. It's all over !' says Mrs. Chap- 
 man, bursting into tears. 
 
 * What /' cries the girl, springing to her 
 feet. 
 
 'Your dear mother is gone, my child,' 
 interposes Dr. Field ; for Aunt Janie is 
 sobbing too much to speak. ' She is 
 dead ! Try not to grieve too much, Betha ! 
 She has suffered from heart-disease for 
 many years past, and in any case the 
 end could not have been much longer de- 
 layed.' 
 
 * Gone ! — gone, already /' cries Betha, in a 
 tone of the keenest anguish. ' And she never 
 said she loved me !'
 
 54 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 The shock, the excitement, and the fatigue 
 of the day have been too much for her, and 
 as the last words leave her lips, she sinks 
 unconscious on the floor.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 *I HAVE DECIDED.' 
 
 For a few days after her mother's death, 
 Botha's senses are mercifully dulled to all 
 earthly things. She is not unconscious ; she 
 is perfectly aware that her idol is dead, and 
 that she shall never speak to her again ; 
 that that which lies so silent and immovable 
 in the next room is deaf and insensible to all 
 that she may say or do. She knows it, but 
 she cannot realise it. She cannot identify 
 that marble image with the mother she has 
 lost. Her aunt Janie Avants her to go and 
 look at it and cry over it, and kiss it, hoping 
 thereby that the girl's emotion may be ex- 
 cited, and a more natural state of things set
 
 56 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 in. But Betlia is as yet incapable of the 
 comfort of tears. She lies on her bed, with 
 dry eyes and listless limbs, thinking neither 
 of the past nor the future — forgetting even 
 to blame her father for his conduct — only 
 desirous to be left alone, and not worried to 
 eat, or drink, or talk, that she may try to 
 make her brain obey her will, and understand 
 that she is parted from her dearest friend, in 
 this world, for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Chapman, on the other hand, is all 
 energy and excitement. There is so much to 
 be done and to be said, with such a dreadful 
 occurrence as her ^ own dear sister actually 
 dying in her very dining-room,' so much re- 
 crimination to be levelled at the head of her 
 offending brother-in-law, and so much discus- 
 sion about the funeral and dear Betha's 
 prospects, and the shocking suspicions she 
 entertains concerning that horrid woman, 
 Mrs. Wallerton, that she is regaling her 
 visitors with the history all day long. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, Mrs. Jones I' she will say, as
 
 * / Have DecidecV 57 
 
 she hangs tearfully over the body of her 
 departed sister, ' poor dear Mary had a life 
 of it, and no mistake. If you had only seen 
 her suffer, as T have ! How she could stand 
 it so long is a marvel to me 1 Often and 
 often I've said to her, '' Why not leave the 
 man? Why stay in the house to be ill- 
 treated and insulted as you are ?" But she 
 was so patient, so uncomplaining — never a 
 word to anyone ; but of course she could not 
 hide it from me. I am sure she had the 
 goodness of an angel.' 
 
 * But is it true that the poor dear died in 
 the snow V says Mrs. Jones. ' My maid tells 
 me the report is all over Kensington.' 
 
 ^ Oh no ; it was not quite so bad as that ; 
 but she arrived here in so exhausted a condi- 
 tion, we had not even time to move her 
 upstairs. There is no doubt the exposure to 
 the cold hastened her end ; it brought on one 
 of those fearful attacks of spasms that are so 
 fatal in heart-disease ; and then, darling 
 Mary was so imprudent. She walked here,
 
 5S My Sister the Actress. 
 
 all the way from Regent's Park, and with 
 thin house-boots on. I don't think she knew 
 what she was doing, poor dear ! Her mind 
 was quite upset by Major Durant's brutal 
 conduct to her. We sent for the doctor at 
 once, but he could do nothing for her. Her 
 screams were heartrending. And then Betha 
 arrived with that horrid Mrs. Wallerton, and 
 it excited Mary so that she never rallied 
 afterwards. Oh, it has been a terrible affair, 
 Mrs. Jones ! — a most terrible and heartrend- 
 ing affair ! — and I don't feel as if I should 
 ever get over it !' concludes Mrs. Chapman, 
 sobbing. 
 
 She is very like her dead sister, both in 
 appearance and disposition, and both women 
 are weak, washed-out representatives of 
 Betha. It is from her mother that the girl 
 has inherited her ripe-corn- coloured hair and 
 grey eyes — only Mrs. Durant's eyes w^ere of 
 a pale grey, and her hair was faded and limp. 
 Her character, too, was more yielding and 
 amiable than that of her high-spirited daugh-
 
 ' / Have Decided: 59 
 
 ter, with less courage and energy and less 
 power of affection. 
 
 Aunt Janie is a prototype of Mrs. Durant. 
 She is one of those enthusiastic, warm- 
 hearted, fickle-minded people, who take up 
 the cause of another as though it were their 
 own so long as their partisanship does not 
 affect their interests, and drop it like a hot 
 coal as soon as it does. She advances to the 
 fight like a hero, bub as soon as she en- 
 counters any opposition she retreats like a 
 craven. She has always been ready to fondle 
 her sister and moan over her troubles, but 
 she has never tried to help her out of them, 
 either by counsel or action. She can weep 
 copiously over her now she is dead, but 
 living, her friendship proved but a broken 
 reed. So, she can weep copiously over 
 Betha at the present moment, and make 
 grand plans for her future ; but it remains to 
 be proved what her action will be, when that 
 future has turned into the present. 
 
 ' That poor girl upstairs,' sighs Mrs. Jones,
 
 60 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' she is old enough to feel all this terribly ! 
 How will she meet her father V 
 
 ' She shall never meet him !' exclaims Mrs. 
 Chapman, energetically. ' She has received 
 too much ill-treatment at his hands already. 
 Why, Mrs. Jones, the man actually told her 
 that if she went in search of her poor dying 
 mother he would never receive her as a 
 daughter again. It curdles my blood to 
 think of it, and I don't feel as if I could even 
 speak to Major Durant. He must come 
 here for the funeral, I suppose, but it is the 
 last time he enters my house, and I shall tell 
 him so without reserve.' 
 
 ^ You will do very right !' exclaims Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 ' And as for Betha, she will be my child 
 henceforward — as much mine as Blanche. 
 The only difference will be that I shall have 
 two daughters to love me instead of one.' 
 
 And Aunt Janie, who is a widow, calls 
 her only child to her side, and with tears in 
 her eyes conjures her to take her motherless
 
 'I Have Decided: 61 
 
 cousin to her heart as a sister, and never 
 look upon her thenceforward in any other 
 hght. 
 
 ' My own sweet Mary's legacy to me,' she 
 exclaims, as she folds both the girls in her 
 maternal arms. ' Betha, you must try and 
 look on me as a mother now, for I will never 
 let you return to that wicked man's roof 
 again — never, so long as you live !' 
 
 ' Thank you, dear Aunt Janie. I — I — 
 should like to remain with you for a little 
 while, if I may. I don't think I could go 
 back again just yet — not — not — while every- 
 thing is so difficult to forget.' 
 
 * You shall 7iever go back,' repeats Aunt 
 Janie, determinately. ^ You must meet him 
 I suppose, on the day of the funeral ; but 
 when that is over you shall return home with 
 me, and be Blanche's sister as long as you 
 live.' 
 
 ' Hyacinth,' falters Betha, in a tone of 
 remonstrance ; but she is too weary and too 
 sick at heart to argue the point, and Aunt
 
 62 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Janie is satisfied that she shall have her own 
 way. 
 
 The day of the funeral arrives. The coffin, 
 with its silent inmate, has been carried down- 
 stairs, preparatory to being lifted into the 
 hearse, and Mrs. Chapman, who, with Betha, 
 has arranged to attend the ceremony, is 
 advised that Major Durant and Dr. Field 
 are waiting her presence in the dining- 
 room. 
 
 ' Come, darling !' she says, as she throws 
 the deep crape veil over Betha's mourning 
 bonnet, and draws the girl's hand through 
 her arm ; * take courage ! It will soon be 
 over, and you shall not even speak to Major 
 Durant if you do not wish to do so.' 
 
 But as they enter the room where the 
 funeral guests are assembled Betha gives a 
 cry of surprise and terror, and hides her face 
 upon the bosom of her aunt. 
 
 Mrs. Chapman looks up, astounded, to 
 encounter the form, decorously draped in the 
 deepest mourning, of Mrs. Wallerton.
 
 'I Have Decided.'' €3 
 
 * Is this intended for an insult V she cries 
 involuntarily. 
 
 The face of everyone in the room changes. 
 If there is one thing in this world more un- 
 pleasant to be mixed up with than another 
 it is a domestic difference, and especially on 
 such a solemn occasion as a funeral. 
 
 * I don't understand you/ says Mrs. Wal- 
 lerton, quickly. ' I have come here, on the 
 invitation of Major Durant, to pay the last 
 respect I can to his departed wife, who was 
 one of my dearest friends. Have you any 
 objections to make to it V 
 
 Aunt Janie is already defeated. Her spark 
 of courage is extinguished. She does not 
 know how to continue the contest. 
 
 ' I don't think my poor sister considered 
 you as her dearest friend,' she answers, in a 
 more subdued voice. 
 
 ' I am astonished you should open such a 
 discussion at such a moment/ interposes 
 Major Durant, offendedly. 'Whatever my 
 late wife may have said or thought, the fact
 
 64 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 speaks for itself : Mrs. Wallerton's kindness 
 to the whole of my family has been unvary- 
 ing, and were it not a most improper moment 
 for disputing the matter, I should certainly 
 call on you, Mrs. Chapman, to make her an 
 apology for the words you have just spoken.' 
 
 * Pray let us have no quarrelling,' says 
 Dr. Field, ' and especially in this presence. 
 I think we are all assembled. Had we not 
 better set out for the cemetery at once V 
 
 * Come, dear Betha,' says her aunt, en- 
 courao^incylv. 
 
 ' No, no !' exclaims the girl, shrinking 
 back. ^ I cannot go — I will not go !' 
 
 ' Hush, my love !' whispers Mrs. Chap- 
 man ; ' gloss it over, as I have done. The 
 least said, the soonest mended !* 
 
 * I mil not go f repeats the girl, resolutely. 
 ' What is all this fuss about ?' demands 
 
 Major Durant, with flashing eyes. 
 
 * I am afraid dear Betha is ill. She does 
 not feel equal to attending the ceremony,' 
 says Mrs. Chapman.
 
 ^ I Have Decided' ^ 65 
 
 * I am not ill,' exclaims the girl, standing 
 upright, and facing the assembly, ' but I can- 
 not go with Mrs. Wallerton /' 
 
 ' How dare you !' commences her father, 
 angrily; but the doctor draws him on one 
 side and entreats him to be silent and let the 
 funeral proceed. 
 
 So the bearers are summoned, and the 
 Silent Presence is marshalled out of the 
 room before them, followed by a wailing cry 
 of ' Mother ! mother 1' which rings in the 
 ears of more than one of the mourners durinor 
 the succeeding solemnity. And the guests 
 file after it and get into their carriages, and 
 Betha is left alone in the dining-room with 
 her face hidden in her hands. 
 
 After alonofjlono' interval of two hours Aunt 
 Janie returns, her eyelids swollen and her 
 crape veil hmp with her tears ; but now that 
 she is relieved of the presence of the enemy, 
 full of righteous indignation against Major 
 Durant and Mrs. Wallerton, and determined 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 that Betha shall never return to her father's 
 protection again. 
 
 ' It is impossible, my dear ; he will sub- 
 ject you to the presence of that woman every 
 day, and you know how your poor mamma 
 disliked her. It is an insult to her memory. 
 I don't feel as if she would lie quiet in her 
 grave if you make friends with Mrs. Wal- 
 lerton.* 
 
 * Oh no, no I Indeed I could not ! I 
 shall never forget the last words my darling 
 mother said about her. But, Aunt Janie, 
 I must go back some time — because of Hya- 
 cinth, you know.' 
 
 ' You will do no such thing ! You will 
 remain with me and be my child. Promise 
 me, Betha — promise that you will never 
 leave me.' 
 
 ' I don't wish to leave you, dear Aunt 
 Janie. I should like to live here for ever, 
 only ' 
 
 At this juncture Major Durant is an- 
 nounced, and enters the room. He looks
 
 '/ Have Decided: 67 
 
 dark and angry, and refuses to take the seat 
 that Mrs. Chapman offers him. 
 
 ' I dare say you are surprised to see me 
 here again, Mrs. Chapman,' he commences 
 stiffly ; ' but I wish to have this matter 
 settled at once. My daughter Ehzabeth has 
 behaved very badly to me — very badly in- 
 deed ' 
 
 'You behaved very badly to her,' rejoins 
 Aunt Janie. 
 
 ' We will let that pass, if you please. A 
 child is no judge of the actions of its father. 
 Elizabeth left my house against my orders, 
 and with the knowledge that I should refuse 
 to receive her again. But for late circum- 
 stances 1 should have adhered to that deter- 
 mination. But since Mrs. Durant's death 
 leaves the girl without a natural protector, 
 I am willing, upon certain conditions, to take 
 her home with me.' 
 
 ' Betha refuses to return to Northallerton. 
 Crescent under any conditions,' says Mrs. 
 Chapman. 
 
 5—2
 
 68 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * Pardon me ! but I must hear her deter- 
 mination from her own lips. She is no 
 longer a child (as she has taken care to in- 
 form me), and must, therefore, be quite com- 
 petent to give expression to her sentiments.' 
 
 * What are the conditions ?' demands Betha, 
 as she raises her heavy eyes to confront her 
 father. 
 
 As the man meets his daughter's gaze, a 
 sudden chill seems to strike through his 
 frame : she looks so like his wife as he saw 
 her for the last time before the coffin-lid was 
 closed ; and something, not quite dead yet, 
 pricks his uneasy conscience. 
 
 * Not very hard ones, Betha !' he answers ; 
 ' simply, that you shall behave to me as a 
 daughter should do, and receive my friends as 
 your own. But I must have no airs and 
 graces, mind you ! no allusions to the past, 
 nor rubbish' of that sort. You must act as a 
 sensible girl, or I won't have you at all.' 
 
 'Must I be friendly with — with — that 
 ivoman f
 
 ' / Have DecidecV 69 
 
 ' Whom do you mean by '' that woman " V 
 cries the major, fiercely. 
 
 ' Mrs. Wallerton !' 
 
 ' Of course you must ! why, what con- 
 founded rubbish is this ? The best and 
 truest friend your mother had — who visited 
 her oftener and gave her more presents than 
 anyone else — and now you have got some 
 absurd crotchet in your head against her. I 
 w^on't have it, I say ! Mrs. Wallerton will 
 always be an honoured and welcome guest in 
 my house, and whoever lives there will have 
 to receive her as such.' 
 
 * I cannot — I cannot !' sobs Betha, vehe- 
 mently ; ' she killed my mother. They were 
 her last words, that Mrs. Wallerton had 
 killed her ; and I will not shake hands with 
 her nor speak to her again !' 
 
 ' Then stay where you are !' cries her father, 
 angrily. 
 
 He has grown very pale at his daughter's 
 open announcement, but he stands to his 
 ground. Perhaps he expected to hear some-
 
 70 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 thing of the sort — perhaps it is not the first 
 time he has heard it — anyway he bears the 
 shock bravely. 
 
 ^That she certainly shall do/ interposes 
 Aunt Janie, who can be courageous where 
 she has to back an assertion instead of re- 
 futing it. ' Betha and I arrived at that con- 
 clusion some days ago, so you might have 
 spared yourself the trouble of questioning 
 her.* 
 
 ' But she must understand the alternative/ 
 exclaims the major. ' If she refuses to re- 
 turn to me now, I shall never give her 
 another opportunity. She may starve in the 
 gutter, or beg her bread from door to door. 
 I will have nothing further to do with her 
 from this day.' 
 
 ' Betha desires nothing better,' commences 
 Mrs. Chapman defiantly, but the girl inter- 
 rupts her. 
 
 * Hyacinth !' she utters with trembling 
 lips ; ' may I not see her sometimes V 
 
 ' Certainly not 1' returns her father ; ' I
 
 */ Have Decided: 71 
 
 will not have the only child left to me con- 
 taminated by your evil example, and set 
 against my best friends. There will be no com- 
 munication of any sort permitted between you.' 
 ^Oh! what shall I do? What shall I 
 do V exclaims Betha in a voice of despair. 
 
 As she sits there, with clasped hands and 
 downcast eyes, trying to decide upon her 
 path of action, a vision rises before her of 
 her dead mother, lying still and saintly in 
 her coffin, with an aureole of pale hair about 
 her brow and the snow-wreaths on her grave 
 — and then of the blooming widow with 
 flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and a 
 rustling of silk and a redolence of patchouli 
 about her — and she shrinks as though she 
 had stepped upon an adder ! 
 
 * Stay with us, darling !' murmurs Aunt 
 Janie in her ear. * You cannot return home 
 under present circumstances. Remember 
 your poor mother, and stay with us.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! I have decided ! Aunt Janie, 
 I will remain with you !'
 
 72 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 ' Then all is over between us,' says Major 
 Durant, as he quits the room. 
 
 ' Xo mother and no father !' sobs Betha in 
 Mrs. Chapman's arms ; ' oh, Aunt Janie, it 
 does seem hard — but 1 could not go back to 
 that house again — after what she said.' 
 
 ' Hush, Betha ! never speak of that, my 
 dear. It is best we should try and forget it. 
 And don't say you have no mother ! / am 
 your mother, dearest, until my life ends.'
 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ' I WISH HE wouldn't COME HERE.' 
 
 It is useless for kind friends to come and 
 remonstrate with ]\Irs. Chapman at that 
 earjy period on the attitude she has assumed 
 towards Major Durant, nor the responsibihty 
 she undertakes in persuading her niece not to 
 return to Northallerton Crescent. Aunt Janie 
 is too enthusiastic on the subject of her new 
 toy to be able to see the force of any argu- 
 ments brought to bear against her resolution. 
 She laughs at the idea of Betha ever proving 
 too expensive, or too troublesome, or too 
 anxious a charge for her small means and 
 smaller brains. Mrs. Chapman is the widow 
 of an army surgeon, living with her only
 
 74 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 child on a very slender pittance, in a very 
 tiny house in the Earl's Court district. She 
 has often known what it is to be pinched for 
 means, and compelled to give up the comforts 
 of this lower existence ; still her gushing 
 affectionate heart, and her weak and quickly 
 impressed brain, continue between them to 
 make her believe that an extra mouth to 
 feed and an extra body to clothe will not 
 make their demands felt by her slender 
 purse. 
 
 Perhaps Aunt Janie expects a miracle to 
 be performed for the special benefit of herself 
 and Betha, and indeed she can be very pious 
 at times^ and quote texts about the ravens 
 and the widow's cruse of oil, that would 
 make a stranger to her disposition really 
 think that she had kept Betha at Earl's Court 
 for the sake of befriending the girl, instead 
 of for the pleasure of gratifying herself 
 Aunt Janie never gives one thought to the 
 supposition that she may be seriously injuring 
 the future prospects of her niece. She only
 
 'I WisJi He Wouldnt Come Here: 75 
 
 recognises the fact that her present conduct 
 is caUing forth a host of arguments from her 
 more sensible friends, and a host of small 
 flatteries from the weak-minded ones. 
 
 ' It is useless to discuss the point with 
 me,' says Aunt Janie, with her sweetest 
 smile, ' for I have reasons for my present 
 action that cannot possibly be overthrown 
 by any worldly consideration. I feel that I 
 am only carrying out what would have been 
 my dear dead sister's last Avishes had she 
 been able to express them, and that darling 
 Mary would never rest quiet in her grave 
 if I allowed Betha to return to the power of 
 that inhuman monster. Major Durant !' 
 
 To this touching sentiment most of Mrs. 
 Chapman's friends purr a sympathetic ac- 
 quiescence, but a few say, ' Humph !' and 
 amongst the few is Dr. Field. He has 
 known Betha Durant for many years, and 
 giving her credit for all her cleverness, with 
 not one half her strength of mind, he believes 
 that hers is one of the most dangerous tem-
 
 76 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 peraments that can possibly be exposed to 
 the tempest of the world. 
 
 ' Better a thousand times/ he thinks to 
 himself, ' that that girl should endure how- 
 ever unhappy a home with her father, than 
 be left to the fickle mercies of Mrs. Chap- 
 man, or be cast adrift to earn her own 
 living.' 
 
 With which idea he draws so vivid a 
 picture for Aunt Janie of the weight and 
 responsibility of the burthen she has taken 
 on herself, that it sinks deep into her mind. 
 
 She will not acknowledge the reason of it 
 at the time (when does a silly woman ever 
 acknowledge the reason of anything ?), but 
 it returns upon her, little by little, as the 
 days go on, and not always unaccompanied 
 by a twinge of fear lest the doctor should 
 after all prove to be right, and she to have 
 done both a foolish and a hasty action. 
 
 And Betha's conscience, too, is not alto- 
 gether free of offence. She knows nothing 
 as yet, poor child, of butchers' and bakers*
 
 'I Wish He Wouldnt Come Here: 77 
 
 bills, and almost as little of a young lady's 
 annual expenses for amusements and dress. 
 At sixteen all such anxieties are taken off 
 a girl's shoulders by her mother or her 
 guardian : and they are still amongst the 
 pleasures to come for Elizabeth Durant. 
 She has always been fed and clothed and 
 educated without any reference to herself, 
 and she does not suppose that she will be 
 any more trouble to her aunt than she has 
 been to her parents. No ! it is of Hyacinth 
 that she thinks : of the little sister who was 
 so dear to her dead mother : and to whom 
 she commissioned her with her last breath 
 to be a friend, and an example, and a 
 guide. 
 
 Betha sheds many bitter tears when she 
 remembers the pert brat who has been the 
 trouble and the nuisance of her life hitherto, 
 but who now appears, by the force of those 
 dj^ing w^ords, to be transformed into some- 
 thing as near and as dear as a child of her 
 own.
 
 78 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 She often cries for a sight of Cinthy half 
 through the night, although she hardly 
 believes that she will be parted from her 
 Ion Of. Her father will relent — Mrs. Wal- 
 lerton will go away — something will happen 
 to make all things straight again — that is, as 
 far as they can be straight whilst her darling 
 mother is lying in the grave. 
 
 The girl fights hard with her grief She 
 is not the sort of girl to sit down idly and 
 nurse it with futile tears and lamentations. 
 She has her own pet theories about this 
 world and the next, and believes fully that 
 the separation is one of sight only and not 
 of spirit. Yet it is very hard to bear. 
 Each day seems to increase rather than 
 diminish the pain of missing her mother, as 
 though she had mourned first only her tem- 
 porary absence, fully expecting her after a 
 while to return, and was but waking up, 
 hour by hour, to the fatal truth that their 
 parting in this world is for ever. 
 
 Aunt Janie is very judicious at this period.
 
 'I Wish He Wouldnt Come Here: 79 
 
 She allows Betha to spend her time pretty 
 much as she chooses, and so the weeks flew 
 by smoothly and quietly enough. Her 
 cousin Blanche is the great drawback to her 
 material comfort. This young lady, who is 
 a couple of years older than Betha, and has 
 been allowed by her weak-minded mother to 
 have her own way in everything, cannot 
 possibly understand how her cousin wdll ever 
 recover herself if she sits moping in her own 
 room all day, reading musty old books from 
 the small library her papa left behind him. 
 To Miss Blanche, a novelty in art needle- 
 work, or a w^alk to Kensington High Street, 
 or a visit to friends — since such are the only 
 dissipations of which deep mourning Avill 
 permit — would appear a much more sensible 
 way of diverting one's mind. 
 
 But Betha does not care for needlework, 
 and shrinks from the sight of strangers, and 
 seems to take no interest in anything except 
 those old volumes which neither the widow 
 nor the daughter of Dr. Chapman have ever
 
 80 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 thouo^ht it worth their while to dislodo^e from 
 the shelves on which he left them. 
 
 ' And such dry things, too ! Plays, of all 
 horrors !' cries Miss Blanche one day in 
 March, as she discovers Betha poring over 
 an obsolete edition of Colley Gibber's plays. 
 ' What can you find to interest you in 
 them r 
 
 * Dry, Blanche ? Indeed they are not ! 
 Such fine old plays : full of bold lauguage 
 and strong situations !' 
 
 * Oh, bother your strong situations, Betha I 
 Come down and have a strong cup of tea — 
 that's much more likely to do you good ! 
 And Bobby Frere's in the drawing-room, 
 telling us such tales about that old quiz, his 
 grandmother ! It'll kill you to listen to 
 them.' 
 
 ^ Mr. Frere 1' repeats Betha, shrinking a 
 little backwards. ' Oh, I wish he wouldn't 
 come here !' 
 
 * That's a polite speech, I must say, of one 
 of mamma's guests,' replies Blanche, laugh-
 
 'I Wish He Woulclnt Come Here: 81 
 
 ing. ^Why, the Freres are amongst our 
 oldest friends. But you needn't mind /u'm, I 
 am sure, Betha ! Nobody ever thinks any- 
 thing of Bobby Frere.' 
 
 * I think your compliment is rather the 
 worst one of the two, Blanche,' says Betha, 
 with a faint smile, as she lays down her book 
 and prepares to follow her cousin to the 
 drawing-room. Mr. Bobert Frere would 
 certainly not present a formidable appear- 
 ance to any young lady out of her teens, for 
 he is one of the ugliest and most awkward 
 specimens of the human race ever seen. He 
 is tall and lanky, and high-shouldered, with 
 very short-sighted, soft brown eyes ; a large 
 nose and mouth, and long, well-shaped feet 
 and hands. His face has a clever and reso- 
 lute appearance when in repose, but becomes 
 almost ludicrous when he attempts to smile ; 
 and as he always smiles when he catches 
 sight of Betha, he usually presents himself 
 before her in the character of a ' wide- 
 mouthed, gaping frog.' An astute observer 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 would tell vou that Kobert Frere's soft, 
 womanly eyes are sufficient to redeem the 
 rest of his features from the charge of ugli- 
 ness, and that each lineament of his face 
 bears upon it the impress of a tender and 
 loving spirit. But Betha has not yet learned 
 to be astute. She only sees the outer man, 
 and like most very young girls, because the 
 outer man expresses pleasure at the sight of 
 her, she is half afraid of him, she scarcely 
 knows why. She thinks him hideous, and 
 says so openly, although Aunt Janie has more 
 than once rebuked her for the assertion, re- 
 minding her that Robert Frere, being the 
 only son of Sir Willoughby Frere, of Baron's 
 Court, who is as wealthy as he is proud, and 
 the presumptive heir of his grandmother, 
 Lady Frere, stands a good chance of be- 
 coming one of the richest men of the day, 
 and is not a person to be ridiculed, even 
 were his hands and feet three times the size 
 that they are. So Betha tries to be properly 
 polite to a young gentleman of so much
 
 '/ Wish He Wouldnt Come Here: . 83 
 
 consequence, the upshot of which is, that 
 Mr. Frere has already begun to compare her 
 cousin's boisterous greetings rather unfavour- 
 ably with the subdued and soft-toned voicG 
 in which she bids him welcome. She looks 
 so fair and pale as she sits in the lamplight, 
 with her golden hair bound like a wreath 
 round her head, that he has fallen more 
 than once into the bad graces of Mrs. Chap- 
 man and her daug^hter for beingf cauofht 
 gazing at her when he ought to have been 
 listening to them. 
 
 ' Xow, do talk, Mr. Frere, and make your- 
 self agreeable !' exclaims Blanche, in a lively 
 manner. ' Tell us all the news. We have 
 been so cooped up lately, you know, that we 
 have heard nothing. Where have you been, 
 and what have you been doing, and what 
 brings you back again to town so soon? I 
 thought you had gone down to the Court for 
 good, until the season commenced. There's 
 nothing stirring in London, you know; it's 
 just as dull as ditch-water.' 
 
 G — 2
 
 84 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 'Well, there's less in the countr}^ Miss 
 Chapman. This frost stops all the hunting, 
 and my grandmother is so absurdly parti- 
 cular she won't have any guests at the Court 
 during Lent, so that the house is simply un- 
 endurable. How the pater stands it I can't 
 think, but I suppose he has grown used to it 
 by this time.' 
 
 ' I have always understood that Lady 
 Frere was verv reserved, and much addicted 
 to the society of serious people, and so forth,' 
 remarks Aunt Janie ; ' but I did not think 
 she was quite so strict as you make her out 
 to be.' 
 
 ^ Oh, she iS; Mrs. Chapman, I can assure 
 you — every inch of it. She carries her pre- 
 judices to an absurd extent — so far, indeed, 
 that the pater's friends and mine scarcely 
 ever see the inside of the Court. They're 
 none of them good enough for Lady Frere. 
 But it's rather hard upon us, isn't it V 
 
 ' Horribly hard !' cries Blanche, laughing. 
 ^ I expect you will rather take it out of the
 
 'I Wish He Woulchit Come Here: 85 
 
 old Court when you are master there, Mr. 
 Frere V 
 
 ' That will not be in my father's lifetime/ 
 rejoins Robert Frere, gravely. 
 
 * Blanche ! how can you be so heedless V 
 interposes Mrs. Chapman. ' It is really sad 
 for you and 3^our dear father, though, Mr. 
 Frere, to be unable to invite whom you like 
 to the Court.' 
 
 ' It is no home to me in consequence,' re- 
 turns the young man, simply, ' and never 
 will be, Mrs. Chapman. I often wish my 
 grandmother were more like other women. 
 How jolly some of them can be ! I was 
 dining last night with one of the pleasantest 
 people you ever met — good-looking, clever, 
 and with that happy knack of pleasing every- 
 body alike which so few hostesses possess.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! what is the name of your 
 paragon V demands Mrs. Chapman. 
 
 * Mrs. Wallerton !' replies the young man, 
 unhesitatingly.
 
 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 ' FOR hyacinth's SAKE.' 
 
 Mrs. Durant died in the middle of Decem- 
 ber : it is now the middle of March, and 
 during those three months, the name of 
 Wallerton has never passed the lips of either 
 aunt or niece. Not that Mrs. Chapman 
 would have had any objection to discuss the 
 matter, her ideas on this subject, as on 
 several others, having become much modified 
 by time ; but Betha has so visibly shrunk 
 from mentioning either her father or the 
 widow, that Aunt Janie has not had the 
 pluck to take the initiative. 
 
 Now as the dreaded name passes so easily 
 and jauntily the hps of Mr. Kobert Frere,
 
 'For Hyacintlis Sake.' 87 
 
 the giiTs pale face suddenly crimsons : and 
 she turns her eye imploringly on Mrs. Chap- 
 man, as though she asked her dumbly what 
 to do. Aunt Janie looks a little conscious, 
 but goes on with her embroidery neverthe- 
 less. 
 
 ' By the way, Miss Durant/ continues Mr. 
 Frere, with beautiful disregard to the feelings 
 of his listeners, ' I met a gentleman of your 
 name there, a Major Durant ; is he any 
 relation V 
 
 He is surprised to see Betha turn her 
 head the other way, bub Mrs. Chapman 
 answers the question for her. 
 
 ' Yes !' she says, gravely ; ' Major Durant 
 is a relation of my niece, but we have not 
 seen much of him lately.' 
 
 'A most agreeable person,' continues 
 young Frere, thinking to please ; ' and he 
 appeared quite at home there. Indeed, I 
 heard some of the guests suggesting that it 
 was une affaire de cceur between him and 
 our fair hostess, and I must say it looked like
 
 88 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 it. They seemed on the very best of terms, 
 and the major behaved more like the master 
 of the house than a visitor.' 
 
 At these words Betha rises suddenly, and 
 with a face working with emotion, runs out 
 of the room. 
 
 ' Foolish child !' says Aunt Janie with a 
 slight frown, as the closing of the door causes 
 her to look round. 
 
 Kobert Frere is, of course, all apolo- 
 gies. 
 
 ^ What have I said or done V he demands 
 with visible distress. * Have I offended Miss 
 Durant ? ought I not to have mentioned the 
 major to her V 
 
 * My dear Mr. Frere, it is not your fault ; 
 Betha is foolishly sensitive — that is all ! The 
 truth is, Major Durant is her father; but 
 they have, unfortunately, had a little domestic 
 disagreement, and the poor girl is staying 
 with me until it blows over, which I trust it 
 may soon do. These family quarrels are 
 such very unpleasant occurrences. T am
 
 ' For Hyacinth's Sake.' 89 
 
 sure Ave never had such a thing during poor 
 dear Dr. Chapman's hfe/ 
 
 'But I am so sorry I should have intro- 
 duced the subject,' urges Mr. Frere. ' Why 
 did you not caution me, Mrs. Chapman ? I 
 should have bitten out my tongue sooner 
 than offend Miss Durant.' 
 
 ' How can you have offended her V inter- 
 rupts Blanche, pettishly. ^She hates her 
 father and Mrs. Wallerton too, and I suppose 
 she's dreadfully afraid they'll marry each 
 other. But I can't really see what business 
 it is of hers, and it's all affectation pretending 
 she cannot bear to hear them spoken of. 
 But Betha is awfully affected.' 
 
 * No, my darling ! don't say that !' says 
 Mrs. Chapman, with mild maternal rebuke ; 
 * the poor girl is much to be pitied, though I 
 am not at all sure if I am right in encourag- 
 ing her to keep up this feud with her family 
 any longer. She carries her animosity 
 altogether too far.' 
 
 By which speech it will be seen that Aunt
 
 90 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Janie is already beginning to weary of the 
 charge she has taken on herself. The fact is 
 she cannot help perceiving that Mr. Frere 
 (who has known her Blanche since childhood) 
 is more interested in her cousin than he is in 
 herself; and she foresees shoals and quick- 
 sands in the sea of matrimony on which she 
 hopes to launch her only daughter. For 
 Bobby Frere is also an only child, heir to a 
 baronetcy and several thousand pounds a 
 3^ear, and she may look much farther before 
 she settles Blanche as comfortably as that. 
 And since Betha's sudden disappearance 
 causes the young man to become uncom- 
 municative and distrait, and to return to his 
 chambers much earlier than he has been in 
 the habit of doing, she speaks more sharply 
 to her niece on the subject of her conduct 
 that evening, than she has ever done 
 before. 
 
 * It was not only exceedingly weak and 
 silly of you, Betha, to leave the room as you 
 did, when Mr. Frere simply mentioned your
 
 * For Hyacinth's Sake,' 91 
 
 papa's name ; but it was rude and ill- 
 mannered into the bargain. I really must 
 say so. You quite spoilt our evening's 
 enjoyment. Mr. Frere refused to stay for 
 supper, thinking, I suppose, that I wished to 
 be upstairs, consoling you ; and so both he 
 and Blanche were disappointed. I did not 
 think you would be so selfish !' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Janie I indeed I did not mean 
 to upset your evening, but to hear him talk 
 of papa and — and — her — in that manner — only 
 three months after — it seemed so shocking. 1 
 felt as if I could not stay and listen to him,' 
 sobs Betha. 
 
 * My dear, you must not be so childish ! 
 It was all very well at first, perhaps, and 
 I know that I indulged you in it more than I 
 ought to have done ; but now it is different, 
 you see. You cannot keep up such feelings 
 for ever, it would be wicked and unchristian ; 
 and so the sooner you accustom yourself to 
 think and talk of your papa as other daughters 
 do of theirs, the better/
 
 92 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ^ Aunt Janie ! I can never — never do 
 that. He has not been as other fathers are 
 to me ! It is impossible to forget the 
 
 past r 
 
 ' Well, my dear, T am sorry to hear you 
 say so, for (for my own part) I confess I am 
 beginning to feel a little tired of these family 
 jars. They are wicked and unnatural, and I 
 am afraid I was very wrong in encouraging 
 you to maintain them.* 
 
 * Aunt Janie ! are you tired of me V asks 
 Betha, pointedly. 
 
 The scales have suddenly fallen from the 
 girl's eyes. She has been asleep till now, 
 dreaming over her own bereavement and ac- 
 cepting what was given her as freely as she 
 believed that it was oflfered ; but Mrs. 
 Chapman's present manner undeceives her. In 
 a moment she has pierced through the arti- 
 ficial exterior and read the true mind of her 
 aunt beneath it. The enthusiasm has faded ; 
 the warmth evaporated ; Mrs. Chapman is 
 weary of the role of benefactress and mother,
 
 'For Hyacinilis Sake.' 93 
 
 and feels the charge of her niece to be both 
 burdensome and expensive. 
 
 * You are tired of me/ repeats Betha, with 
 kindhng eyes. 
 
 ' Oh no, my dear child ! how can you say 
 so V replies Aunt Janie, looking somewhat 
 foolish notwithstanding ; ' but it grieves me 
 terribly to see you so obstinately set against 
 your paj)a. He is your only parent, you 
 know, Betha ; and if anything were to happen 
 to me, what would become of you ? And as 
 for his dining with Mrs. Wallerton, what non- 
 sense to take umbrage at that ! Is the poor 
 man never to have any amusement ? He 
 has been moped up for three months now (it 
 has been a most trying time for all of us, as 
 you know, Betha), and if he may not dine 
 out with an old friend ' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, Aunt Janie, you know the 
 reason — you know it so well !' 
 
 ' I suppose you mean that the news affected 
 you, because you imagine that your papa may 
 take it into his head to marry Mrs. Wallerton.
 
 94 Mtj Sistei' the Actress. 
 
 Well, my dear, you can hardly expect him to 
 remain single for the rest of his life — a man 
 scarcely over forty — it would be ridiculous ; 
 and if he is to marry, I don't see why it 
 should not be Mrs. Wallerton as well as any- 
 one else. He has only himself to consult in 
 the matter.' 
 
 * Aunt Janie /' exclaims Betha in a voice of 
 the deepest reproach. 
 
 She could not mean more if she used a 
 hundred words to express her meaning. Her 
 tone demands of her listener if she has for- 
 gotten that agonising scene that took place 
 in the room downstairs when the sight of the 
 woman she so carelessly alludes to drew forth 
 the first words of complaint or accusation that 
 had ever passed the lips of her mother, and 
 which proved to be almost the last words 
 she uttered. 
 
 * I know what you would allude to, my 
 dear/ replies Mrs. Chapman, uneasily ; * but 
 I can only repeat my words : I think this 
 quarrel between yourself and your papa alto-
 
 ^ For Hyacinth's Sake.' 95 
 
 gether wrong, and I consider it is your duty 
 to go and ask him to overlook the last three 
 months and take you back again.' 
 
 * Take me hack /' echoes Betha in a tone of 
 horror, but the next moment she has closed 
 her teeth about her upper lip, and resolved 
 that she will betray no more of her feelings to 
 one who has evidently lost the power to 
 sympathise with them. ^ Very good, Aunt 
 Janie/ she adds presently, ^ I will think over 
 what you have said, and try to act upon it. 
 Good-night. Please leave me to myself, that 
 I may consider what is the best thing for me 
 to do.' 
 
 * But of course, my dear child/ continues 
 Aunt Janie, already repenting her words, 
 ' this house is your home as long as ever you 
 wish to remain in it. Don't think I want to 
 get rid of you, my darling. You know I 
 have always said that I look upon you as a 
 sacred legacy from my beloved sister, and it 
 is only because I am so afraid that your 
 future interests may be endangered, that I
 
 96 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 even hint at such a thing as a reconciUation 
 between yourself and your dear papa.' 
 
 But Aunt Janie's repentance comes a little 
 too late. Betha takes it for what it is worth, 
 and receives it accordingly. 
 
 *Yes, yes,' she murmurs faintly, as she 
 turns her head on one side, so as to avoid her 
 aunt's caress. She understands it all now. 
 
 ' That inhuman monster,' Major Durant, is 
 transformed into her ' dear papa,' and Aunt 
 Janie, who swore she should never return to 
 Northallerton Crescent, has become so anxious 
 concerninof her future interests that she 
 thinks it is her duty to go and ask to be taken 
 back again. 
 
 ' Well, perhaps it is my duty,' thinks 
 Betha to herself, as Aunt Janie, having made 
 a feeble, tearful attempt to eat her own 
 words, and found her efforts received with 
 incredulity, has thought it as w^ell to retreat 
 from the field of action ; * it will be a bitter 
 pill to swallow, and I feel as if I would 
 rather sweep a crossing than go through wdth
 
 * For HijacintKs Sake.' 97 
 
 it; but for Hyacinth's sake, and for what 
 darling mother said about her, I think I can 
 do it — at all events I will try. And if any- 
 thing should happen to prevent it — if papa 
 should hold to his determination not to re- 
 ceive me again — why, then I will earn my 
 bread by teaching, or sewing, or any means, 
 sooner than return here. I could have lived 
 with Aunt Janie for ever, so long as I 
 believed she loved me ; but now — now it is 
 very different,' thinks Betha, with proud, in- 
 dignant tears flashing in her lovely grey eyes. 
 She says if her father should hold to his 
 determination ; but in her own heart she has 
 little doubt of the issue of her appeal. She 
 appreciates how exquisitely painful it will be 
 for her to make it ; how humbling to her 
 pride ; what a sacrilegious trampling down of 
 all her most sacred memories ! She knows 
 that if she returns to Northallerton Crescent, 
 she will have daily to see and hear things 
 that will wound and torture her ; but she says 
 she can do it and bear it, and she ivill do it 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 VS My Sister the Actress. 
 
 and bear it, for Hyacinth's sake. But that 
 Major Durant should seriously reject her 
 overtures for a reconciHation does not enter 
 into her calculations. A father determinately 
 stand out against his own child ! Why, the 
 thing is almost an anomaly ! for what do we 
 not forgive our children ? Not only for 
 youthful faults, impetuous answers, and care- 
 less disobedience, but for many graver things ; 
 for ingratitude, rebellion, forgetfulness, or even 
 for deceit or robbery. There is nothing for 
 which a parent finds it impossible to pardon 
 his child, till Death closes the account of love 
 between them. 
 
 But many fathers have so refused to for- 
 give the errors of their offspring. No, not 
 fatherSy but brutes ! Brutes not worthy the 
 name of men or parents ! And with all 
 Betha's experience of Major Durant's unkind 
 treatment of her mother, she is not prepared 
 to believe he will carry his resentment 
 beyond her grave. She is still very young, 
 poor child ; she has seen but little of the world
 
 'For Hycwintlis Sake' 90 
 
 and its ways, and she knows nothing of how 
 passion will influence a man to act against his 
 best interests. She dresses herself with 
 trembling fingers the next morning, and pre- 
 pares to find her way back to Northallerton 
 Crescent. She does not tell Mrs. Chapman 
 of the mission on which she is bound ; Aunt 
 Janie may think she is going for her usual 
 morning walk, for a barrier has risen up 
 between the two since the evening before, 
 although the elder woman does her best to 
 cover it by honeyed smiles and kisses. 
 
 The weather is still very keen and frosty ; 
 but it is not cold enough to make Betha 
 shiver as she does under her fur, as she comes 
 in view of the familiar row of houses. A 
 dozen times she paces backwards and forwards 
 in front of the hall-door before she can 
 summon up the courage to ring the bell, in 
 hopes perhaps of seeing a face at the window 
 that shall nod or smile or beckon to her and 
 give her the encouragement she needs to 
 enter. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 But there is no sign of any living creature 
 about the place, and at last the girl, calling 
 up all her resolution, runs up the steps and 
 demands admittance. A stranger opens the 
 door to her, and she is just about to inquire 
 for her father, when she catches sight of 
 Hyacinth in the hall ; Hyacinth, the imp 
 who will always hang about the banisters 
 and stairs against all orders to the contrary. 
 The appearance of her little sister opens the 
 floodofates of Betha's emotion. Her first 
 thouofht is, how she could ever have remained 
 away from her so long. 
 
 ' Cinthy ! Cinthy darling I' she cries 
 lovingly, as she presses forward to clasp her 
 in her arms. 
 
 But the child draws backward — hardly 
 seeminof to recosfnise her sister in those 
 black robes, and with so pale and thin a 
 face. 
 
 * Are you Betha V she inquires Avonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 * Yes, darling I your own sister Betha.
 
 'For HyacintJis Sake,' 101 
 
 Don't you know me, Cinthy? Oh, I have 
 so longed and longed to see you !' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I know you of course,' says 
 Miss Pert ; ' but I mustn't speak to you. 
 My papa has expressly forbidden it. He 
 says we are never to speak to each other 
 again — never !' 
 
 ' He cannot be so cruel !' exclaims Betha, 
 impetuously. ' He w^ould not prevent my 
 speaking to my own mother's child ! Dear, 
 dear mother, you haven't forgotten her yet, 
 have you, Cinthy ? You haven't forgotten 
 our blessed mother in heaven, who is 
 thinking of you, and loving you every day V 
 
 * Of course I have not forgotten her, 
 Betha. How could I, in only three months V 
 replies the young lady, with an assumption 
 of superiority. * Bentham took me to see 
 her grave several times. But oh, Betha, 
 I've got such a lovely new doll I I wish 
 I could show it you !' 
 
 ' So you shall, darling. Where is dear 
 old Bentham?' says Betha, forgetting every-
 
 102 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 thing but that she is amongst familiar faces 
 again. 
 
 'Here I am, my dear Miss Betha!' ex- 
 claims the nurse, coming downstairs, and 
 thro wins: her arms about Betha's neck. *I 
 heard your voice right up to the nursery — it's 
 just the moral of your blessed mamma's : I 
 was sure it could be no one but you. But 
 oh, my dear, what brings you here ? Suppose 
 the major should come home and find you ? 
 Aren't you afraid to risk it V 
 
 * No, dear nurse ! No I I have come for 
 the express purpose of speaking to him ; and 
 if he is out, I shall wait till he returns. I 
 have come to tell him I will return home 
 again, Bentham, and to ask him to let things 
 be as they were before. Oh, I can't think 
 how it is I have stayed away so long from 
 you and Cinthy !' 
 
 * Poor dear,' says Bentham, sympathisingly, 
 * you've been nearly off your head, I dare 
 say, with your trouble. And I'd have been 
 over to see you, Miss Betha, but he wouldn't
 
 ^ For HyacinifiH Sake.' 103 
 
 let me. The major's laid his commands upon 
 every one of us^ as we wasn't ever to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 'But it will be all rio^ht agrain now, nurse.' 
 
 ' I hope it will, my dear, I'm sure, for 
 we've had a sad time of it. And I've missed 
 you sorely, Miss Betha, that I have.' 
 
 ' And I wanted you to see my doll,' cries 
 Hyacinth ; ^ it's such a beauty, with blue 
 eyes, and yellow hair, and a red satin frock. 
 Mrs. Wallerton brouo^ht it from Paris with 
 her. And Mrs. Wallerton buys me my 
 dresses now, and my hats, and I'm going to 
 live with her some day. Papa says so !' 
 
 ' Whatf exclaims Betha, with one hand 
 pressed upon her heart. 
 
 * Lor ! my dear, if you're going to start 
 like that every time Mrs. Wallerton is 
 named in this house, you had better bide 
 where you are,' says the servant. ' Why, she 
 rules the roost here, and orders me and Miss 
 Cinthy about like anything.' 
 
 * But she is very kind,' interposes Cinthy,
 
 104 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 eagerly ; ' she gave me my doll, and lots of 
 sugar-plums, and I like her, awfully !' 
 
 Betha draws away from her little sister 
 with a sudden pang. It is true, then ! Her 
 suspicions are correct. Mrs. Wallerton wdll 
 doubtless, before long, rule altogether at 
 Northallerton Crescent ! Will she ever be 
 able to bear it ? 
 
 The question is soon answered. At that 
 moment the latch-key is turned in the 
 door, and Major Durant enters the hall. 
 Betha turns to confront her father. As he 
 recognises her, he frowns deeply, and ad- 
 dresses Bentham. 
 
 * What is this ? Have I not given you 
 express orders that this — this person is not 
 to be admitted within my walls V 
 
 ' Papa, papa ! it is I — it is Betha.' 
 
 But Major Durant takes no notice of the 
 appeal. 
 
 ' What do you mean by disobeying me V 
 he shouts to Bentham. 
 
 ^ I didn't let Miss Durant in, sir ! I
 
 'For Hyacintlis Sake' 105 
 
 heard her talking to Miss Hyacinth in the 
 hall, and I just came down to listen, not five 
 minutes ago. I didn't think there could be 
 any harm in that, sir.' 
 
 ' My orders to you were, that no com- 
 munication of any sort was to take place 
 between yourself and Miss Hyacinth and 
 this — this j)erson I under penalty of receiv- 
 ing your dismissal from my service. You 
 have disobeyed me, and you must go. Take 
 your month's warning from this date !' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! pray don't send me away ! 
 Think how long I have been in your service 
 — with these two dear children from their 
 birth, and with the poor mistress through all 
 her illness. I have served you faithfully 
 for many years, sir ! Pray don't part me 
 from Miss Cinthy now ; it'll just go to break 
 my heart.' 
 
 ' You have wilfully disobeyed me, and you 
 must leave. Let us have no more words on 
 the subject !' replies Major Durant, prepar- 
 ing to pass into the dining-room.
 
 106 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * Father ! are you not going to speak to 
 me T exclaims Betha, as she places herself in 
 his way. 
 
 ' No ! I have nothing to say to you. The 
 sooner you return to your aunt's house the 
 better !' 
 
 * Oh, papa ! I cannot return there — not to 
 live ! I came here to-day to ask you to let 
 me come home again ! I dare say I was 
 wrong and hasty to act as I did, but I was 
 in great trouble and I hardly knew what to 
 do or say ! I loved my mother very very 
 dearly, papa ! You know that, and you will 
 not count it to me as a fault, I am sure !' 
 
 If Betha thinks the allusion to her mother 
 will soften her father's heart towards her, 
 she is very much mistaken, for with it comes 
 the remembrance of how she slighted Mrs. 
 Wallerton for that mother's sake. And 
 she looks too much like the dead woman as 
 she stands there, wdth pallid cheeks and 
 swollen eyes and quivering lips — too much as 
 she used to appear when she pleaded against
 
 'For Hyacinth's Sake.' 107 
 
 her husband's cruelty in preferring her false 
 and smooth-tongued friend to herself. 
 
 When a man is attempting to stamp out 
 such unpleasant recollections by drinking 
 deep at the fountain of a new love, he does 
 not care to have a living reminder of his 
 frailty, as it were, constantly before him ; 
 and as his fair-haired daughter raises her 
 mother s eyes to his face and pleads to him 
 in her mother's voice, he positively hates her. 
 
 ' I never blamed you for loving your late 
 mother,' he answers coldly ; ' I blamed you 
 for the method you took of showing that 
 love. However, it is futile to discuss the 
 subject. You have chosen your lot, and you 
 must abide by it !' 
 
 ' But, papa ! surely you will not refuse to 
 receive me again, if I am willing to come I 
 I will try and do my duty, papa ! I will say 
 that I am sorry for what has occurred, and I 
 will be as good a daughter to you as I 
 possibly can, for my dear mother's sake.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged for all your good in-
 
 108 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 tentions, but as far as I am concerned they 
 are useless. Your conduct has closed these 
 doors against you for ever.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that we are never 
 to be reconciled ao^ain V cries Betha ao^hast 
 as a true sense of the position she has 
 placed herself in dawns upon her mind. 
 * But I have nowhere to go, papa ! Aunt 
 Janie is tired of keeping me ; and if you turn 
 me out of doors again, I must beg in the 
 streets, or starve.' 
 
 Major Durant's face assumes an expression 
 of malicious triumph. 
 
 ^ I foresaw what all your fine independent 
 speeches would result in,' he says, with a 
 fiendish smile, ' but I am not to be taken in 
 by them a second time. You have received 
 a first-rate education, and if Mrs. Chapman 
 refuses to keep you in idleness any longer, 
 you had better turn it to some account. You 
 are a ivoman, remember — sixteen on your 
 last birthday, and amenable to the discipline 
 of no one. If the law compels me to allow
 
 * For HyacintJis Sahe.^ 109 
 
 you a pittance I will do so, but not in this 
 house nor under any roof that shelters me 
 and my belongings. You have chosen to 
 leave it once of your own accord, you will 
 be good enough to leave it now on my 
 orders ; and if you attempt to enter it again, I 
 shall put the matter into the hands of the law !' 
 All the pride in Elizabeth Durant's nature 
 is boiling on the surface. Her father's 
 words and manner have decided her. She 
 would not stoop to ask another favour at his 
 hands now, if she had to die without it. 
 
 * You are right !' she answers slowly, and 
 with a look of ineffable scorn ; ^ the same 
 roof can never shelter you and me again. I 
 can support myself, papa ! — and I will. And 
 if I fail, I will die sooner than eat a crust of 
 bread that has been paid for with your 
 money. Good-bye, darling Cinthy ! Don't 
 forget poor Betha, and mother in heaven; 
 and remember we shall all meet there some 
 day soon !' 
 
 * I wish you wouldn't make me cry ! It's
 
 110 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 disagreeable of you,' says Cinthy, whining. 
 * And don't go,Betha, till you've seen my doll!' 
 
 ' Good-bye, dear old Bentham ! Take 
 double care of Cinthy, for T shall nev^er be a 
 trouble to you again !' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear blessed child, let me kiss 
 you once more before you go !' 
 
 ' If you presume to fly in my face by such 
 an action,' exclaims Major Durant, fiercely, 
 *you shall not even remain here till your 
 month is up, but leave the house at the same 
 moment as herself!' 
 
 * Bentham ! you must not — you shall not !' 
 cries Betha, as she keeps off the old servant 
 with one hand. ' No one must suffer for 
 this business but myself. I am going, papa ; 
 there is no need to thrust me from your doors, 
 and I will never re-enter them, until you ask 
 me to do so.' 
 
 ' Then you will stay out of them for ever,' 
 says the major, as the hall-door slams on the 
 fiirure of his eldest child.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 'l AVILL ALWAYS BE YOUR FRIEND.' 
 
 Mr. Robert Frere is standing in the little 
 drawing-room of Mrs. Chapman's house, 
 gazing thoughtfully from the window, and 
 wondering when the ladies will return. He 
 arrived there, half an hour before, with his 
 hands full of Russian violets, very anxious 
 to make amends for the awkwardness which 
 had broken up the party on the previous 
 evening — and still more anxious (if the truth 
 must be told) to see Betha again, and learn 
 from her manner if she bears him any ill- 
 will for that unlucky lapsus linguce that 
 drove her from the room. But Aunt Janie 
 and Blanche left the house soon after Betha,
 
 112 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 and Bobby's only alternative is to lounge 
 about on chair after chair in the small 
 drawing-room, until one or all of them shall 
 see fit to return. As he does so, if he looks 
 eminently ugly, he also looks eminently 
 gentlemanly. 
 
 Lady Frere would resent the idea of his 
 even looking ugly. Large noses and mouths 
 have been the leading characteristics of the 
 Freres for generations past, and Bobby 
 would scarcely be recognised by his grand- 
 mother unless he perpetuated the family 
 features with the family blood. She is as 
 proud of one as of the other. She thinks 
 there are no men equal to the Freres, and 
 no women really worthy of being mated with 
 them. 
 
 Bobby, though strictly reared in the faith 
 of his forefathers, and rather proud of his 
 big nose, perhaps as a mark of his blood, still 
 credits himself with all the ugliness he pos- 
 sesses, and is very humble on the score of 
 his own attractions. He is a young man,
 
 'I Will Aliuays Be Your Friend: 113 
 
 now two or three and twenty, but he is still 
 as awkward and uncouth as when he was 
 sixteen, and just as apt to upset a table of 
 ornaments, or spill a ciip of tea over a lady's 
 dress, as he was then. Of good birth and 
 position, with plenty of money to throw 
 about, it is not likely that his big nose has 
 stood in the way of his fortunes with the fair 
 sex ; but since he recovered from his calf- 
 love, Bobby Frere has never seen any girl 
 who really enchained his interest, until he 
 met with Elizabeth Durant. He is clever 
 and practical, as most ugly men are, and there 
 is somethino' in the flashes he has caus^ht of 
 Betha's spirit that have appealed to his 
 own. 
 
 He has the power to read beneath the girl's 
 half-awakened intellect, a genius that rightly 
 directed may stir the world ; and he has taken 
 it into his head that he has a divine mission 
 to encourage and direct it. In those quiet 
 evenings they have spent together at Mrs. 
 Chapman'S; he has discovered how much 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Betha has both read and retained ; how 
 many bright clever thoughts pass through 
 her active brain ; how imitative she is ; how 
 witty, how quick at repartee. It is only a 
 sentence here and there dropped in general 
 conversation that has led him to the convic- 
 tion ; and it is only a glance here and there, 
 sometimes pathetic and sometimes gay, that 
 has made him believe that Betha is not only 
 the cleverest but the most charming girl he 
 has ever seen. 
 
 How astonished will be the forlorn young 
 heart and aching breast that are hurrying 
 towards him as he ruminated to learn such 
 an astounding truth. 
 
 Mr. Frere hears the handle of the front 
 door turn, and immediately rises to receive 
 his coming hostess. But Mrs. Chapman 
 does not appear. A pale face is thrust 
 inside the drawing-room door instead, and 
 instantly withdrawn again, but not before he 
 has caught sight of it. 
 
 * Miss Durant !' he exclaims joyfully ; and
 
 'I Will Always Be Your Friend.' 115 
 
 then Betha is compelled to enter and be 
 ordinarily polite to him. 
 
 * How do you do, Mr. Frere ? I thought 
 Aunt Janie was here. Have you been long 
 alone V 
 
 ' No — yes — that is, about half an hour ; 
 but I would have waited the whole day for 
 the pleasure of seeing you. Do you feel the 
 cold, Miss Durant '? you are looking so pale 
 — I thought it was thawing this morning, as 
 I walked over here.' 
 
 ' I think it is thawing,' repHes Betha, as 
 she bends over the fire. ' Oh, what lovely 
 violets !' 
 
 (Is there a w^oman in the world who can 
 resist flowers ?) 
 
 ' I brought them for you. Will you do 
 me the honour of accepting them V says 
 Bobby Frere w-ith much needless stammer- 
 ing, as he thrusts the bouquet into her hands. 
 
 ' For me ! did you really ? How very, very 
 kind of you I' replies Betha, gratefully ; but 
 there is no ring of pleasure in her voice.
 
 116 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 '■ Yes, I was so anxious to see you, Miss 
 Durant, and apologise for my stupid blunder 
 last evening. I didn't know, of course — I 
 had not heard, you see — and — and (don't 
 be angry with me for mentioning it again) ; 
 but I would have cut off my right hand 
 sooner than give you pain — indeed I would.' 
 
 ^ It is nothing ! Pray, say no more about 
 it, Mr. Frere,' replies Betha, quickly. ' I 
 was foolish and thoughtless ; but I have got 
 over that now.' 
 
 She seems so unlike the girl who flew out 
 of the room last night with flashing e3''e3 and 
 crimsoned cheeks, that Mr. Frere can only 
 stare at her, and wonder what can have hap- 
 pened between that time and this, to render 
 her so self-possessed and calm. 
 
 * Then I may consider myself forgiven X he 
 says. 
 
 * Quite forgiven. The subject is not one 
 I should choose, but I will never resent the 
 mention of it again.' 
 
 'Ah, Miss Durant, hovr o-ood you are f
 
 'I Will Always Be Your Friend: 117 
 
 You make me bold enough to say, how glad 
 I should be if I could render you any assist- 
 ance. If there were only one thing in which 
 I could help you, or be of service to you, I 
 should be so very, very happy !' 
 
 ' Perhaps you can help me,' says Betha, 
 with her eyes fixed dreamily upon the 
 fire. 
 
 ' Tell me in what way.' 
 
 ' Why, you are rich, Aunt Janie says, and 
 have plenty of friends ; and I want so much 
 to make money, Mr. Frere. Get me some- 
 thing to do — some work — some employment, 
 and it will be the greatest favour you could 
 show me.' 
 
 * Work — employment !' echoes Bobby ; 
 ' you are laughing at me, Miss Durant.' 
 
 It appears so incredible to those who hav« 
 been accustomed to every luxury from their 
 birth that young people — and especially 
 young women — should be called upon to 
 labour for their daily bread. 
 
 ' I am not laughing,' replies Betha, gravely;
 
 118 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' I have no home, and I am going to work 
 for my living/ 
 
 * No home ! when you live here with Mrs. 
 Chapman !' 
 
 * Oh no ! I don't/ rejoins the girl, quickly ; 
 ' I am only staying here on a visit, and I 
 shall soon be gone.' 
 
 'But your father. Major Durant — you 
 said I might mention him, you know, Betha 
 — what would he say to the idea of your 
 taking up employment like any common 
 person V 
 
 ^ My father, Major Durant,' repeats Betha, 
 with an hysterical laugh. ^ It is he that 
 told me to do it. I have just come from 
 him, Mr. Frere, and he turned me out of 
 his house and told me I might beg or starve 
 before he would admit me there again. Oh, 
 I ought not to tell you of these things, per- 
 haps, but all the world will know it soon. 
 And so you see, I must work — I must get 
 some honest work to do ; and if you can tell 
 me of any plan b}^ which I can turn what
 
 */ Will Always Be Your FrieucV 119 
 
 knowledge I have to account, I shall be so 
 very grateful to you !' 
 
 But Mr. Frere can only stand there silent 
 and aghast at the reception of her news. 
 Those hands to work — that golden-crowned 
 head to be bowed over her daily toil — those 
 sweet grey eyes to be dimmed by midnight 
 study ! Oh, the thought alone is sacrilege ! 
 The girl must either have made some hideous 
 mistake, or the father been playing on her 
 feelinofs with a view to testing: her couragfe 
 and determination. 
 
 * Good heavens !' he murmurs ; ' it cannot 
 be true.' 
 
 * But it is true, Mr. Frere — and please 
 don't begin to pity me, because I must think 
 and act for myself, and there will be plenty 
 of time for sentiment afterwards.' Then she 
 turns and looks at him, and the childishness 
 of her nature appeals to the youth of his. 
 The elder people are all against her ; perhaps 
 this boy will accept her confidence and under- 
 stand her feelings and respect them. ' It is
 
 120 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 all on account of mother, you know,' she 
 whispers, with a great sob in her throat. ' I 
 cannot forget her, and — and — papa can, and 
 so it is best w^e should not live together. 
 Don't ask me any more, please, but if you 
 can help me I shall think you are a true 
 friend, and I shall never forget it.' 
 
 ' I could live and die for you I' cries Bobby 
 Frere, impulsively ; and then the great secret 
 comes out : ^ Be tha, darling ! let me live for you. 
 I know we are both very young, and perhaps 
 the pater would want us to wait for a little — 
 at least, I don't think the pater w^ould, but 
 grandmamma's so very particular, and she 
 leads him by the nose. Anyway, you could 
 stay here with your aunt until they gave 
 their consent ; and I'm such an idle fellow, 
 you know, I could see you as often as ever 
 I liked, and ' 
 
 * Stay here ! stay here /' repeats Betha, in 
 a bewildered manner; 'but I have just told 
 you I must go, Mr. Frere. I am going out 
 into the world to make my own living —
 
 'I Will Always Be Your Friend: 121 
 
 there is nothing to be done by staying 
 here !' 
 
 ' You don^t understand me, darling — I 
 mean that you should only remain here until 
 -we are married.' 
 
 ^ Married /' says Betha — ' you and I 
 married /' 
 
 She is a Avoman in many things, but she 
 is a perfect child in this. Not only has she 
 been so securely guarded beneath her 
 mother's wing that no man has ever ap- 
 proached her near enough to make such a 
 suggestion, but she has lived so much at 
 home in the companionship of Mrs. Durant 
 and her little sister, that she has not been in 
 the habit of discussing the subject even with 
 her female friends. And as to imagining it 
 could be proposed to her so soon, and from 
 the lips of Mr. Frere — the idea frightens as 
 much as it surprises her. 
 
 ' Why not ?' demands Bobby, gaining 
 couraQ:e to draw nearer and take her hand in 
 his. * If you will promise to be my wife,
 
 122 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Betha, all your troubles will be over, and 
 you need never talk again about such a 
 dreadful thing as working for your liveli- 
 hood.' 
 
 But Betha wrenches her hand out of his, 
 and retreats to the further end of the hearth- 
 rug with a face of crimson. 
 
 * Oh, no, no ! you mustn't talk to me like 
 that — you have made a great mistake. You 
 are altogether wrong !' she exclaims vehe- 
 mently. 
 
 ' Don't you love me,' cries Bobby — ' not a 
 little bit V 
 
 * Not the least bit ! I never did, and I 
 never shall. Oh, I wish I had never told 
 you anything if it is to end like this !' 
 
 * Don't say that, Betha, because it pains 
 me so. I wanted to help you — indeed I did : 
 but all of a sudden it flashed upon my mind 
 how much I love you — and I thought you 
 might consent to be my wife, instead. I 
 know I'm an ugly fellow, and have very little 
 to recommend me, but I have never loved
 
 '/ Will Always Be Your Friend: 123 
 
 anybody before, Betha, and I shall never 
 love anybody again — at least, not in that 
 way r 
 
 ' Oh, why did you say anything about the 
 other thing,' says Betha, relenting at the 
 pathetic appeal of those soft brown eyes, 
 * and when I so much want a friend V 
 
 * Let me be your friend still ! If you are 
 really bent upon this plan I will go to the 
 Duchess of Somerton and Lady Milverton, 
 and see if they can think of some work that 
 is fit for you to do. I know lots of old 
 ladies who would be delighted to help you !' 
 
 'No, no !' says Betha, with a mournful 
 shake of the head ; ' I think you had better 
 leave it alone, Mr. Frere. I must work, but 
 I do not wish to get mixed up with all those 
 grand people, who will know papa's name 
 and find out my whole history !' 
 
 The pride of blood is rising in Betha again, 
 and she regrets she has ever mentioned the 
 matter to her companion. 
 
 * I must go now,' she says presently, for
 
 124 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 she is longing to get away from the pleading 
 look he keeps fixed upon her, 'but I dare say 
 Aunt Janie and Blanche will soon be home. 
 Good-bye, Mr. Frere.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' he says hoarsely, as he holds 
 the hand she tenders him ; * and is there no 
 hope, Betha V 
 
 ' I will always be your friend,' replies the 
 girl gravely, as she turns from him and quits 
 the room.
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 I AM BETTER NOW. 
 
 Betha runs up to her own room and remains 
 there in the cold, half frightened and 
 bewildered. There is none of the elation 
 about her that most young girls feel on first 
 receiving a proposal of marriage. She thinks 
 a fresh misfortune has occurred to her, and 
 wonders if she is to blame, or what she has 
 done to bring about so unfortunate a mistake 
 on Mr. Frere's part. She tries to find out if 
 the error is on her side, and if that great 
 mysterious thing called love has really come 
 upon her unawares ; and to that end pictures 
 herself walking to church with Bobby Frere, 
 and looking up at his uncouth face and
 
 126 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 figure, whilst a crowd of spectators are gazing 
 at them. And, young as she is, the girl 
 knows by the shudder that comes over her at 
 the mere idea, that the young man has placed 
 a gulf between them by what he has said 
 that day, that no time perhaps will have the 
 power to bridge over. She listens to his 
 heavy step pacing the little room below for 
 some minutes after she has left it, and then 
 she hears him go downstairs and pass out 
 into the road, slamming the hall-door after 
 him. That sound is the greatest relief Betha 
 can experience, and dressed in her walking- 
 things, she sits upon her bed trying to think 
 to whom she can next apply for assistance in 
 her undertaking. As she does so, the 
 thought of Miss Denny comes into her mind. 
 The lady superintendent of Princess College 
 has considered Miss Durant's energy and 
 determination of character to be less 
 ' elegant ' than her own lowered eyelids and 
 minced words approve of; but, at the same 
 time, she has always acknowledged her ability
 
 'I Am Better Now.' 127 
 
 and lamented it v/as to be thrown away in 
 private life. Betha thinks Miss Denny 
 would not refuse to give her a trial as a pupil 
 teacher perhaps, or to assist with the junior 
 classes for lano^uao^es and elocution. The 
 idea is as hateful to the girl as it can possibly 
 be — she knows that she would rather scrub 
 floors than drum accent, and emphasis, and 
 gesture into soulless ears, but the instinct of 
 race is strong in her, and she feels that she 
 must not attempt physical work until she 
 has failed with the intellectual. She is 
 roused from her reverie by the voices of her 
 aunt and cousin as they toil up the narrow 
 staircase to their bedroom, which is next to 
 hers. 
 
 ' Mamma ! I think it is disgraceful,' says 
 Blanche, petulantly ; * Mary says she was for 
 a whole hour cooped up with Bobby Frere in 
 the drawing-room. She is under your care 
 now, and you ought to teach her better !' 
 
 ' I begin to wish she had never been under 
 my care/ sighs Aunt Janie ; ^ what with
 
 128 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 your disagreements and Major Durant's ob- 
 duracy and the way people talk, I'm pretty 
 nearly sick of the whole affair. And she's 
 such an expense, too. The bills have been 
 half asrain as much since she entered the 
 house !' 
 
 * Of course they have I Mary takes advan- 
 tage of there being an extra mouth to eat 
 double on her own account, and she is always 
 complaining of the increased trouble into the 
 bargain. But, mamma, you must speak to 
 Betha about Bobby Frere. I won't have her 
 take my friends away in that fashion. I've 
 seen her trying to do it for weeks past.' 
 
 * Oh dear ! oh dear !' laments Mrs. Chap- 
 man, weakly ; ^ I do wish I could see an end 
 to it. I little thought when I sheltered her 
 from her father's anger what I was bringing 
 on myself If nothing happens during the 
 next few days, I must really go and speak to 
 Major'Durant on the subject.' 
 
 Betha's indignation, as she overhears this 
 conversation, reaches boiling-point. Her
 
 'I Am JBetter Now.' 129 
 
 impulse is to rush out upon the landing and 
 tell her cousin and her aunt that, very far 
 from wishing to take their friend Mr. Frere 
 from them, she has just refused his overtures 
 of a much more tender nature. But her in- 
 born delicacy, joined to a recollection of the 
 pleading look in those soft brown eyes, 
 prevents Betha from defending herself at his 
 expense. Aunt Janie and Blanche must 
 think what they choose : their words have 
 only made her more determined to take the 
 first opportunity of seeing Miss Denny, and 
 try to relieve them of her unwelcome pre- 
 sence. 
 
 But at that juncture a loud double knock 
 is heard, and in another minute Mary taps at 
 Betha's door to say that Miss Kemyss is 
 waiting below to see her. 
 
 Betha runs down at once to greet her 
 friend. 
 
 Mattie Kemyss has been a constant visitor 
 at Mrs. Chapman's house during Betha's 
 sojourn there, and has more than once 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 pressed her old schoolfellow to pay her a 
 lengthened visit. Mattie is the only daughter 
 of a rich Avidower, who indulges her in every 
 whim, so long as she allows him to pursue his 
 own pleasures unmolested, so that the beauti- 
 ful girl is ostensibly her own mistress, and 
 now that she has given up the Princess 
 Colleo'e, holds hiorh revels at Albert Gate. 
 
 ' Dear, darling Betha ! I am so delighted 
 to see you,' she cries, in her pretty, silly 
 enthusiasm, as she devours her friend with 
 kisses ; ' I have been dying to come over for 
 the last week, but I had such a horrid cold 
 the doctor wouldn't hear of my going out. 
 But I've come to steal you away, Betha. 
 Now, no excuses, for I won't take any ; 
 we've got something going on at home, and 
 we can't possibly do without you !' 
 ' What is it, dear Mattie V 
 * Well, it wiU be my birthday on the 3rd 
 of April, and Conrad Levison (that's the 
 fellow I am engaged to, you know) has set 
 his heart upon our getting up some private
 
 'I Am Better Now.' 131 
 
 theatricals or tableaux vivants, or something 
 of that sort, and you must come and arrange 
 them for us and teach us all our parts/ 
 
 ' I, Mattie V saj^s Betha, with surprise ; 
 ^ but what do I know about theatricals V 
 
 ' Oh, my dear child ! don't talk such non- 
 sense. Just think of the heaps of plays you 
 used to spout from at college, and Mr. 
 Lillingstone always declared you were a born 
 actress. I know you can put us right in the ex- 
 pression and feature and everything. Besides 
 which/ continues Mattie, caressingl}', * you 
 must come, for my sake. You can't think 
 how I long to have you to stay with me, 
 Betha. I am so lonely in that big house, 
 with papa and my brothers always away. 
 Why, sometimes I hardly see them for days 
 together. And papa is so anxious for you to 
 come, too. See ! I have brought you a note 
 from him, and he says if you will consent to 
 stay a month or two with me, you will place 
 him under the greatest oblio^ation.' 
 
 A month or two at Albert Gate ! An im- 
 
 0—2
 
 132 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 mediate release from the grudging hospi- 
 tality of Aunt Janie, and time to think over 
 and mature her own plans. The offer is too 
 good to be rejected. Betha accepts it 
 eagerly. 
 
 ^ Oh, Mattie, it is very good of you to 
 Vi^ant me, and I should like to come. It will 
 seem like the old days to be talking to you 
 again. And I have much to tell you, dear — 
 much that will surprise and shock you, 
 perhaps, for I — I am not very happy here.* 
 
 * My poor darling !' cries the affectionate 
 Mattie, as she throws her arms about 
 Betha ; * don't think or speak of it again. 
 Let us go at once. My carriage is waiting 
 at the door, and I told papa that I should, if 
 possible, take you back with me.' 
 
 ' You must give me time to tell my aunt,* 
 replies Betha, as she leaves the apartment. 
 The next minute she is standing on the 
 threshold of Mrs. Chapman's room. 
 
 'Aunt Janie ! Mr. Kemyss has been kind 
 enouo^h to send me an invitation to stay with
 
 'I Am Better Now: 133 
 
 Mattie for a few weeks, and I am going 
 back with her at once.' 
 
 There is a new look in Betha's face that 
 Aunt Janie does not quite like, and she 
 affects to be much astonished at her news. 
 
 ' Going back with Miss Kemyss at once ! 
 Well, really, Betha, I think, considering the 
 hospitality you have received under my roof, 
 that you might have paid me the compliment 
 of consulting my wishes first.' 
 
 ' I will not go unless you wish me to do 
 so, Aunt Janie ; but from what you said last 
 night, I thought it would be rather a relief to 
 you than otherwise.' 
 
 Mrs. Chapman grows very red. 
 
 ' Of course I do not wish to deprive you 
 of any enjoyment, my dear, but your 
 announcement is rather sudden. What do 
 you wish done about your boxes V 
 
 * Will you be so good as to send them after 
 me to Albert Gate — all of them, please, 
 Aunt Janie, as my visit may be a long one.' 
 
 ^ One would really think you intended run-
 
 134 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ning away from us for good/ says Aunt 
 Janie, nervously. 
 
 The girl does not answer, but she looks her 
 in the face, quietly, earnestly, fully, and the 
 pale blue eyes sink before the grey ones. 
 
 ' Whatever may be in the future, Aunt 
 Janie, I thank you very much for what is 
 past. I dare say I have been a somewhat 
 troublesome visitor. A great grief is so apt 
 to make one selfish ; but I am getting better 
 now, and I mean to work more and occupy 
 my mind. Good-bye ! I shall write to you 
 often, and tell you what I am doing ; and I 
 shall always feel very grateful to you for the 
 kindness you have shown me, and soriy that 
 I should have brought any worry or expense 
 upon you.' 
 
 * h, my darling child ! whoever said that 
 you were any worry or expense to me V re- 
 plies Aunt Janie, weeping. ' The few words 
 I let drop last night were only intended for 
 your good.' 
 
 She guesses now that the girl does not
 
 'I Am Better Now' 135 
 
 mean to return to her, and though it is the 
 end she has been hoping for, she is too weak- 
 minded to rejoice that it has come. 
 
 * I beheve that — or I beheve that you be- 
 lieve it,' says truthful Betha ; * but let us 
 never think or speak of it again. Good-bye 
 to you both. When I have been a few days 
 in Albert Gate I shall be better able to write 
 and tell you all I think and feel than I am 
 to sav it.' And in a few minutes she is roll- 
 ing away with Mattie Kemyss to her new 
 abode. 
 
 Betha has not been happy whilst with 
 Mrs. Chapman. During the last few days 
 she has been wounded and outraged. Still, 
 she cannot help feeling, as she drives from 
 Earl's Court, that the last mooring has been 
 cut, to send her little boat adrift on the path- 
 less sea of life.
 
 CHAPTEK X. 
 
 'it is impossible!' 
 
 Mr. Kemyss is a merchant, and a Jew, 
 though it is very seldom he can be brought 
 to acknowledge the fact. Both he and his 
 children bear the traces in their features of 
 Hebraic origin — shown forth in the lovely 
 Mattie only by the languid softness of her 
 dark eyes, and the delicate shape of her 
 aquiline nose — but they have all been 
 brought up to ignore the circumstance. 
 They associate with the men and women of 
 their own nation, Mr. Conrad Levison, to 
 whom Miss Kemyss is engaged to be mar- 
 ried, being one of the richest and best- 
 known diamond -merchants in the City. But
 
 'It is Impossible!' 137 
 
 they do not attend the Synagogue, nor per- 
 form any of the rites of their supposed reli- 
 gion. Mr. Keinyss, indeed, professes (if he 
 professes anything) to be a Freethinker. 
 His sons, who are both enofaijed in the same 
 trade with himself, are as careless as most 
 young men of the present day ; and the 
 daughter of the house is allowed to do 
 exactly as she chooses in all things, no limit 
 being placed on her expenditure, nor super- 
 vision directed to her mind — the worst pos- 
 sible training for a young, heedless creature, 
 with extraordinary beauty, an affectionate 
 heart, and a very small amount of brains. 
 
 The house at Albert Gate is large, and 
 handsomely furnished, replete with every 
 luxury, and provided with an ample retinue 
 of servants. As the two girls leave the car- 
 riage and pass into the library, their feet 
 sink into a velvet-pile carpet, their senses are 
 saluted by the odours of choice flowers, and 
 their glances fail on w alls covered with some 
 of the best specimens of modern art.
 
 138 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Elizabeth Darant has not been accus- 
 tomed to such a palatial residence as this, 
 but nothing that she sees startles her. Her 
 father's house in Northallerton Crescent con- 
 tains most of the comforts of a middle-class 
 residence : her Aunt Janie's, in Earl's Court, 
 rather less : yet you might place the girl in 
 a mansion twice as magnificent as that of 
 Mr. Kemyss without making her heart beat 
 faster by a single stroke. It forms one of 
 the greatest distinctions between the well- 
 born man, or woman, and the child of the 
 soil. You may raise the former to the 
 pinnacle of a throne without making him 
 giddy ; he feels himself so capable of filling 
 any position in life, that no elevation dazzles 
 him : and he sinks as gracefully as he can 
 rise. 
 
 As Betha and Mattie ensconce themselves 
 by the library fire until afternoon tea shall be 
 served to them, the one girl lets her glances 
 rove over the luxurious apartment they sit 
 in as carelessly as the other ; each is intent
 
 ^ It is ImjJossihIe !' 130 
 
 only on interesting herself in the affairs of 
 her companion. 
 
 * And so you are engaged to be married, 
 Mattie V says Betha. ' How wonderful that 
 seems, when one remembers that only three 
 months ago we were trying for the same 
 prizes.' 
 
 ^And that you got them all,' laughs 
 Mattie. ' Well, I can't say I see anything 
 very wonderful in it myself, Betha ! It only 
 strikes me as disagreeable and inconvenient. 
 I can't tell you how I hate the whole busi- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Hate being engaged !' exclaims Betha, 
 with wide-open eyes. 
 
 Her knowledge of love and marriage has 
 been culled from the pages of poets and 
 novelists, and she has thought, hitherto, that 
 when a girl became engaged she had reached 
 the very acme of happiness. 
 
 * Indeed I do,' replies Mattie. 'You can't 
 imagine Avhat a bore it is. The creature ex- 
 pects one to be always at his beck and call ;
 
 140 My Sister the Acti^ess. 
 
 and if I break an appointment with him, 
 or go to a party when he has arranged to 
 take me to the theatre, he calls on papa for 
 an explanation, and then there are black 
 looks, and I am called to order, and Mr. 
 Levison sulks and doesn't come near us for a 
 week, which is the best thing he ever does.' 
 
 * But don't you like going out with him 
 then V asks Betha. 
 
 ' Like it, my dear ! — I should think not ! 
 He is only thirty, or thereabouts, but he's 
 the most awful old fogey you ever saw. He 
 won't take me anywhere but behind the cur- 
 tain of a private box, nor let me dance 
 round dances, and he makes a fuss if I wear 
 a low dress ; and if I happen to nod to any 
 young fellow I meet, why, I don't hear the 
 end of it for a month. Oh, I hate him like 
 poison ! and if I don't lead him a dance 
 when we're married, it will be a pity, I can 
 tell you !' 
 
 ' But, Mattie ! surely you will never marry 
 him — not if you hate him,' gasps Betha, her
 
 ' It is Impossible /' 141 
 
 breath quite taken away by the revelations 
 of her friend ; 'why should you do it, dear, 
 unless you wish it with your whole heart V 
 
 ' Why should I do it, Betha ? Because 
 he's one of the richest men in England. 
 Have you never heard of the Levisons ? 
 Papa says they're a money power in the 
 City, and I'm to have a couple of thousand 
 a year for pin-money alone. Oh ! I do 
 wish it, I assure you — I wouldn't have the 
 match broken off for the world ; but I 
 mean to go my own way, nevertheless. 
 I couldn't do anything else with Conrad 
 Levison ; for in the first place we have 
 not two ideas in common — you will die of 
 laughing when you hear what a prig he is 
 — and in the second, he's such an out-and- 
 out Jew : and I hate Jews !' 
 
 Betha is too polite to suggest that her 
 friend has every reason not to hate the people 
 she speaks of She is so amazed at and 
 sorry for what she has heard, that she can 
 only stare in the fire, and wonder silently
 
 142 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 how such a marriage can possibly lead to 
 anything but misery. 
 
 ' You haven't got any little affair of this 
 sort on hand yourself, have you, Betha V 
 demands Mattie presently, as she sips the 
 tea from her delicate porcelain cup. 
 
 'Oh no ! How should I V says Betha, 
 colouring. ' I — I — never see anybody, and 
 I have hardly been out of the house, you 
 know. Besides, my lot will be a very dif- 
 ferent one from yours, Mattie, though it may 
 not be less happy. I told you I had many 
 things to say to you. One is, that when I 
 leave your house it will be to earn my own 
 living.' 
 
 And then she tells her friend, in confi- 
 dence, what has been already told for her ; 
 and Mattie embraces her warmly, and declares 
 that as long as she lives Betha must share 
 her money and her home. 
 
 * You dear, sweet darling !' she cries. 
 * Fancy your working for your daily bread in 
 any way whilst I have two thousand a year
 
 ' It is Impossible /' 143 
 
 for my pin-money ! But I will give half of 
 it to you, Betha. A thousand pounds will 
 keep you very comfortable till you are mar- 
 ried yourself, which you may be before you 
 leave this house, after all.' 
 
 But Betha shakes her head and smiles. 
 She is so much older in mind and feeling 
 than her friend. 
 
 ' It is just like your generous self, Mattie, 
 to think of such a thing. But it is quite 
 impossible, dear ; and if you had fifty thou- 
 sand a year that you did not know what to 
 do with, it would make no difference. I 
 would not accept five shillings when I could 
 earn them. I feel very keenly on this point, 
 Mattie. I think that pride is the strongest 
 feeling I possess, and I must beg you not to 
 mention a word of what I have told you to 
 Mr. Kemyss, for fear he might offer to assist 
 me. If he wants to do so, I should leave 
 the house at once. And I think I shall be 
 so happy here. I'm sure you won't drive me 
 from it.'
 
 144 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' Oh dear, oh dear ! this is very uncom- 
 fortable,' sighs Mat tie. ' I shall begin to 
 hate the sight of money, if it's never to do 
 any good. Bat we mustn't begin to mope, 
 Betha, mast we ? Let us talk about the 
 theatricals. ' 
 
 'By all means/ says Betha, brightening 
 up. ' Where are they to be held ?' 
 
 ' In the back drawing-room. We have a 
 stao-e and footlis^hts all ready, but we can't 
 agree what to do. I want tableaux, but 
 Mr. Levison is trying to persuade papa to 
 have a play, just because he fancies he can 
 act, and knows he is too hideous for any- 
 thing else. I told him we would appear 
 together as ^^ Beauty and the Beast," but he 
 didn't seem to relish the idea.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you must try his patience, 
 Mattie ; and to act a play will certainly be a 
 much greater exercise of brain.' 
 
 * When you know I haven't got any,' says 
 Miss Kemyss, who is never backward in 
 acknowledsfino^ her own deficiencies.
 
 ^ It is Impossible!' 145 
 
 * Oh, Mattie, you don't do yourself justice. 
 There are many little drawing-room pieces in 
 which you might appear with the greatest 
 advantao^e.' 
 
 'Well, it strikes me the less I open my 
 mouth the better. That is why I want to 
 have tableaux. I know I can look nice if I 
 can't do anything else. But you will act too 
 —won't you, Betha ? Nothing will go off 
 properly unless you take a part in it.' 
 
 But at this proposal Betha shakes her 
 head resolutely. 
 
 ' No, no, Mattie ! You mustn't ask me. 
 Bemember how deep my mourning is yet. 
 It would not be proper that I should do so, 
 and entirely against my own inclinations.' 
 
 Her friend continues to urge her, but in 
 vain. Betha promises to take any amount 
 of trouble that may be necessary for the 
 preparation of the approaching performance, 
 but she positively declines to appear herself. 
 When Mr. Kemyss meets her, later in the 
 evening, he welcomes her very kindly to his 
 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 My Sister ike Actress. 
 
 house, begging her to remain there as long 
 as ever her aunt will give her permission to 
 stay. The brothers also — Lionel and Alfred 
 Kemyss — pay her so much attention that 
 she is subjected to a merciless amount of 
 'chaiF'fromMattie. 
 
 But though Betha dislikes the chaff, she 
 is grateful for the attention which makes her 
 feel thoroughly at home. Indeed, in a few 
 'days the family seem to have established 
 her at Albert Gate as one of themselves, and 
 it becomes quite strange to the girl to wake 
 up with a start and remember that in a very 
 short time she must go forth again to seek 
 the work by which she hopes to maintain 
 herself. 
 
 There is one of the circle at Albert Gate, 
 though, whom Betha cannot like, though she 
 is anxious to do so, and that is Mr. Conrad 
 Levison, Mattie's affianced husband : a short 
 ill-made man, with a head like a barber's 
 block, and a look of sinister coldness, Mr. 
 Levison can certainly have nothing but his
 
 'It is Impossible P 147 
 
 money to recommend him. He does not ap- 
 pear to be fond of Miss Kemyss — few men 
 perhaps could be fond of a silly girl who 
 seizes every opportunity to irritate or con- 
 tradict them — but yet he is profoundly 
 jealous of her. He follows her movements 
 about the room as a cat watches a mouse, 
 and is ready to take offence at the least 
 slight she puts upon him. And Betha, 
 ignorant as she is of such matters, yet knows 
 sufficient to tremble for the happiness of her 
 friend, hnked for life to such a man. 
 
 Mattie gains her own way with respect to 
 the tableaux vivants, and decides to appear 
 in the triple characters of the * Sleeping 
 Beauty/ ' Lady Jane Grey,' and ' Titania,* 
 which puts it out of all question that Mr. 
 Levison should assist her either as the Fairy 
 Prince, Lord Dudley, or Oberon. To uphold 
 these parts, the services of a young and very 
 handsome clerk in her father's firm are 
 secured : a youth of eighteen, slim as a reed, 
 and fair as an angel ; and Betha, seeing the 
 
 10—2
 
 148 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 scowl on Mr. Levison's face as he watches the 
 rehearsals in the back drawing-room, thinks, 
 half-fearfuUy, that Mattie's ^cwzce looks more 
 like a murderer than a bridegroom.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 'GIVE ME A WEEK TO DECIDE.' 
 
 On the evening of the performance, the house 
 at Albert Gate is filled by a brilliant 
 assemblage of men and women ; and amidst 
 the inspiriting strains of a brass band, the 
 lively hum of conversation, the sparkle of 
 jewels and the flash of eyes, few people have 
 leisure to observe the quiet girl dressed in 
 deep mourning who moves so unobtrusively 
 amongst the crowd, only anxious to escape 
 observation and to afford assistance wherever 
 it may be required. She takes no prominent 
 part in the display that follows, and yet it is 
 through her means alone that it proves to be 
 a complete success. She it is who arranges
 
 150 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 a fold here or alters the position of a figure 
 there, who gives the signal for the curtain 
 to rise, and keeps her watchful eyes fixed 
 upon the silent actors the whole time it is 
 raised, that, at the first symptom of move- 
 ment on their part, she may order it to be 
 lowered again before they lose their self- 
 command. The spectators exclaim, * Beauti- 
 ful r ' Lifelike !' * How admirably arranged !' 
 and loudly applaud the lay figures who pre- 
 sent the living pictures ; but nobody dreams 
 that the brain that has conceived them, de- 
 signed them, and brought them to perfection, 
 belongs to the pale, handsome girl who keeps 
 in the background and shares in none of the 
 applause. Nobody but Mr. Henderson, that 
 is to say, whose sharp, critical eyes watch all 
 Botha's movements with the greatest in- 
 terest. He is a stout, thickset man of middle 
 age. His small features, which may once 
 have been handsome, are sunk between two 
 full cheeks, ruddy and polished as autumn 
 apples ; his grey hair is brushed all sorts of
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide.'' 151 
 
 ways, and his keen blue eyes seem to look 
 straight through you. By nature Mr. 
 Henderson is kindly and tender-hearted, but 
 much hard rubbing with the world has given 
 him an upper crust of cynicism and suspicion 
 which is all the character he displays to 
 strangers. He believes, like Carlyle, that 
 human nature is chiefly composed of fools — 
 and Mr. Henderson hates fools. 
 
 Because genius is so rare, he believes he 
 can detect it at a glance, and is ready to 
 worship it when once detected. 
 
 As the curtain falls upon the last tableau 
 and the strains of the band burst forth in a 
 seductive waltz, he moves to the side of Mr. 
 Kemyss. 
 
 ^ Who's that girl in black V he demands, in 
 his rough, curt way. 
 
 ^ What, the lady with the diamonds ? 
 That is Mrs. Benyon, the wife of the great 
 shipowner, Joseph Benyon of Liverpool.* 
 
 * No, no. I don't mean her. The girl in 
 a mourning dress who sticks so close to your 
 daucrhter V
 
 15^ My Sister the Actress, 
 
 ' Oh, that is Miss Durant, an old school- 
 fellow of Mattie's. Pretty little thing, isn't 
 she ? — but too quiet to suit my taste.' 
 
 ' Don't know, I'm sure ; haven't spoken to 
 her yet. Looks to me as if there was a great 
 deal in her.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Now you mention it, I remem- 
 ber my daughter telling me she was thought 
 very clever at the Princess College, for re- 
 citing and acting, and that sort of thing ; but 
 we couldn't persuade her to take any part in 
 the performance to-night — she has so recently 
 lost her mother — but she has been very active 
 behind the scenes.' 
 
 ' Humph ! Just so I' says Mr. Henderson ;' 
 and the upshot of the conversation is that he 
 goes in search of Mattie, and a few minutes 
 afterwards Beth a is thrown into a fever of 
 excitement by being asked to recite some- 
 thing for the benefit of the company. She is 
 about strenuously to decline, but Mattie's 
 persuasions overcome her scruples. 
 
 ' Do ! do ! darling Betha ! Papa wishes
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide: 153 
 
 it, and it will vex him so if you refuse, and 
 you can recite so beautifully, and they are all 
 dying to hear you, and you won't say no to 
 your own Mattie, will you, dear V 
 
 Between the entreaty and persuasion of 
 her friend, and the fear of offending her host, 
 or appearing ungrateful for his hospitality, 
 JBetha suffers herself to be dragged into the 
 midst of the company and announced as 
 about to give a recitation for their benefit. 
 She stands there for a moment, silent and 
 abashed, almost feeling as if no lines she has 
 ever learned will come to her assistance ; but 
 raising her eyes to the assembly, she en- 
 counters the keen, critical glance of Mr. 
 Henderson fixed upon her, and the sight 
 seems to brace her nerves like steel. She 
 throws her head back proudly, her nostrils 
 dilate, her eyes glow, and she commences 
 those lines from the ' Idylls of the King ' 
 w^hich describe the last meeting between 
 Arthur and Guinevere. 
 
 The guests compose their persons and their
 
 154 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 features decorously to listen. They are pre- 
 pared to hear a schoolgirl's recitation of some 
 hackneyed speech from Shakespeare, or verses 
 of Cowper. Botha's opening description of 
 the King's arrival rivets their attention ; but 
 when her rich voice sinks to a monotone, and 
 she begins the lines : 
 
 * " Liest thou so low ! the child of one I honoured 
 Happy, dead, before thy shame !' " 
 
 the listless men and the flirting women become 
 interested and serious, and more than one, 
 before the exquisite speech is concluded, has 
 a choking sensation in her throat, or smuggles 
 her pocket-handkerchief furtively to her eyes. 
 Betha neither sees nor hears the effect she is 
 producing. She is far away ; she has left the 
 drawing-room at Albert Gate and gone back 
 into the Past she tells of She mourns with 
 Arthur — the sob that nearly chokes his 
 utterance has its ghostly copy in her own — 
 she looks through her unshed tears upon the 
 golden tresses with which Guinevere ^ made
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide,' 155 
 
 her face a darkness from the King/ and she 
 rides away with him in the mist, bereft and 
 alone ! As she comes back to herself and 
 receives the thanks of her audience, and 
 overhears their compliments upon her talent, 
 the bright lights dazzle her, she feels sick 
 and giddy — the grief of Arthur appears to 
 have renewed her own trouble, and she is 
 only anxious to get away to her room and be 
 quiet. It comes so natural to her to recite, 
 and to feel what she is reciting, she cannot 
 see anything wonderful in it ; these loud 
 plaudits and congratulations bewilder and 
 annoy her. Mattie does not oppose the fact 
 of her friend's retirement, because they are 
 going to dance, and she knows she would 
 rather not be present at that festivity. So 
 Betha is permitted to slip quietly away — 
 unnoticed, as she beheves, by anybody, and 
 therefore she is the more surprised on reach- 
 ing the landing to find that she is followed 
 by the strange-looking gentleman whose 
 gaze she has encountered more than once
 
 156 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 during the evening fixed earnestly upon her 
 face. 
 
 * What is your name V he demands 
 abruptly, with his tablets in his hand. 
 
 Betha is considerably astonished at being 
 asked such a question by a stranger, but 
 as a friend of the Kemyss's she feels herself 
 bound to be polite to him. 
 
 ' Elizabeth Durant,' she answers. 
 
 ' Ha ! who taught you to recite V 
 
 ' Mr. Lillingstone, of Princess College.' 
 
 ' Humph ! you do him credit. Good- 
 night '/ and Mr. Henderson turns away with 
 an uncouth nod. 
 
 She has hardly mounted six stairs, how- 
 ever, before he is after her again. 
 
 ' Look here ! A re you an orphan V 
 
 Betha is about to say ' No/ when the re- 
 membrance flashes across her mind that no 
 one could be more orphaned than herself, and 
 she answers proudly : 
 
 ^ Yes, I am an orphan, and dependent on 
 my own resources.'
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide.' 157 
 
 * Humph ! very good ; very good indeed,' 
 replies the incomprehensible stranger, look- 
 ing as pleased as if she had said she 'v\'as 
 heiress to ten thousand a year. 
 
 Betha would doubtless speculate very 
 largely on this extraordinary behaviour on 
 the part of Mr. Henderson, were it not put 
 out of her head by finding a letter from Miss 
 Denny on her dressing-table. 
 
 She had written to that lady a few days 
 before, telling her of the circumstances in 
 which she was placed, and asking her advice 
 as to her future movements. And Miss 
 Denny writes back in the most elegant hand, 
 on the most elegant paper, softly purring 
 over the girl's misfortunes, covering up her 
 aching heart, as it Avere, with a species of 
 mental cold cream, and inviting her to a con- 
 ference at the Princess College on the fol- 
 lowing morning, as she thinks it very pro- 
 bable she may be able to assist her. 
 
 ' I know what that means,' thinks Betha 
 bitterly to herself, as she throws the letter
 
 158 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 down upon the table ; ' twenty pounds a 
 year, and the drudgery of teaching the 
 youngest class in the college. Oh, how little 
 I thought, when I studied so hard to get the 
 first place there, that it was to end in this !' 
 and Betha does what she very seldom in- 
 dulges herself by doing now : she breaks 
 down utterly, and cries without restraint. 
 
 Yet she is too sensible to miss the oppor- 
 tunity that fortune may have in store for her, 
 and the next morning, before Mattie's eyes 
 are opened, she is seated in the private room 
 of the Lady Superintendent of Princess 
 College. But the conversation has not 
 opened long before Betha finds that she has 
 been summoned there not to be sympathised 
 with, but quietly taken to task for her sup- 
 posed rebellion against her father. 
 
 * The reason of my delay in answering 
 your letter, my dear Elizabeth,' commences 
 Miss Denny, primly, ' is because I could not 
 possibly entertain any overtures on your part 
 with regard to the college, nor give you a
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide' 159 
 
 personal recommendation elsewhere, until I 
 had ascertained what your good papa's views 
 were upon the subject.' 
 
 * My father's views !' cries Betha, aghast ; 
 * but I told you plainly in my letter, Miss 
 Denny, that my father has turned me out of 
 doors because I refused to abandon my dying 
 mother. What on earth can have induced 
 you to appeal to him V 
 
 * Ah, my dear, that is perhaps a young 
 person's view of tlie matter, but we sensible 
 elders see things in a different light. And 
 you were always impetuous and somewhat 
 headstrong, Elizabeth. It was your greatest 
 fault, you may remember, whilst under my 
 charge.' 
 
 * I have not been impetuous in this case,' 
 replies the girl, hotly. ' I went deliberately 
 to my father after three months' separation 
 and asked him to take me home aofain 
 (though I hated the very idea of going there), 
 and his answer was that I might beg in the 
 streets or starve before he would assist me.'
 
 160 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Miss Denny smiles incredulously. 
 
 * I think, my dear, there must be a little 
 mistake somewhere, for Major Durant spoke 
 very differently to me upon the subject. You 
 were probably too much excited, Elizabeth, 
 to know what was said or meant. Your 
 papa seemed the perfect gentleman to 
 me, and no gentleman could dream of 
 turning anyone out of doors, far less a 
 delicately 'nurtured young lady like your- 
 self 
 
 ' Ah ! that is what the ivorld thinks,' ex- 
 claims Betha, bitterly. ^ Perhaps you im- 
 agine, Miss Denny, that no gentleman could 
 insult his wife until his very servants cried 
 shame upon him — that no gerdleman could 
 strike his children to gratify his malicious 
 spite against their mother — that no gentleman 
 could tell his daughter to her face that he 
 hated her because her features did not re- 
 semble his own. And I agree with you — 
 no gentleman would do this. But my father 
 has done it, scores and scores of times, and
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide: 161 
 
 yet you think there must be ^^ a little mis- 
 take somewhere !" ' 
 
 And in repeating the words Betha un- 
 consciously imitates so closely the tone in 
 which they were uttered that Miss Denny 
 colours to hear the echo of her own voice. 
 
 ^ Dear, dear !' she is reduced to say con- 
 templatively, * I really could not have be- 
 lieved all this unless you had told it me, 
 Elizabeth, with your own mouth. It is very, 
 very sad ! Still, I should not have con- 
 sidered myself justified in proposing your 
 name as a teacher to the governors of the 
 college unless I had had your good papa's sanc- 
 tion to the proceeding. But I am happy to 
 say he gave it without hesitation, and seemed 
 to me only anxious to secure your welfare in 
 every possible way !' 
 
 ' I refuse to come here on his sanction,' 
 says the girl, proudly. ' If you cannot give 
 me employment on my own merits. Miss 
 Denny, I will seek work elsewhere !' 
 
 ' Now, my dear Elizabeth, pray do not be 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 so impetuous. Haste is always inelegant, 
 and no lady who values the good opinion of 
 society will ever permit herself to be betrayed 
 into doing or saying anything that is not 
 elegant. And this should be especially 
 borne in mind by those who aspire to teach 
 the young/ 
 
 ' I shall never be '' elegant," Miss Denny, 
 in your sense of the word/ says Betha, 
 curtly. ' Perhaps, after all, I was foolish to 
 apply to you. I am fitter to serve in a shop 
 or behind a bar than grind grammar and 
 elegance into children !' 
 
 The lady superintendent closes her eyes 
 with horror. 
 
 * My dear, dear Miss Durant ! Pray 
 think what you are saying, and never suggest 
 anything so terrible in my hearing again. 
 Behind a har ! If one of the governors were 
 to hear that you even knew of such a calling 
 I believe it would prevent your nomination. 
 However, I am glad to be able to tell you 
 that Major Durant having given his consent
 
 'Give Me a Week to Decide' 163 
 
 to the proceeding, the governors offer you a 
 salary of fifteen pounds a year, as EngUsh 
 teacher, which is considered a very Hberal 
 remuneration for the services of so young an 
 assistant.' 
 
 Betha is just about to declare that she will 
 not take the engagement, since they have 
 thought fit to apply for her father's au- 
 thority, but her attention is diverted from that 
 circumstance by the clause that follows it. 
 
 * Fifteen pounds a year T she exclaims. 
 ^ What am I to dress on, then V 
 
 Miss Denny looks mildly reproachful. 
 
 ' The three youngest teachers in the 
 college receive the same salary. Miss 
 Durant,' she says, ' and I have heard no 
 complaints hitherto. I suppose you will 
 dress as those ladies do; and before mid- 
 summer arrives, let us hope that this un- 
 happy difference w^ith your papa will have 
 terminated, and that he will be enabled to 
 receive a good and dutiful daughter home 
 again for the vacation !' 
 
 11—2
 
 164 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' That he will never do I' replies Betha, 
 determinately. ^ Please understand it, once 
 for all, Miss Denny ! My father and I are 
 separated for ever.' 
 
 ' It is very, very sad !' reiterates Miss 
 Denny, shaking her head. ' But what 
 answer am I to convey to the colleg<3 autho- 
 rities, Elizabeth V 
 
 Betha cannot make up her mind all at 
 once. Fifteen pounds a year for nine months* 
 ceaseless drudgery I She would rather, as 
 far as her own feelings are concerned, be a 
 charwoman on a couple of shillings a day ! 
 
 ' Give me a week to decide,' she answers ; 
 * I am not prepared with an immediate 
 reply. Tell the governors that I will write 
 to them in a week.' 
 
 Miss Denny looks as if she thought Betha 
 very ungrateful, and was sorry she had taken 
 so m.uch trouble on her account. She hardly 
 embraces her at parting, but presents her 
 cheek to be pecked at, and remarks coldly, 
 that she trusts Miss Durant will keep to her
 
 ' Give Me a Week to Decide,' 165 
 
 word, as the college authorities are not ac- 
 customed to be trifled with. 
 
 Betha returns to Albert Gate, slowly and 
 sadly, speculating on the probability of her 
 hearing of any other suitable work before 
 the week is ended. How little she thinks 
 that by that time the prospects of her 
 whole future will be entirely changed. 
 
 She enters the house languidly, but 
 brightens up on being told that Mr. Hender- 
 son is waiting to see her in the drawing- 
 room. Mr. Henderson, the mysterious 
 stranger who met and accosted her upon the 
 stairs last night. What on earth can he have to 
 say to her ? Curiosity wakes excitement in her 
 breast, and Betha runs upstairs, with a face 
 that a sudden glow has rendered beautiful.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 * YOU WILL succeed/ 
 
 Mr. Hexderson is standing in the orthodox 
 British fashion, with his back to the fire, 
 warming his coat-tails, and with a curious 
 look of expectancy on his hard shrewd face. 
 As Betha hastily opens the door, and comes 
 towards him, her cheeks glowing with 
 exercise and excitement, she looks so much 
 handsomer than she did the evening before, 
 that the old man regards her with the 
 greatest satisfaction. 
 
 ' What's your age T he says, continuing his 
 catechism as she advances to shake hands 
 with him. Betha cannot help laughing. 
 She has alreadv 2fuessed that her friend is an
 
 * You Will Succeed: 167 
 
 oddity and a genius, and she does not feel 
 inclined to be offended at his curtness as she 
 would at that of a younger man. 
 
 ' Seventeen next month, Mr. Henderson.' 
 
 ' I thought that was about it ! And your 
 height V 
 
 ' Five foot five.' 
 
 ' Ah ! and you'll grow another inch yet — a 
 very good height too. Well, are you sur- 
 prised to see me here to-day T 
 
 ^ 1 don't know. I don't think I should 
 be quite surprised at anything you did.' 
 
 ' That's your opinion, is it ? Well, I came to 
 see you, and you only ; so, as the servant told 
 me Miss Kemyss was abed, and you awalking, 
 I thought I'd wait till you returned. What 
 mischief have you been up to, eh ? Becit- 
 ing in the park V 
 
 * Oh dear no 1' replies Betha ; * nothing 
 half so agreeable ! I've been over to the 
 Princess College, by appointment, to receive 
 the magnificent offer of fifteen pounds a year 
 as a teacher. Isn't it noble ? My aunt's
 
 168 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 housemaid used to have sixteen, and her beer- 
 money into the bargain. I think I shall 
 apply for her situation. It's the better of 
 the two/ concludes Betha, sarcastically. 
 
 * And so you're really compelled to con- 
 sider the advantage of receiving fifteen 
 pounds a year, eh ?' 
 
 * Yes ! I told you yesterday that I am 
 obliged to work for a living.' 
 
 ' If I'm not much mistaken, I can put you 
 in the way of work that will bring you in 
 fifteen pounds a week instead,' says Mr. 
 Henderson. 
 
 ' Hoiv f cries Betha, staring at him. 
 
 ^ We'll come to that by-and-by. I'll tell 
 you first what brought me here this morning. 
 I've got the management of some private 
 theatricals to come off" at the end of this 
 week, in aid of some charity or other. Well, 
 my principal lady's fallen sick, or got an 
 attack of stage-fright, one of the two ; and 
 now, what do you say to taking her place 
 for me ?'
 
 ^ You Will Succeed: 169 
 
 ' I — to act on the stage, do you mean ? 
 But how do you know I can act, Mr. Hen- 
 derson V says Betha. 
 
 ' How do I know you're a girl,' returns 
 the visitor. 'Because I've got two eyes 
 in my head, that's why ! I heard you recite 
 those lines of Tennyson's last night, and saw 
 you act them too ! That's enough for me ! 
 And now, will you take the part V 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, Mr. Henderson ! It is 
 very kind of you to think of me ; and I love 
 acting so, I should enjoy it above all things!' 
 exclaims Betha, her face beaming at the 
 mere idea ; ' only I am afraid I must say 
 *' No /" I am in such deep mourning, you 
 see; and it would be contrary to all etiquette 
 for me to appear in so public an entertain- 
 ment as theatricals.' 
 
 ' Humph ! But you would go and teach 
 brats, wouldn't you, in a public school ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but that I should consider my duty. 
 It would be for money, too !' 
 
 ' And so will this be for money. Look
 
 170 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 here, child ; you ve got the making of an 
 actress in you, and if you follow my advice, 
 you'll let me put you in the way of going on 
 the stage !' 
 
 ' Goinr/ on the stage /' cries Betha, in a 
 tone very much like horror. 
 
 The notion has never suggested itself to 
 her in her life before. She has loved to see 
 plays and to study them ; has dehghted in 
 her elocution lessons, and often won great 
 kudos for her performances in amateur 
 theatricals : but that she, Elizabeth Durant, 
 should ever throw aside all the prejudices 
 of caste, and step upon the stage to sell her 
 talent for the benefit of the public, has never 
 entered her imagination. She knows that 
 many ladies are artists, and authors, and 
 poets : and that others sell their fancy-work, 
 and their voices, and their time : and she has 
 envied such women for their genius, and 
 admired their perseverance and ingenuity. 
 
 But to be an actress ! To stand before 
 the footlights and deliver speeches and
 
 ' You Will Succeed.' 171 
 
 imitate the gestures of humanity for common 
 men and women to laugh at or applaud, to 
 contemplate such a profession with pride, or 
 even with equanimity, Betha Durant has not 
 yet been long enough disentangled from the 
 conventional trammels that overhang the 
 lying face of modern society. 
 
 ' Oh no !' she says, shrinking a little from 
 him, * I could not ! You forget that I am a 
 lady !' 
 
 Mr. Henderson shrugs his shoulders and 
 gives a supercilious laugh. 
 
 ' And you consider ilf more ^^ ladylike," I 
 suppose, to teach brats their spelling? Why, 
 the one Avork is inspiration, and the other 
 drudgery I However, take your choice, my 
 dear ; but I think I could have made some- 
 thing of you, all the same. And so you 
 won't help me out of my difficulty V 
 
 ' Oh, I should like to do that, Mr. Hen- 
 derson, if you think I could, and that people 
 would not consider it indecorous of me.' 
 
 ' No one shall have the power to do so.
 
 172 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 The other girl's name will remain in the bills, 
 and you will only be taken for her. You'll make 
 a first-rate Pauline — height, features, and every- 
 thing — and I'll '' coach " you up in the part.' 
 
 ' Is the play '' The Lady of Lyons '^ ? I 
 know every word of it !' exclaims Betha. 
 
 ' All the better. When can you come to 
 a rehearsal ? — to-night V 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Henderson, it is very sudden ! 
 What wiU Mattie say V 
 
 ' I thought you told me you were your 
 own mistress 1' 
 
 ' So I am ! But I refused to play in her 
 tableaux last night !' 
 
 Mr. Henderson bursts into a hoarse laugh. 
 
 ' And you think she may resent the omis- 
 sion 1 First time I ever heard of one pretty 
 girl being offended at the absence of another! 
 No, no, my dear ! Mattie Kemyss is a great 
 deal too handsome not to forgive you for 
 having refused to be a foil to her ! So, will 
 you come V 
 
 ' If ^Ir. Kemyss approves of it !'
 
 ' Tm Will Succeed: 173 
 
 * Kemyss has already given his consent, so 
 that's settled. Now mind, half-past seven 
 this evening, sharp, at St. Denis's Hall ; 
 and I'll be waiting for you at the box-office. 
 Be punctual ! Nothing is such bad form in 
 our profession as coming to rehearsal im- 
 perfect, or behind your time !' 
 
 ' Our profession, Mr. Henderson ! Are 
 you then an actor V 
 
 ' I luciSj my dear ! Now I am stage- 
 manager of the Marlborough Theatre. 
 Good-morning. I shall expect you sharp at 
 seven- thirty I' 
 
 And in another minute Mr. Henderson 
 has quitted the room, and Betha is left alone 
 to try and realise the stupendous fact that 
 she has consented to play Pauline in ' The 
 Lady of Lyons,' at St. Denis's Hall, no later 
 than the end of the w^eek. 
 
 The events that follow her decision seem 
 to justify Mr. Henderson's expectations. 
 After four or five rehearsals, the important 
 evening having arrived, Betha appears as
 
 174 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 the Lady of Lyons at St. Denis's Hall, 
 looking very distinguished in the rich robes 
 which Miss Kemyss insists upon lending her, 
 and her personal attractions greatly enhanced 
 by the touch of rouge (which the exigencies 
 of the profession demand) upon her cheeks. 
 Her performance is naturally marked by 
 much crudeness and a touch of timidity, but 
 her Claude is a practised amateur, and 
 does nothing to hinder her efforts. Anyway, 
 she displays sufficient talent to call forth the 
 warmest admiration of her audience, and 
 decidedly carries off the honours of the 
 evening. 
 
 At the conclusion of the piece she is called 
 before the curtain and vociferously applauded, 
 and the papers that notice the performance 
 on the following day are unanimous in com- 
 mending her talent, and suggesting that if 
 she chooses to adopt the stage as a profession 
 there is a career before her. Betha hears, 
 and sees, and reads it all, and feels fairly 
 intoxicated with her success. The love of
 
 You Will Succeed: 175 
 
 histrionic display is inherent in her : it has 
 lain dormant, hitherto, for want of encourage- 
 ment ; but it is her second nature, and her 
 present indulgence proves to be like the first 
 drop of blood to the tiger. 
 
 Mr. Henderson's words and suggestions 
 have recurred to her again and again during 
 the rehearsals of the week. Indeed, the old 
 gentleman has taken good care that she shall 
 not forget them. And each time she thinks 
 of the idea, it seems less and less offensive to 
 her. 
 
 After all, there are good and well-born 
 and virtuous women on the stage. Why 
 should she not join their ranks, and use the 
 talents God has given her to the best advan- 
 tage ? 
 
 Mr. Henderson will not allow the favour- 
 able impression he has made to be effaced by 
 time. The ^ Lady of Lyons ' is played on the 
 Saturday, and on the Monday he is at Albert 
 Gate by eleven o'clock, just as Betha is con- 
 sidering, with horror, that she must refuse or
 
 176 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 accept Miss Denny's proposal by that night's 
 post. 
 
 *You did very well, for a beginner,' says 
 Mr. Henderson, alluding to the Saturday's 
 performance ; ' very well indeed, but no 
 better than I expected of you. However, 
 that was all play, and now we come to busi- 
 ness. When are you going to take up this 
 teaching that you talk ofV 
 
 < I — I — cannot tell,' stammers Betha. ' I 
 must decide before to-morrow morning ; but 
 I hate the idea of being a governess so much 
 that I hardly know what I shall say !' 
 
 * Naturally ! It is throwing your talent 
 into the gutter,' replies Mr. Henderson. 
 ' And I could make a Mrs. Siddons of you 
 in a few years. Think of that ! A tip-top 
 place in the profession ! All the world at 
 your feet, and fifty, perhaps a hundred, 
 pounds a week, to lay by against the future. 
 Isn't that better than teaching a lot of brats 
 for fifteen pounds a year V 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Henderson, of course it would be ;
 
 ' You Will Succeed. 177 
 
 'and, since my attempt last week, I have been 
 thinking so much of what you told me. 
 Only, I don't think you quite understand my 
 position. I have no money, you know — 
 none whatever ; so, supposing I adopted the 
 stage as a profession, how am I to live until 
 I have secured a position by which I can 
 maintain myself V 
 
 Mr. Henderson looks at her admiringly. 
 
 ' What a shrewd child it is ! Wh}^, you've 
 got the brains of seven-and-twenty, instead 
 of seventeen. Now, look here ! Can you 
 speak the truth V 
 
 * Mr. Henderson ! what a question ! Do 
 3^ou suppose I ever speak anything else V 
 
 ' Most of your sex do, my dear ; so I 
 thought you might be no exception to the 
 rule. Did I understand you, then, to say 
 that you are perfectly independent V 
 
 ' I am independent. My mother is dead, 
 and my father has repudiated me. I have 
 no claim upon anybody.' 
 
 ' And you would like to be an actress V 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' I am sure I should like it !' replies Betha, 
 discreetly. 
 
 'Very well. Then here's my proposition. 
 I am a dramatic teacher, and I should like to 
 bring you out as my pupil. I can't afford to 
 keep you and teach you for nothing, because 
 I'm not a rich man, and my time's my money ; 
 but I've got a wife at home who'll be very 
 pleased to take you in and look after you. 
 And if you'll bind yourself down to me for an 
 apprenticeship of three years, I'll provide for 
 you during that time, give you lessons, and 
 bring you out on the stage, taking, of course, 
 your earnings as my pay ; and, after that 
 time has expired, you'll be your own mistress 
 and free to make your fortune. Is that a 
 
 fair offer, or is it not V 
 
 ' I don't know anything about the stage,' 
 
 says Betha ; ' but it seems fair to me. Only, 
 
 can I bind myself legally to you before I am 
 
 of acre V 
 
 'Don't know; I'll find out. But, any 
 
 way, I will take your written agreement.'
 
 ' You Will Succeed: 179 
 
 * Take care, Mr. Henderson. You may be 
 trusting me too far/ says Betha, smiling. 
 
 ' I don't think I can. You're a true girl, 
 if ever I saw one. But I warn you it will be 
 uphill work — at least at first.' 
 
 ^ I love work, and I am not afraid of it,' re- 
 plies Betha. ' Only, if I should not succeed !' 
 
 ' You loill succeed. You may make up 
 your mind to it. Do you suppose I should 
 take all this trouble for love of you ? No, 
 no, my dear ; you're a very nice girl, and a 
 very pretty girl, but that sort of game 
 wouldn't pay Mark Henderson. And now, 
 if you've quite decided the matter, you'd 
 better come round to my. place this after- 
 noon — there's the address — and see Mrs. 
 Henderson, and arrange when you are to 
 take up your abode with us.' 
 
 'What will Mattie say?' exclaims Betha. 
 
 ' Possibly a good deal. Fools mostly do ! 
 But if you're the girl I take you for, you'll 
 not be turned from your purpose by the 
 opinions of anybody.' 
 
 12—2
 
 180 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 Miss Kerayss does say a good deal, but it 
 is not in the direction that Betha expected. 
 She rather envies her friend going on the 
 stage ; she thinks it will be great fun, and 
 wishes her papa were a poor man, that she 
 might have an excuse for joining her. But 
 she laments terribly over Botha's departure 
 from Albert Gate. She almost thought she 
 had secured her companionship for ever, and 
 wishes a thousand times that that old wretch 
 Henderson had never poked his stupid old 
 head into their house on the fatal evening of 
 the tableaux vivants. 
 
 ' But I shall see you, darling Betha, shan't 
 I — very, reri/ often ; and you will always 
 call me your bosom friend and love me as 
 you do now V 
 
 ' I shall always love you, dear Mattie ; I 
 can safely promise that, for no one could help 
 doing so who knew how sweet and good you 
 are. But as for seeing you, that must be as 
 your father and Mr. Levison wish. I am 
 perfectly aware that some people will consider
 
 ' You Will Succeed: 181 
 
 I have lost my social position in becoming an 
 actress, and I shall respect their prejudices, 
 whether I share them or not.' 
 
 ' Betha, how can you say such a thing of 
 papa, who is only too delighted if he can 
 persuade actors and actresses to come to his 
 house ; and as for Mr. Levison, I shall not 
 choose my friends to please him, you may be 
 well assured. I shall associate with whom I 
 will, and, if he doesn't like it, he may do the 
 other thing.' 
 
 * Well, dear Mattie, let us hope for the 
 best !' replies Betha, with a sigh. 
 
 The path she has chosen does not appear 
 all couleur cle rose to her at that moment, poor 
 child, whatever may lie in the future for her. 
 She shrinks from the idea that her friends 
 may think she has degraded herself, although 
 her pride forbids her consulting any one ot 
 them in the matter. 
 
 ' Aunt Janie is the only relative I possess 
 to whom I owe anything,' she ponders ; ' and 
 even she said she should be thankful to be
 
 182 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 quit of the care of me. Well, they are quit 
 now, once for all. I shall never see any of 
 them again, and the sooner they forget my 
 existence the better !* 
 
 A few natural tears fall, as she remembers 
 that little Hyacinth may grow up without 
 even a sight of her face ; will forget perhaps 
 that she ever had a sister Betha, or that the 
 same mother loved and cared for them both. 
 And mingled with that thought comes 
 another, though a much less painful one — a 
 passing wonder whether Mr. Frere, one of the 
 few people who have spoken kindly to her of 
 late, will be sorry to lose sight of her, or 
 consider her beneath his notice if they meet. 
 Yet, through it all, Betha feels in her 
 inmost heart that she has chosen the lot for 
 whicli she was intended, and that no private 
 life, however happy, could raise in her 
 breast the pleasurable emotions of hope and 
 ambition that stir it every time she remembers 
 that she is about to adopt the stage as a 
 profession.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ' don't tell MR. FRERE.' 
 
 OsTuY one question puzzles her : shall she, or 
 shall she not, inform her aunt Janie and 
 Miss Denny of the occupation she has chosen 
 to pursue ? The idea of doing so is most 
 distasteful to her ; but Betha is both frank 
 and brave, and argues with herself, that if 
 she is not ashamed of becoming an actress, 
 she should not be ashamed of owning it. 
 Besides, sooner or later, aU the world will 
 hear of it, and she prefers to encounter any 
 reproaches for her obstinacy, rather than to 
 live in dread of being found out, and justly 
 despised for her want of courage and deceit. 
 So she sets off at once to Earl's Court,
 
 184 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 which she reaches in the dusk of the April 
 evening. Mrs. Chapman and her daughter, 
 having just come in from a somewhat chilly 
 walk, are lounging over the fire and warming 
 their feet before going upstairs to take their 
 things off, when Betha is announced. 
 
 Aunt Janie receives the girl rather coolly. 
 She was very unwilling to maintain her 
 longer herself, but it is a rock of offence in 
 her eyes that anybody else should take the 
 liberty of doing so. 
 
 ' Well, Betha ! not tired of your fine 
 friends yet V she says sarcastically, as her 
 niece embraces her. 
 
 ' No, Aunt Janie, nor ever could be ! 
 Nothing can exceed the kindness that has 
 been shown me at Albert Gate. I believe 
 Mr. Kemyss would let me live there for ever, 
 had I a mind to do so.' 
 
 * I should hardly think your pride would 
 permit you to do that. You used to talk a 
 great deal of your pride, Betha; but a 
 visit prolonged beyond the ordinary limits
 
 'Dont Tell Mr. Frere! 185 
 
 becomes something very much like Hving on 
 charity/ 
 
 ' That is exactly my opinion, Aunt Janie ; 
 and so you will be glad to hear that I am 
 going to leave the Kemysses in a few days. 
 I have got work to do, and I have pledged 
 myself to do it for the next three years.' 
 
 Mrs. Chapman's listless face brightens. 
 Here is really a bit of good news ! Betha 
 provided for, for the next three years, means 
 at least Aunt Janie's immunity from marry- 
 ing or maintaining her till the end of that 
 period. For Mrs. Chapman has been much 
 haunted the last few weeks by a nightmare 
 vision of her niece returning, bag and baggage, 
 on her hands. 
 
 ' Have you really ? Well, it will be the 
 best thing for you. And what is the work, 
 Betha ? A companionship in India ? I can't 
 think of any other situation where they 
 would tie you down to remain for three 
 years.' 
 
 * No ! it isn't India, nor anything half so
 
 186 My Sister the Actress/ 
 
 disagreeable as a companionship. I couldn't 
 undertake that sort of work, Aunt Janie ; it 
 would drive me mad. I hope you won't be 
 vexed at what I have to tell you, but I have 
 made up my mind, and nothing will turn me 
 from it — I am going on the stage !' 
 
 ' What !' scream both Mrs. Chapman and 
 her daughter in one breath, and in the 
 biggest of capital letters. 
 
 ' I intend to be an actress. I find I can 
 apprentice myself to a good master, who 
 will provide my maintenance, and teach me 
 my profession, until I can make an income 
 for myself; which in a few years I hope to be 
 able to do. And I like the stage ; and they 
 say I have talent, and am bound to succeed : 
 therefore I have decided to maintain myself 
 by that means, and no other.' 
 
 The girl brings out these words doggedly, 
 anticipating the storm of opposition they will 
 raise. By the time she has finished them, 
 Mrs. Chapman has recovered her breath. 
 
 * An actress /' she ejaculates ; ' do you
 
 'Dont Tell Mr. Frere: 187 
 
 know what you are talking about ? With 
 what sort of people can the Kemysses have 
 allowed you to associate, to get such fearful 
 ideas into your head '? Why, actresses are 
 the very scum of the earth — no respectable 
 people associate with them ; and you will 
 be hated and despised by everybody you 
 have ever known.' 
 
 * They are not the scum of the earth,' re- 
 plies Betha, firmly. ' There are just as good 
 women as yourself on the stage. Aunt Janie, 
 and most of them are talented far above the 
 ordinary run of people !' 
 
 * Talent ! Eubbish ! As if anybody could 
 not put on an immodest dress and kick about 
 her legs on the public stage. Its infamous — 
 horrible- — fearful — I never heard of such a 
 thing in my life before, and you must be in- 
 sane to think of it.' 
 
 ' Let them answer for it, then, who have 
 cast me forth to earn my own living,' replies 
 Betha. 
 
 ' Oh ! it's of no use accusing your poor
 
 188 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 fa.ther of everything. I am sure he is the 
 last person in the world to countenance such 
 a disgraceful proceeding. And what's more, 
 he shall stop it. For the credit of the family 
 you must be prevented from committing such 
 a moral suicide^ and I shall go at once and 
 tell Major Durant about it !' exclaims Mrs. 
 Chapman, rising and re-assuming her gloves 
 and furs. 
 
 ' You may talk till you are hoarse, Aunt 
 Janie,' replies her niece, as she also quits her 
 chair ; * but you will not alter my determina- 
 tion. And my father has no power over me, 
 thank Heaven ! His day is over, and I am 
 of an age to choose my own path in life.' 
 
 'Do you suppose, then, you are to be 
 allowed to ^disgrace us all with impunity ? 
 What shall we be able to say when friends 
 accuse us of being connected with an 
 actress ? And as to your cousin Blanche, 
 you will never be allowed to speak to her 
 again ! I would not permit my girl to be 
 contaminated by such association '
 
 'Dont Tell Mr. Frere: 189 
 
 ' Perhaps I may learn to live even without 
 that/ says Betha, ^ and at all events, Aunt 
 Janie, I could not live on it, without any 
 more substantial nourishment. You seem to 
 forget that I have to work for my hreadj and 
 must do it in the best way I can.' 
 
 ' That is a mere excuse I I am sure 
 Major Durant would allow you a sum for 
 maintenance — indeed, he told me he had 
 offered to do so ' 
 
 ' And I would not accept it — nor ever 
 will!' interrupts Betha. ' Let Major Durant 
 keep his money for those who want it. I 
 can maintain myself, and I will !' 
 
 Mrs. Chapman has no resource but to be- 
 come pious. 
 
 ' Oh, my poor, 2^00)' Mary 1' she exclaims, 
 with uplifted hands and eyes; 'it is well 
 indeed that you were mercifully taken away 
 from the evil to come.' 
 
 * Don't speak of my mother before me !' 
 cries Betha, passionately ; ' nor appeal to 
 her to judge her child in the fashion that
 
 190 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 you do. Mother would have understood and 
 sympathised with every feehng of indepen- 
 dence I possess. She would not have left 
 me to choose my own future without advice 
 or guidance, and then have blamed me for 
 doing the best I can for myself There was 
 no real likeness between my mother and you. 
 Aunt Janie ; and if she sees us now, I know 
 that she is on my side, and not on yours.' 
 
 ' Oh, this is blasphemy !' exclaims Mrs. 
 Chapman, preparing for flight ; ' but I shall 
 go at once to your pa^Da, and if he can be of 
 any use in preventing you from carrying out 
 your mad design, he will' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Blanche !' says Betha, holding 
 out her hand to her cousin, as the door closes 
 upon Mrs. Chapman. 
 
 * No, thank you, Elizabeth,' returns that 
 young lady. * If (as you say) you are re- 
 solved to disgrace us all, mamma will cer- 
 tainly not permit any acquaintanceship be- 
 tween us, and so the sooner it is dropped, I 
 think, the better !'
 
 'Dont Tell Mr. Frere: 191 
 
 ' I quite agree with you/ says Betha, 
 haughtily ; ^ and I lowered myself by offering 
 my hand to a woman who can forget she 
 holds the position of a lady !' 
 
 And so the two cousins separate with 
 angry feeUngs on either side. Meanwhile, 
 Mrs. Chapman, having secured a cab, arrives 
 at Northallerton Crescent, and invades the 
 sanctity of Major Durant's home without 
 ceremony. The major is annoyed at the 
 intrusion, for, in the first place, he dislikes 
 Mrs. Chapman for having befriended his 
 wife and daughter ; and in the second, he is 
 just about to set off to dine with the 
 fascinating Mrs. Wallerton, and does not 
 anticipate the prosj^ect of delay. But his 
 sister-in-law's business is soon disposed of. 
 
 * Major Durant, I have just received the 
 most terrible piece of news. Elizabeth came 
 to my house to announce that she has de- 
 cided to go on the public stage for a liveli- 
 hood !' 
 
 The major elevates his eyebrows.
 
 192 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' Indeed /' 
 
 ' How can you receive it in such a fashion ! 
 Are you not astonished — disgusted — angry ? 
 Fancy what a disgrace for the family ! What 
 will the world think of us 1 Major Durant, 
 you must prevent it at all hazards.' 
 
 ' Will you tell me how V 
 
 * Go to the girl — seek her out — place be- 
 fore her the enormity of the step she con- 
 templates taking in its proper light — say 
 you won't allow it — use your authority and 
 influence with her, Major Durant — for 
 Heaven's sake !' 
 
 ^ And of what avail will my authority be ? 
 Elizabeth is beyond it, and quite aware of 
 the fact.' 
 
 ^And do you mean to say that you will 
 permit this outrage on society to be com- 
 mitted without an effort to prevent it '? You 
 ought to have the girl home. This is her 
 proper place, and you should insist upon her 
 returning to it !' 
 
 ^ I have already told you, Mrs. Chapman,
 
 ' Dont Tell Mr. Frere.' 193 
 
 that I have no longer any right to insist. 
 My daughter left my house and refused to 
 be supported by me. I have nothing further, 
 therefore, to do with her. She has severed 
 the bond between us, and it must remain 
 sol' 
 
 ' And you will suffer her to go on the 
 stage, then, to let all the world know that 
 your daughter is a public actress V 
 
 The major winces slightly, but does not 
 give in. 
 
 ' She must go her own course, Mrs. Chap- 
 man ! It is nothing to me what she may do. 
 And as to ever having her home again, that 
 is entirely out of the question. My relations 
 with Mrs. Wallerton are likely, before long, 
 to assume a closer character, and Elizabeth 
 has insulted that lady too grossly to allow 
 of their ever living under the same roof.' 
 
 ' Well, I call it disgraceful that you should 
 allow your own child to go to rack and ruin 
 in this heartless manner !' replies Aunt Janie 
 with breathless indignation. 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ^ Had you not encouraged my daughter in 
 her first act of rebelHon ao-ainst me, Mrs. 
 Chapman, perhaps this difficulty would not 
 have arisen now. However, I have no more 
 time at present to discuss the matter, and I 
 hope you will do me the great favour of not 
 referring to it in my presence again. My 
 daughter Elizabeth is at all times a most 
 unpleasant subject to me.' 
 
 ' He has no more feelino' than a logf,' savs 
 Mrs. Chapman to Blanche, an hour later 
 when detailing the circumstances of her 
 visit to Xorthallerton Crescent, ' and I really 
 begin to think that Betha takes after him 
 instead of your poor dear Aunt Mary, for 
 nothing could have been more heartless and 
 ungrateful than her behaviour to me. And 
 after my keeping her here for more than 
 three months, fisrhtino^ all her battles, and 
 incurring so much expense on her account — 
 to think of her oroino^ on the staoe as a com- 
 mon actress ! It is too — too much ! I feel 
 as if I should never ofet over it.'
 
 'Dont Tell Mr. Frere/ 195 
 
 ' Well ! the best thing we can do, in my 
 opinion, mamma, is to ignore the whole busi- 
 ness. Don't go teUing everybody about it. 
 Hardly any of our friends know Bethr., and if 
 they ask where she has gone, we can say 
 abroad, or as a governess in the country, and 
 drop the subject.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's an excellent idea, Blanche, 
 and will at least save us the pain of confessing 
 the dreadful disgrace she is to us. And 
 above all things, my dear, don't tell Mr. 
 Frere. He seemed very low and out of 
 spirits the last time he called here, as if he 
 were disappointed at not seeing Betha. I 
 sincerely trust she has not gained any hold 
 over the poor young fellow ; but a girl who 
 can propose to be an actress must be bold 
 enough for anything.' 
 
 ' Oh, as to Bobby Frere,' replies Blanche, 
 tossing her head, ' I don't suppose he is likely 
 to care much about a pale dab of a girl like 
 Betha ; but, nevertheless, I shall certainly 
 not tell him where she has sfone. because I 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 know that actresses, and those sort of people, 
 don't care what they do ; and perhaps she 
 might make the poor boy marry her, or 
 something dreadful of that sort, whether he 
 wished it or no.' 
 
 * Yes ; it will certainly be wiser, for Mr. 
 Frere's sake, as well as our own, that you 
 should mention nothing before him of your 
 unfortunate cousin's calling,' says Mrs. Chap- 
 man, discreetly ; and so, at last, they drop 
 the subject. 
 
 Her interview with her blood relations 
 does not leave Betha the better disposed to 
 repeat the scene with the Lady Superintendent 
 of Princess College, whose reproaches and 
 cries of horror will be the harder to bear, 
 because she has the less right to bestow 
 them. So, by that evening's post she sends 
 Miss Denny a letter instead, detailing the 
 circumstances which have decided her to 
 refuse the position of English teacher to 
 the junior classes at fifteen pounds a year. 
 Betha uses all her powers of composition
 
 'Dont TcU Mr. Frere: 197 
 
 to make the refusal a grateful one, and to 
 disarm the probable prejudices of her late 
 governess against the calling she proposes to 
 adopt. The answer comes quicker than shu 
 anticipated. 
 
 On the afternoon of Tuesday, a perfumed, 
 satin-laid envelope, addressed in the elegant 
 caligraphy of the lady superintendent, is put 
 into her hand. Betha opens it eagerly. Will 
 Miss Denny be sympathetic, or tearfully re- 
 proachful ? 
 
 The folded sheet of paper inside falls out 
 upon her lap. It is her own epistle returned 
 to her, without comment or excuse.
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 YOU HAVE DISGRACED YOURSELF. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Henderson are a strangely 
 assorted couple, living together in a noisy 
 street in the west central district of London, 
 as opposite as possible in their pursuits, 
 inclinations, and habits, and yet have passed 
 some forty years of wedded life with scarcely 
 a differing w^ord. Mr. Henderson spends 
 most of his time out of doors or shut up in 
 his class-room. Mrs. Henderson hardly ever 
 leaves the house, and only knows the pupils 
 by sight. His life is passed amidst the active 
 turmoil of stage-management, the glare of 
 the theatre, and a medley of strange faces ; 
 hers within the four walls of their private
 
 ' You Have Disgraced Yourself.' 190 
 
 house, minding her domestic affairs and look- 
 ing after the cooking of her husband's dinner. 
 Mrs. Henderson never sees the inside of a 
 theatre ; the most successful piece that was 
 ever produced, or the greatest genius that 
 ever appeared, would not tempt her from her 
 fireside. ' Mr. Henderson does quite enough 
 of that sort of thing for both of us,' she is 
 wont to say. She is an old-fashioned homely 
 body, not unlady-like, though rather un- 
 polished, and the reception she gives to Betha 
 makes the girl feel at her ease at once. 
 
 * It will be quite a pleasure to me to have you 
 in the house, my dear ; though how you can 
 choose that nasty stage for a profession, I 
 cannot think. I'd rather do plain needlework 
 myself, than live in that heat and noise and 
 glare. However, there's no accounting for 
 tastes, as I tell Mr. Henderson, for I don't 
 believe he could exist without them. If you 
 were to set him down in the country, with 
 roses and lilacs to smell, and the fresh air to 
 blow in his face, I think he'd die. But
 
 200 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 we've never had chick nor child of our own, 
 you see, my dear, and so the theatre's a sort 
 of a child to him ; but it'll almost seem to me 
 now as if I'd got a daughter in the house. 
 And you'll take Trim out for a walk for me 
 sometimes, I know ; for I don't like to trust 
 him to the servant, she's so dreadfully care- 
 less : and if I were to lose Trim, why, I 
 should just go wild.' 
 
 Trim is a fat antiquated English terrier 
 with whom Betha has already made acquaint- 
 ance, and who appears to be as much of a 
 stay-at-home as his mistress. 
 
 * Come now, old woman,' interposes Mr. 
 Henderson, curtly ; ' none of your nonsense ! 
 Miss Durant has come here to work and not 
 to play, and she'll have other fish to fry 
 than to turn whipper-in to that fat old 
 mongrel of yours.' 
 
 Mr. Henderson speaks as sharply to his 
 wife as he does to other people, but Mrs. 
 Henderson does not appear to mind it. She
 
 ' Toil Have Disgraced Yotti'self.' 201 
 
 is used to his odd ways, and knows how kind 
 a heart Hes beneath his rough exterior. 
 
 * Now, you know, we've got no time to 
 lose, and we must set to work at once,' he 
 says to Betha, the very first morning after 
 she has taken up her residence with them. 
 *No more PauHnes nor JuHets nor 
 Lady Macbeths for you, my dear. You 
 must just put all such rubbish out of your 
 head, and attend to what I say to you. 
 You've talent, but you've everything to learn, 
 and we must begin at the beginning and w^ork 
 our way up. For a month or six weeks I 
 shall give you daily lessons, and expect you 
 to practise hard by yourself in the interim. 
 At the end of that time (if you do your 
 duty), I may allow you to stand on the stage 
 for a few minutes occasionally in a crowd, 
 just to accustom you to the lights, but that's 
 all ; and you won't get that if you don't 
 please me ! Do you understand V 
 
 Betha is rather taken aback at first at the 
 idea of so slow a progress, but she is a
 
 202 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 sensible girl, and resolves that it shall only 
 incite her on to greater exertions. So she 
 brings all her faculties to bear upon her 
 master's instructions, and employs her spare 
 time in exercising herself in gesture, and 
 emphasis, and tone, until her brain becomes 
 filled with one prevailing thought, and she 
 cannot lie down to rest at night without 
 dreaming of colloquial, rhetorical, and epic 
 gestures ; of rising, falling, and monotone 
 inflexions : and natural, falsetto, and orotund 
 voices. 
 
 Mr. Henderson is delighted with her pro- 
 gress, and, even before the month has expired, 
 she is allowed the supreme privilege of ac- 
 companying him to the Marlborough Theatre 
 every night, and standing on the stage as one 
 of a crowd of evening visitors, in the last 
 act of a new comedy. But before that 
 moment arrives, there is a discussion as to 
 what name she shall assume for her pro- 
 fessional career. Mr. Henderson is very 
 contemptuous on the subject of changing her
 
 ' Yoa Have Disgraced Yourself,' 203 
 
 name, for he considers the histrionic so grand 
 an art that no name can be too good for its 
 professors. And so might Betha think, 
 except for her family. They have not been 
 very considerate of her feehngs, but she has 
 no wish to outrage theirs, more than is ab- 
 sohitely necessary. Therefore it is decided 
 that she shall adopt her second name of 
 Selwyn (which was also her mother s maiden 
 name), and as Elizabeth Selwyn she is intro- 
 duced behind the scenes of the Marlborough 
 Theatre. She has to change her dress on 
 arriving there, and for that purpose is con- 
 ducted to the dressing-room of the second 
 ladies. Betha stares aghast at the apartmemt 
 she is directed to enter. She knew that 
 everything behind the sceaes of a theatre is 
 very different from what it is in front, but she 
 was not quite prepared for the squalid and 
 dirty appearance of the second ladies' dress- 
 ing-room. White-washed walls ; an uncar- 
 peted floor, black with the marks of boots 
 that have tramped through the mud to the
 
 204 M}j Sister the Actress. 
 
 theatre ; half-a-dozen gas-Hghts flaring and 
 unprotected ; three half-crown mirrors (one 
 without a frame), set up upon a deal shelf 
 against the wall, which also bears a couple of 
 cracked and filthy basins and a jug without a 
 handle, half filled with cold water — such is 
 its aspect. Betha has never been in so rough 
 and dirty-looking a place before, and she 
 stands upon the threshold, with her bundle 
 in her hand, gazing timidly at four or five 
 girls in various stages of undress, who are 
 preparing themselves to obey the summons 
 of the call-boy. 
 
 * Hullo ! who's that ?' cries one of them 
 sharply, as the opening of the door attracts 
 her attention. ' Come in, do I and don't stand 
 there, letting that abominable draught blow 
 on my shoulders. What's your business V she 
 continues as Betha closes the door and enters 
 the room ; ' brought a dress for anybody V 
 
 ' No, this is my own dress. I am one of 
 Mr. Henderson's pupils. He wishes me to 
 go on in the last scene this evening.'
 
 ' You Have Dis^jraced Yourself.' 205 
 
 * Oh, one of old Henderson's pets, are 
 you? Then I suppose Ave shall all be 
 expected to do the '' kow-too " business to 
 you ; but you won't find me do it, for one. 
 What's your name ?' 
 
 ' Elizabeth Du — I mean Elizabeth Selwyn.' 
 
 ^ Well, mine's Kiley. Come on, Selwyn, 
 since you are here, and help me to lace up 
 this bothersome dress. I'm on in the second 
 act, and you're not wanted till the third, so 
 you've lots of time.' 
 
 ' I shall be happy to assist you, Miss Riley, 
 if I can,' replies Betha, courteously. The 
 girl bursts into a coarse laugh. 
 
 'Just listen to her, Tomkins. Miss Riley! 
 Couldn't you tell she was a greenhorn at a 
 glance ? How rum these beginners are ! 
 They always kill me with laughing.' 
 
 ' Are you never polite to one another, then, 
 at this theatre V demands Betha gravely, as 
 she laces the young lady's dress. Her com- 
 panions shock her far more than the appear- 
 ance of the dressing-room.
 
 206 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * Oh no, my dear I 'tisn't that. We're 
 ready enough to help each other. It's all 
 ** give and take " with us here, as you'll soon 
 find out; but we've no time to be '' missing" 
 and " madaminof " one another. But hullo ! 
 there goes the curtain. Give me the rouge, 
 Wilson, there's a dear ! If I'm late again to- 
 night, I shall get a confounded wigging from 
 old Henderson.' 
 
 And, as the call-boy's voice is heard out- 
 side the door, Miss Kiley runs off, and is lost 
 to view. 
 
 Betha undoes her parcel, and silently pre- 
 pares to change her dress. The other girls 
 are chattering volubly of their admirers, and 
 their dresses, and their parts ; whilst her 
 proud nature is writhing under the familiarity 
 with which she has been treated, although 
 she knows that if she is wise she will trample 
 all such feelings under foot. Yet, at first, to 
 a delicately nurtured girl, brought up care- 
 fully amidst gentlemen and gentlewomen, it 
 is hard to bear. Having unpacked her
 
 * You Have Disgraced Yourself.' 207 
 
 parcel, she advances to one of the basins to 
 wash her hands. 
 
 ' You drop that soap — it's mine/ cries Miss 
 Tomkins, as Betha touches the piece of yellow 
 soap that lies beside the basin. 
 
 ' Lor, Tomkins! how sharp you are !' says 
 another of the girls ; * how was she to know 
 that, and on the first day, too ? Here, my 
 dear !' she continues, with good-natured 
 familiarity to Betha, ' you take my bit. 
 We're all obliged to provide our own soap 
 here, but you'll know better another time, 
 won't you, and bring some for yourself.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! thank you,' replies Betha, with 
 something very like a sob in her throat. ' Mr. 
 Henderson oug^ht to have told me. Of 
 course, I am quite ignorant of the rules of a 
 theatre !' 
 
 ' And you've never been on the stage be- 
 fore to-nig^ht V 
 
 * Not on a public stage !' 
 
 ' And you're a lady, aren't you V 
 
 * Yes r says Betha, proudly. ^ I am a
 
 203 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 ]ady ! but I am apprenticed to Mr. Hender- 
 son for the next three years, and therefore I 
 am bound to do just what he tells me/ 
 
 ' Prenticed to Henderson, are you ? Well, 
 you're safe enough then, my dear ; for he's a 
 power here, and no mistake, and we shall all 
 have to mind our P's and Q's with you.' 
 
 And Betha finds these words to be correct, 
 for both Miss Riley and Miss Tomkins 
 greatly abate the roughness of their speech 
 when they find out who she is, though to 
 bear their sarcasm quietly when they address 
 her as ' my lady !' and ' Henderson's pet,' is 
 almost more difficult to her. She tells Mr. 
 Henderson frankly of her disappointment, 
 and he laughs at it. 
 
 *You must begin at the beginning,' he 
 says ; ^ and if you don't rough it a bit at first, 
 how will you appreciate the difference Avhen 
 you get on in the profession '? I know 
 Tomkins and Kiley are a little wild — they all 
 are — but you must forget you're anything 
 but a woman, and try and sympathise with
 
 ' You Have Disgraced Yourself,' 209 
 
 them. TheyVe not had your advantages, 
 remember ; and if they talk roughly, they've 
 warm hearts at the bottom, like most of the 
 sex, and will show them fast enough if you'll 
 let them.' 
 
 And Betha, acting on this advice, soon 
 makes friends with the second ladies, and 
 finds that a kind word here and a little assis- 
 tance there causes them speedily to agree 
 that ' Selwyn isn't half-bad/ and wins their 
 goodwill in return. 
 
 It is a gala night with Betha when she has 
 her first lines to speak in public. It has 
 seemed so hard to her, who has whole plays 
 in German, and French, and English by 
 heart, to stand at the back of the stage and 
 say nothing. The first effort Mr. Henderson 
 allows her to make is a very simple one. 
 She has only to play the part of a waiting- 
 maid in some farce, but she does it so brightly 
 and ingenuously — her eyes say so much when 
 she is not speaking — and her features and in- 
 tonation are so good, that the principal actor 
 
 VOT. T. 14
 
 210 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 is delighted with her, and her master gives 
 her warm praise. 
 
 * Getting on !' he says that night, at supper, 
 rubbing his hands. ' Getting on ! I shall 
 live to see the girl play Siddons' parts yet, 
 old woman ; but she must creep before she 
 crawls.' 
 
 ' La, Mark ! I wish you wouldn't talk 
 about creeping and crawling. It always 
 makes me remember the black-beetles ; and if 
 Trim touches my foot with so much as the 
 tip of his tail, under the table, I'm safe to 
 scream.' 
 
 And so Betha works her way steadily 
 onwards ; learning any number of parts for 
 future use, and never shirking trouble in 
 order to perfect, as far as lies in her power, 
 the instructions she receives from her master. 
 And Mr. Henderson is faithful to his trust. 
 He would have proved so, perhaps, under any 
 circumstances ; but he has his own interests 
 to work for here, and nothing sharpens a 
 man's energy so much as having a pecuniary
 
 ' You Have Disgraced Yourself,'' 211 
 
 benefit contingent on his labour. He goes 
 through all the best-known female parts with 
 his pupil ; and though he will not permit her 
 to speak more than a dozen lines upon the 
 stage, she has the characters of Rosalind, 
 Beatrice, Juliet, Pauline, Constance, and 
 half the heroines of old and new comedy and 
 tragedy, at her fingers' ejids. 
 
 Meanwhile, though she is so engrossed by 
 her work that it leaves her little leisure for 
 sad thoughts, it must not be supposed that 
 Betha has entirely forgotten her old friends 
 in the old world she appears to have left 
 behind her. Mattie Kemyss — who is to be 
 transformed into Mattie Levison before many 
 months are over — she often sees, and of her 
 sister Hyacinth she is constantly dreaming 
 vague and painful dreams. The summer is 
 now at its height, and the London season 
 nearly finished. 
 
 Mrs. Henderson insists upon Betha taking 
 a walk every day; and accompanied by Trim, 
 wheezing audibly at the unwonted exertion, 
 
 14—2
 
 212 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 she often finds her way up to the Regent's 
 Park, and loiters about the precincts of 
 Northallerton Crescent, in hopes of meeting 
 her little sister and Bentham. But her 
 efforts seem all in vain. Never once has she 
 caught a sight of either her father or Hya- 
 cinth, until she begins to think they must 
 have left the district and gone to live some- 
 where else. 
 
 One afternoon, however, as she is calling 
 and whistling to old Trim, who is deaf as 
 well as wheezy, to come out of the road 
 before he is run over by the omnibus, her 
 voice attracts the attention of a smartly- 
 dressed young lady who is walking some 
 distance in front of her, accompanied by a 
 servant, and whose face Betha immediately 
 recognises as that of her sister. She cannot 
 doubt her eyes, but she would never have 
 known the child had she not turned round. 
 
 Betha is still clad in the mourning crape, 
 now somewhat rusty and dusty, which she 
 put on eight months before, in memory of
 
 ' Yoit Have Disgraced Yourself.'' 213 
 
 her mother : but Hyacmth is dressed in a 
 smart costume of blue and white, and ^vears 
 two blue feathers in her hat, with a bunch of 
 pink rosebuds. Her dark hair is plaited in 
 a long tail behind, tied with blue ribbon, and 
 she looks as festive and fashionable as it is 
 possible for so young a lady to appear. Still 
 it is Hyacinth — her own little sister and her 
 mother's darling — and Betha springs after 
 her with a cry of delight. 
 
 ' Cinthy, Cinthy ! didn't you know me ? I 
 have been walking up and down here for 
 days in hopes of seeing you. I am so glad 
 that we have met !' 
 
 Hyacinth looks at her sister inquiringly 
 for a moment, and then draws herself back 
 primly. 
 
 ' I mustn't speak to you, Elizabeth I I 
 told you so before ! Papa has particularly 
 forbidden me to say a word to you !' 
 
 The tears start to Betha's bright eyes at 
 the coolness of her address. 
 
 ' Oh, he could not be so cruel, darling !
 
 214 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 You are my own little sister, you know, and 
 I cannot harm you by a few words * 
 
 * Who is this young lady, Miss Durant V 
 demands the maid in charge of the child. 
 
 ' It is my sister, the actress, Mary,' re- 
 plies Cinthy in a low voice, but not so low 
 but that Betha hears the emphasised words ; 
 ^ and you know that papa particularly forbid 
 you to stop if we met her.' 
 
 ' Well, then, miss, you'd better come home 
 at once, or I shall get in a scrape, maybe, 
 with Mrs. Durant !' 
 
 ' With ivhom T exclaims Betha, hurriedly. 
 
 ' With mamma,' replies Hyacinth. ' Don't 
 you know that we have a new mamma — at 
 least / have, for she wouldn't be your 
 mamma. She says you have disgraced 
 yourself, and you dance and sing and get 
 money, and no one will ever speak to you 
 again.' 
 
 ' It is untrue — it is untrue,' murmurs poor 
 Betha ; * and it is wicked and cruel of them 
 to tell you so, Cinthy. I shall never do any-
 
 * Yoit Have Disgraced Yourself.' 215 
 
 thing to disgrace you, nor our dear mother in 
 heaven ; and I would never call any other 
 woman '' mamma," and so it matters nothing 
 to me whether she wishes to be my mamma 
 or not/ 
 
 ' Miss Durant, you'd better come home/ 
 says the servant, warningly. 
 
 ' So I will when I've told her something,' 
 replies Hyacinth. ' But you do dance and 
 sing, don't you, Betha 1 Mamma — that is 
 Mrs. Wallerton, you know, only now she's 
 called Mrs. Durant — isn't that funny? and 
 we don't live in Northallerton Crescent at 
 all, but a much bigger house — she won't let 
 me speak of you. She says that I must 
 forget my sister, the actress, as soon as ever 
 I can, or else everybody will despise and 
 spit on me 1' 
 
 ' Oh, Hyacinth ! this is the hardest part 
 of it all I' cries Betha, sobbing ; ' and what 
 can I say to make such a child as you under- 
 stand ? Only ask Bentham I Dear old 
 Bent}'- will do me justice, and tell you that
 
 216 J/y Sister the Actress. 
 
 sister Betha will never do anything that is 
 disofraceful or wronof.' 
 
 *Benty can't tell me,' says Cinthy, 'be- 
 cause she's gone away. She's been gone 
 ever so long. And Mary's my maid now — 
 my maid and mamma's — and I go to school 
 in the mornings, and some day mamma will 
 take me to a circus, but not to a theatre, for 
 fear I might see you there/ 
 
 ' And didn't you uxint to see me, Hya- 
 cinth V says Betha, reproachfully. 
 
 * Yes, a little ; but mamma says I'm Miss 
 Durant now, and the only daughter ; if you 
 came back I shouldn't be ! And I'm to have 
 all mamma's rings and her watch and chain 
 — the dead mamma's, you know — and when 
 I'm grown up I shall wear them !' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' says Betha, mournfully ; ' I 
 see they have set you against me, Cinthy, 
 but you were mother's darling all the same, 
 so God bless you, my dear, dear little sister, 
 and may you always have some one to love 
 you as well as your poor Betha does.'
 
 ' You Have Disgraced Yourself.' 217 
 
 And Betha runs ofif, unable longer to keep 
 back her streaming tears and choking sobs, 
 until she is stopped by the alarming, apo- 
 plectic attempts of Trim to keep up with her, 
 and stifles her own feelings in order to save 
 the poor old animal. Her father re-married 
 after eight months of widowhood, and Hya- 
 cinth taught to regard her name as a burning 
 disgrace. Truly her home (could she re- 
 enter it) would no longer be home to her. 
 She cries herself nearly blind over the en- 
 counter of the afternoon, and is quite relieved 
 by a piece of intelligence which Mr. Hender- 
 son delivers to her at the supper- table, and 
 which at any other time would have filled 
 her with dismay at the prospect of a fresh 
 separation and a new home. 
 
 ' I've got a letter here from my friend 
 Cheyne,' he says — *a fine fellow, Cheyne, 
 proprietor of the Buton and Byton Theatres, 
 and one of the kindest-hearted men in Eng- 
 land. Half of our best actors and actresses 
 have matriculated at Buton : I call it the
 
 218 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 nursery of English dramatic art. Well, my 
 dear, I've been writing to Cheyne about you, 
 and he's willing, on my recommendation, to 
 give you an appearance on his boards. I am 
 afraid you won't be quite so cosy as we've 
 been here. There ain't an old woman like 
 mine at every corner, you know ; but Cheyne 
 has a niece at his theatre whose rooms you 
 can share, and I dare say you'll come to some 
 arrangement with her about your board. 
 Anyway, Cheyne will pay you a pound a 
 week till you're worth more to him, and you 
 must do the best you can on that.' 
 
 * Oh, I am sure it will be ample,' says 
 Betha, who has no idea of the expense of 
 housekeeping, ' but I thought you were to 
 take my salary, Mr. Henderson. Won't 
 Mr. Cheyne pay you something too V 
 
 * That's between him and me,' replies the 
 manager, with.his mouth full ; ' anyway, you 
 be a good girl, and live quietly and respect- 
 ably on your share, and as soon as Cheyne 
 raises me I'll raise you. You'll have capital
 
 ' You Have Disgraced Yourself.' 219 
 
 practice down at Buton, and first-rate man- 
 agement. Work well, and do as you're told, 
 and you shall come back to London before a 
 twelvemonth's over your head.' 
 
 ' Oh, how good you are to me !' cries 
 Betha, gratefully ; * indeed I wdll work as 
 hard as ever I can, if it were only to see you 
 and dear Mrs. Henderson again !' 
 
 Mrs. Henderson weeps copiously at parting 
 with her adopted daughter, and abuses those 
 * nasty theatres ' for a couple of days before 
 she quits them, when she actually ventures 
 out of doors, for about the first time in a 
 twelvemonth, to accompany Betha to the 
 railway station, and leave her in a third- 
 class carriage, with a packet of sandwiches in 
 her hand, all properly booked and labelled 
 for Buton.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ^ BE A GOOD GIRL.' 
 
 Miss Kate Montalambert, with whom 
 Betha is to share her rooms at Buton, is a 
 specimen of the old actress who can never 
 forget that she has been young. She is 
 waiting at the railway station, by her uncle's 
 request, to receive the new recruit, and comes 
 tripping along the platform as she catches 
 sight of Betha with a juvenile spring that 
 might have belonged to a girl of twenty. 
 She is attired in a very juvenile fashion also ; 
 her face is tightly covered wdth a spotted 
 veil, and is almost as much ' made up ' as it 
 is by night. 
 
 ' This is Miss Selwyn, I presume,' she
 
 ' Be a Good GirV 221 
 
 says jauntily. ' Well, my dear, uncle asked 
 me to come and meet you, as he thought 
 you would feel strange at first ; and so 
 we'd better drive straight home, and have 
 our dinner before we go down to the 
 theatre.' 
 
 ' But I haven't anything to do to-night, 
 surely V says Betha, alarmed at the idea 
 that she may be expected to appear in a new 
 part at an hour's notice. 
 
 'You're not on yet, but of course you'll 
 put in an appearance. Why, I go down 
 every night of my life, whether T play or 
 not. I couldn't spend an evening at home if 
 you were to pay me for it.' 
 
 ' I suppose you'd miss the music and the 
 company V says Betha, laughing. 
 
 ' My dear, I'd miss everything. The gas, 
 and the chatter, and the orchestra, and the 
 calls — well, there, you might as well put me 
 in a prison at once, as ask me to sit at home 
 of an evening and mope. If I have only a 
 pair of stockings to darn, I stand at the
 
 222 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 wings and darn 'em there. I don't believe I 
 could anywhere else.' 
 
 * I suppose you've been a long time on the 
 stage, then, Miss Montalambert V 
 
 ' All my life, child. I used to go on as a 
 fairy in uncle's pantomimes at three years 
 old — Buton is celebrated for its Christmas 
 Pantomimes, as I dare say you've heard — 
 and I stayed with him till sixteen ; and then 
 I went out on my own hook, worse luck ! — I 
 wish I'd never done so — but uncle couldn't 
 do without me, you see, so here I am again, 
 and as likely to die at Buton as not.' 
 
 By this time they have reached Miss 
 Montalambert's lodgings, which are small 
 but comfortable, although the forks laid on 
 the little round table for dinner are of steel, 
 and the cruet-stand of a doubtful metal that 
 looks as if it had been dug up from 
 Pompeii. 
 
 ' Baked shoulder of mutton and onion 
 sauce, my dear. Hope you like it,' cries 
 Miss Kate gaily, as she casts aside her hat
 
 'Be a Good GirV 223 
 
 and veil and displays a middle-aged, thin, and 
 puckered face, the lines in which pearl 
 powder and glycerine are powerless to con- 
 ceal. * I have a capital plan here. I pay 
 the woman of the house ten shillings a week 
 for my board, without liquor, you know, and 
 dine from the family joint. She'll do the 
 same by you, and you'll find it a great saving. 
 Then, the rooms are ten shillings a week also, 
 everything included ; so if you don't mind 
 sharing my bed, fifteen will see you clear.' 
 
 * It isn't a question of minding,' replies 
 Betha, ingenuously ; ^ I must do it whether 
 I like it or not, because I'm only to have a 
 pound a week for the commencement.' 
 
 ' Bless you, child! I began on ten shillings, 
 and manaofed to live on it, too. But how 
 ** green " you are ! Here's nature, and no 
 mistake,' says Miss Montalambert, playfully 
 pinching Betha's cheek ; ' but don't go and 
 tell everybody what you get. They'll think 
 all the more of you if they believe your 
 salary to be double.'
 
 224 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 * Will they V demands Betha with open 
 eyes ; ' but I want them to like me for what 
 I can do, not for what I can earn. Thou^^h 
 I suppose they will think the one depends on 
 the other.' 
 
 ' No, they won't, my dear. Most of them 
 won't think at all. They haven't the brains 
 to do it. But if you're a hard worker you'll 
 get on with uncle. He's always scolding me 
 for being such an idle thing, and liking play 
 too well.' 
 
 And Miss Kate looks so wicked that 
 Betha begins to question if she has made a 
 mistake, and her companion is four-and- 
 twenty instead of four-and-forty, despite her 
 general appearance. 
 
 ^ It will be such a comfort to have your 
 protection to and from the theatre,' Miss 
 Montalambert begins again presently, as she 
 glances at the golden-haired girl, young 
 enough to be her daughter, who is devouring 
 all she says. ' You can't think how awkward 
 it has been for me living alone. There are
 
 ' Be a Good Giri: 225 
 
 so many idle young fellows in Buton — as in 
 all large towns — and they diO persecute one 
 so; 
 
 ' In what way V asks Betha. 
 
 * Why, by following you, my dear ; and 
 writing you letters, and sending you flowers, 
 and all that sort of nonsense.' 
 
 ^ People whom you do not know V 
 
 * Yes ; gentlemen who have seen me at 
 the theatre, and been foolish enough to lose 
 their hearts to me. It's really dreadful ! I 
 tell uncle sometimes he'll have to provide 
 me with an escort, and he says the best 
 thing I can do to protect myself is to marry 
 again !' 
 
 ' Have you been married, then V says 
 Betha. 
 
 * Oh yes ! foolish thing that I was ! I 
 was married when a mere child. My mother 
 ought to have whipped me and sent me to 
 bed instead ; however, I would have my 
 way, and spoil all my chances. My real 
 name is Potter — Mrs. Henry Potter— but 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 I've been a widow for several years, and 
 these silly fellows know I'm free again, and 
 want to persuade mo to make a fool of 
 myself for the second time. But no, no ! 
 they can't catch Kate Montalambert sleeping, 
 my dear ! I like my liberty too well, and 
 mean to enjoy it. It will be time enough 
 to think of marrying again when I am an 
 old woman.' 
 
 Betha thinks that if Miss Kate — or Mrs. 
 Potter — (she hardly knows which to call her) 
 intends to wait much longer, she will be too 
 old to marry at all ; but naturally she does 
 not say so. 
 
 * Have you any children ?' she demands, 
 after a pause. 
 
 ' Yes, one ! my little boy. Mamma s pet, 
 as you may imagine. But I never take 
 the child about with me. It would not be 
 good for him ; and I should be in constant 
 anxiety on his account whilst I am at the 
 theatre.' 
 
 And indeed, as ' mamma's spoilt pet ' is
 
 ' Be a Good GirV 227 
 
 (as Betha subsequently ascertains) nearly 
 eighteen years old, and earning his own 
 livelihood in an iron foundry, it would be 
 both inconvenient and embarrassing for Miss 
 Kate Montalambert to encounter any of the 
 youthful adorers of Buton with a son by her 
 side of nearly their own age. But this new 
 phase of human weakness amuses Betha 
 more than it repulses her, for Mrs. Potter 
 believes so firmly in her own attractions that 
 she has no idea that the rest of the world is 
 laughing at her. 
 
 She has been so long on the boards of her 
 uncle's theatre, that she quite thinks she pos- 
 sesses some authority there, and (Mr. Cheyne 
 being a widower) might make strangers at 
 first believe the same. But though she 
 paces the green-room each night, and stands 
 about at the wings as though the whole 
 place belonged to her, ordering the carpenters 
 and scene-shifters about, and directing the 
 actors as to their parts and portions, no one 
 ever takes the slightest heed of her com- 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 mands ; and * Only old Kate at her larks !' 
 is a by- word in the Buton Theatre Royal. 
 
 Betha is very much pleased on entering 
 the theatre that evening, to find that Mr. 
 Cheyne is about to entrust her with a o^eal 
 part — indeed with seven or eight real parts 1 
 — all of which he crams into her hands in 
 the course of their interview, telling her to 
 study them at once, so as to be able during 
 the ensuing week to fill the place of a young 
 lady under notice of dismissal. 
 
 Had he crammed Betha's hands with bank- 
 notes instead, he could not have delighted 
 her more. She receives his orders with 
 glowing cheeks and kindling eyes ; and Mr. 
 Cheyne thinks, as he regards her, ' That if 
 Henderson is not mistaken in her talent, the 
 shrewd old manager knew what he was about 
 when he picked up that girl for the stage and 
 apprenticed her to himself 
 
 ' But look here, my dear,' he says, as their 
 first interview is brought to a conclusion, 
 ' let me give you a caution. You are going
 
 ►e a 
 
 Good Giri: 229 
 
 to live, I believe, with my niece, Kate 
 Montalambert. Well, Kate's a good girl — 
 a very good girl indeed !' — (Mrs. Potter 
 speaks of herself so continually as a girl 
 that her friends are beginning to think she 
 must be one) — 'but she has no brains, and 
 she's a deal too fond of flirting and flatter- 
 ing. Now don't you let her fill your head 
 with a lot of nonsense about young men, 
 and bouquets, and diamond rings. It's all 
 lies, my dear ! — all lies ! I've been a manager 
 for forty years, and I never knew any young 
 w^oman come to good who believed in such 
 rubbish. The good girls may get diamond 
 rings in the next world — I know nothing 
 about that — but I'm quite sure they don't 
 get 'em in this. And as I feel in a measure 
 responsible to my friend Henderson for your 
 behaviour, I hope you'll remember what I 
 say. Stick to your work, and make up your 
 mind to do without lovers for the next ten 
 years, or you'll end where poor Kate is — at 
 the beginning !'
 
 230 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 By which advice it may be presumed that 
 ' uncle ' has not so high an idea of his niece's 
 genius and personal attractions as Mrs. Potter 
 herself would lead vou to believe.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' I CANNOT STAY AT BLACK ABBOTTS.' 
 
 Betha attends faithfully to Mr. Cheyne's 
 instructions, and discourages, as much as 
 possible, Mrs. Potter's revelations concerning 
 her mysterious admirers ; the secret assig- 
 nations they implore her to make ; the 
 frantic letters they write, and the valuable 
 presents she is forced to return to them. 
 And indeed it is no sacrifice to the girl to 
 forego such conversation. She has a refined 
 and modest nature. Anything that savours 
 of coarseness — especially with regard to love 
 or marriage — shocks and distresses her, and 
 Miss Montalambert's careless manner of 
 speaking of the young chemists, grocers,
 
 232 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 and wine merchants who follow in her train, 
 is especially offensive to Betha, who often 
 wishes that * the glorious army of martyrs,* 
 as Miss Kate facetiously designates them, 
 were really dead of the love they are sup- 
 posed to be dying for. But Betha busies 
 herself with her play-books and with altering 
 her wardrobe to meet the coming emergen- 
 cies, and so avoids the dreaded topic as much 
 as possible. In this employment she finds 
 Miss Montalambert's aid invaluable. No 
 one can twist and turn a dress so as to suit 
 half a dozen parts like the kittenish actress, 
 nor make five shillings spread itself out in 
 laces and ribbons to furbish up as many old 
 robes to look like new. And though Mrs. 
 Potter's brain is weak and her vanity inordi- 
 nate, her heart is in the right place ; and 
 Betha, lonely and friendless in the world, can 
 forgive her every foible, for the sake of the 
 affection she lavishes upon her. 
 
 No jealousy exists between them, even 
 when, after a few weeks' practice, the young
 
 '/ Cannot Stai/ at Black Abbotts.' 233 
 
 girl is elevated to a post which is far above 
 that held by her companion. Miss Kate's 
 faith in herself is so complete, that it leaves 
 no margin even for envy of others. If she 
 is allotted the worst part, she only thinks 
 that * uncle ' has done it to spare her. 
 
 ' He knows I work so hard in the theatre, 
 dear,' she confides to Betha, * looking after 
 the men and the scenery, and the wardrobe, 
 that he is afraid I shall break down if he 
 imposes too gTeat a mental strain upon me. 
 Dear, dear ! whatever will he do if one of 
 these foolish fellows over-persuades me to 
 become a bride asfain ! I couldn't look after 
 both their interests at once, could I, Betha ? 
 
 and I reallv think it would break the old 
 
 »/ 
 
 man's heart to lose me !' 
 
 So Miss Montalambert's stream of life 
 glides calmly on, without a ripple to disturb 
 its equanimity. There are no people so 
 happy in this world as those who are per- 
 fectly contented with themselves. Betha 
 does not feel so. She makes a very credit-
 
 234 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 able cUMt at the Buton Theatre, and Mr. 
 Cheyne gives her plenty of study and plenty 
 of practice. 
 
 Country theatres cannot afford to let their 
 pieces have a ' long run/ as they do in 
 London. Their patrons demand variety 
 above all other things, and a constant 
 change is absolutely necessary; sometimes 
 two or three times a week. 
 
 Mr. Cheyne seems determined to put 
 Betha through her paces, ' and see of what 
 metal the girl is made,' so that during the 
 course of a few months she maintains no 
 less than thirty or forty different characters. 
 On Monday she will personate a chamber- 
 maid, on Wednesday an old woman, and on 
 Saturday perhaps a duchess. Sometimes 
 she has, with many a blush, to don garments 
 that are distasteful to her feelings ; but 
 Mr. Cheyne pooh-poohs all objections, and 
 maintains that she must try every style of 
 art, until she has settled down into her proper 
 position.
 
 ^ I Cannot Stay at Black Abbotts.' 235 
 
 Still, although this is the life she has 
 wished for and chosen for herself, Betha is 
 not quite happy nor contented. Something 
 seems out of gear with her or her perform- 
 ance. She goes on plodding through the 
 parts allotted her — sometimes with more 
 zest and pleasure than at others — but yet 
 not with her heart quite in her work, and 
 almost tempted on occasions to doubt if her 
 friends have not made a mistake in thinking 
 that she possesses more than ordinary ability 
 for the stage. But Mr. Cheyne seems satis- 
 fied with her efforts, and Mr. Henderson writes 
 her encouraging letters, and so the girl tries 
 to believe the fault must lie with herself, and 
 that the cold and the damp of the autumn 
 have had some lowering effect upon her 
 energies. 
 
 Christmas arrives, and with it the inevit- 
 able pantomime, in which there is no part 
 for Betha. Miss Kate Montalambert, who 
 has arms like lucifer- matches, and legs like 
 drumsticks, and the remains of a very squeaky
 
 236 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 soprano voice, has played the Queen of the 
 Fairies in her uncle's pantomimes ever since 
 she was three years old (as 'she takes good 
 care to inform the public), and refuses to give 
 up the part. So that arrayed in a very few 
 yards of white satin, and a great many 
 ounces of spangles, Miss Kates drives her 
 ' army of martys ' to distraction every night, 
 precisely at eight o'clock, whilst her young 
 companion sits at home, thankful for the 
 solitude and rest, poring over Shakespeare, 
 and Sheridan Knowles, and Lytton, and 
 dreaming of the days when she may have 
 a chance of putting her studies to some 
 advantage. 
 
 * Is it not provoking, Betha V smirks Mrs. 
 Potter one morning over the breakfast-table ; 
 'that tiresome creature, Ashton, would insist 
 upon stealing one of the bouquets from my 
 dress last night, and declared he should keep 
 it till he died. As if the silly thing would, 
 you know ! But I must have some more 
 flowers for to-night — it's that artificial haw-
 
 'I Cannot Stay at Black Abbotts' 237 
 
 thorn that we bought at Harrison's, over the 
 bridge — and I'm so tired I feel as if I could 
 hardly drag one leg after the other.' 
 
 ^ I'll go for you/ exclaims Betha. ' I know 
 the shop well, and the hawthorn too. There 
 was a lot of it in the window yesterday.' 
 
 ' Oh, you dear, good-natured darling !' cries 
 Miss Kate, enthusiastically. 'Well, if you 
 don't mind, do get me half-a-dozen sprays' 
 (they were twopence halfpenny each, I think), 
 * for young Mr. Cook very nearly carried off 
 a bunch as well, and I dare say I shall have 
 a repetition of the scene to-night. It really 
 is very provoking !' 
 
 * If you continue to supply all your ad- 
 mirers at this rate I'm afraid you'll soon be 
 ruined, Kate,' says Betha, with a smile. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear ! what can I do ? They in- 
 sist upon it, you know. I really almost wish 
 I had not taken the part of Fairy Queen this 
 season. The dress is so conspicuous, and 
 makes one look so absurdly young. Mr. 
 Ashton told me last night he had a bet on
 
 238 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 with another gentleman as to whether I was 
 twenty-two or twenty-six !' 
 
 There is little doubt as to Betha's age as 
 she sallies forth to do her friend's commission. 
 Her soft golden hair, her pure complexion, 
 her dewy grey eyes, the bloom upon her 
 cheek, all betoken the glow and elasticity of 
 sweet seventeen. She goes bounding along 
 the frosty pavement, wishing she were not 
 too old and dignified to run a race with the 
 dirty urchins that are scampering over the 
 road, and inhaling fresh draughts of life with 
 every healthy, full-drawn respiration. She 
 still wears her mourning robes, but they are 
 relieved now by bunches of violets that nestle 
 most becomingly against her golden hair and 
 alabaster skin. 
 
 She enters the linen-draper's shop quickly, 
 and with a little clatter that attracts the 
 attention of two young ladies at the counter, 
 and in another moment Betha is astonished 
 to hear her own name loudly ejaculated. 
 
 ' Betha — Betha Durant !' exclaims a voice
 
 '/ Cannot Stay at Black Abbotts.' 239 
 
 which seems famihar to her; 'where on earth 
 do you spring from?' and before she has 
 time to answer the question four arms are 
 cast about her neck and a vehement shower 
 of school-girl kisses descends on her unpro- 
 tected cheeks. 
 
 She looks up in amazement to recognise 
 two of her companions at Princess College 
 — Ada and Ella Matthews, the sisters 
 of happy memory in connection with that 
 memorable duet on two pianos, in which the 
 one came up to the winning-post a full length 
 behind the other. 
 
 ' And who Avould have thought to see 
 you f replies Betha. ^ This is a surprise, 
 Ada. Why, it is a year since we parted ! 
 And how you and Ella have grown I You 
 must be half a head taller than I am.' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! mamma calls us monsters, but 
 we left the college at Midsummer, Betha ; 
 and papa's place, Black Abbotts, is only about 
 eight miles from Buton.' 
 
 * How I wish vou would come out and
 
 240 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 stay with us there ! Do, do come, Betha ! 
 come back with us now. That is our phaeton 
 at the door, and we shall just be in time for 
 luncheon if you'll make haste.' 
 
 ' My dear Ada, what an idea ! As if I 
 could possibly go to Black Abbotts without 
 an invitation from your mamma,' says Betha. 
 ' Besides,' she adds, a little more timidly : 
 ' I don't think I could stay with you now, 
 under any circumstances.' 
 
 * Oh, mamma shall ask you fast enough. 
 I'll make her write the invitation as soon as 
 ever we get home. She is always so pleased 
 for us to see our friends, because it's awfully 
 dull out there after London, and there's 
 heaps and heaps of room, isn't there, Ella V 
 
 'But perhaps Botha's friends won't like 
 her to come,' suggests Ella. * Are you stay- 
 ing in Buton, Betha V 
 
 ' No ; I am living there,' she answers, with 
 a blush, anticipating the queries that will 
 follow. 
 
 ' Living in this horrid, dirty town ! I
 
 '/ Cannot Stay at Black Abbotts' 241 
 
 shouldn't like that. Has your papa got a 
 house here, then V 
 
 ' No, Ada ; I live alone, or at least with 
 another lady/ says Betha ; ' but perhaps you 
 have not heard that I am an actress. I have 
 gone upon the stage.' 
 
 ' Upon the stage!' repeat the sisters, with 
 the becoming British horror of one of the 
 noblest professions in the world ; 'do you 
 mean that you act, Betha — really act, jjour- 
 self!' as if she could possibly act through 
 anyone else. 
 
 'Yes; I act for money, in order that I 
 may maintain myself,' replies Betha, firmly. 
 ' I have left home, Ada, and I shall never 
 live there again. I tell you this plainly, so 
 that you may see the reason why I could not 
 go and stay with you at Black Abbotts.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! what difference does that 
 make V cries Ada, recovering from her first 
 .surprise. 'You are just the same that you 
 always were, Betha (only much better look- 
 ing), whatever you do ; and I think it must 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 My Sinter the Actress. 
 
 be lovely to be an actress. You'll hardly 
 believe it/ she adds, lowering her voice, ' but 
 Ella and I have never been inside a theatre, 
 not even at Christmas, papa's so horribly 
 particular, you know, and mamma's afraid to 
 go against him ; but of course we've heard 
 all about them, especially the pantomimes, 
 and I have often thought how delicious it 
 must feel to be a fairy with silver wings 
 hanging in the air, only I suppose one would 
 be a little giddy at first.' 
 
 ' I don't know, I'm sure,' replies Betha, 
 laughing ; ' I've never been a fairy hanging 
 in the air, Ada, so I cannot tell. But every- 
 one is not of your opinion, and with your 
 mamma and papa the fact of my being an 
 actress will probably make a great difference.' 
 
 ' I am sure it won't,' says Ada, confidently; 
 * and you'll see for yourself before long. And 
 if mamma asks you to stay w^ith us you will, 
 won't you, Betha ? and we will have such 
 fun together !' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed I will ! that ^^is, if I can 
 
 f*
 
 ^ I Cannot Stay at Black Abbotts.' 243 
 
 get leave. I should enjoy it above every- 
 thing !' cries the other girl, some of the 
 memories and feelings of her former life 
 coming back upon her with a rush, and 
 causing a fierce longing to go back to it 
 again, if only for a few short days. 
 
 16—2
 
 CHAPTER XVII, 
 
 * don't tell her.' 
 
 The Matthew girls get into their carriage and 
 drive away gaily, kissing their hands to 
 Betha until she is out of sight. Then Ella, 
 leaning over from her position on the back 
 seat, whispers in her sister s ear, so that the 
 coachman cannot overhear them. 
 
 ' Ada I ought you to have said what you 
 did to Betha Durant ? Do you think mamma 
 will let her come, when she hears she is an 
 actress V 
 
 ' Why not T demands Ada, with a height- 
 ened colour, under the consciousness of a 
 probable mistake ; * what do they do on the 
 stage ? Is it ivrong, Ella V
 
 ' Dont Tell Her: 245 
 
 ^ Well^ not exactly unviig, perhaps ; but I 
 am sure it isn't thought nice ! Miss Masters 
 and mamma were talking about Lad}^ Farley 
 the other day, and why the county people 
 don't visit her ; and Miss Masters said some- 
 thing about her having been an actress ; and 
 mamma sent me out of the room, and I know 
 it was just so that I might not listen.' 
 
 * I hate Miss Masters !' exclaims Ada,. 
 energetically ; ' she is a horrid ill-natured 
 old maid, and if she hears anything about 
 Betha being on the stage, she'll try and 
 persuade mamma that we oughtn't to know 
 her. I can't bear such spite. Our own 
 schoolfellow, too — it would be too ridiculous I 
 Ella dear ! don't let us tell her.' 
 
 ' What ! Miss Masters ! Of course 
 not.' 
 
 * No — no ! mamma I Betha doesn't call 
 herself *' Durant " on the stao^e : she said so 
 just now, didn't she ? so, as we never go to 
 the theatre, mamma will not be the wiser. I 
 will undertake to make Betha ignore the
 
 246 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 subject, and we can pretend we know nothing 
 about it.' 
 
 ' But suppose it ever comes out, Ada ! 
 Won't mamma be awfully angry with us 
 then V 
 
 ' We must say we didn't understand. How 
 can we be expected to understand when papa 
 never allows us to see the inside of a theatre. 
 And I do want to have Betha at Black 
 Abbotts, don't you, Ella ?' 
 
 ' Of course I do ! I always liked her at 
 college. She was so kind in helping me over 
 those horrid themes and exercises. I would 
 do a great deal for Betha Durant.' 
 
 ' Then hold your tongue, my dear ; that 
 will be about as strong a proof of your 
 affection as you could possibly give her ; and 
 let me manage the rest. She said she was 
 staying with a friend at 15, Tavistock Gate. 
 I shall repeat what she told us, and mamma 
 shall \vrite her an invitation to Black Abbotts 
 and send it off by this evening's post.' 
 
 Who could withstand the combined strata-
 
 'Don't Tdl Her: 247 
 
 gem of such a joair of manceuvrers ? Evidently 
 not Mrs. Matthews, for when Betha comes 
 down to breakfast the following morning, a 
 letter lies on her plate, containing the most 
 cordial invitation to pass as long a time 
 as convenient to herself with her old school- 
 mates at Black Abbotts. 
 
 Notwithstandinor the o^irls' assertions to the 
 contrary, she has hardly expected to receive 
 it, and the reception gives her the keenest 
 pleasure, accepting it (as she does) as a 
 proof that the profession she has adopted 
 need not necessarily shut her out from all 
 association with her former friends. 
 
 Miss Montalambert dare not quite take 
 upon herself the responsibility of telling 
 Betha to answer her invitation in the 
 affirmative (notwithstanding her assumed 
 authority in all her uncle's affairs), but she 
 talks as confidently of his consent to the 
 proposed plan, as if she had already obtained 
 it. 
 
 ' My dear child !' she exclaims, ' you have
 
 248 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 only to tell uncle you wish to go. We don't 
 want you at present, you know ; and if we 
 should do so, we have only to send you a 
 telegram. And it is the best thing possible 
 for you. I'm sure I'm delighted your friends 
 should have thought of it. It would kill me 
 to be out of the pantomime, as you are. 
 Quite a queer feeling comes over me some- 
 times in the middle of the evening lest you 
 should do something rash left here all by 
 yourself. How you can stand it is a mystery ; 
 I'd rather be check-taker than out of the 
 fun.' 
 
 * I am never alone you know, Kate,' 
 replies Betha, smiHng ; * Mr. Cheyne gave 
 me a hint to under study " Medea " for the 
 spring, and she and I make a fine noise here 
 together, I can tell you, whilst you are 
 driving Messrs Ashton and Cook to mad- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Now, you naughty girl ! I w^on't be 
 laughed at. Studying " Medea " are you, 
 and praying all the while that the celebrated
 
 'Dont Tell HerJ 249 
 
 Miss Cuthbert, who is eno^as^ed for our ''lead' 
 after the pantomime, may have a fit or a 
 stroke of paralysis, or something equally 
 nice to prevent her coming down to Buton. 
 
 ' Why not put it in a milder form, Kate, 
 and say a husband or a coronet V exclaims 
 Betha, laughing merrily. ' Fits and strokes 
 are such nasty ill-natured wishes. If Miss 
 Cuthbert's defection is to do me a good turn, 
 I would rather it came about in a pleasanter 
 way for her.' 
 
 ' The question is, my dear, which is the 
 pleasanter way ?' replies Miss Kate ; ' I 
 allow a coronet sounds nice, but as it must 
 needs be linked Avith a husband, I am not 
 quite sure if one would not recover sooner 
 from the paralysis.' 
 
 Betha encounters no difficulty on the part 
 of the good-natured manager, who simply 
 desires her to hold herself in readiness to 
 return to duty on the first reception of a 
 telegram. So she writes a grateful little note 
 to Mrs. Matthews, accepting her invitation,
 
 250 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 and expressing her willingness to go to Black 
 Abbotts at her hostess's earliest convenience. 
 And so on the very next day Ada and 
 Ella, delighted at the prospect of their 
 visitor, though somewhat dubious as to the 
 best method of binding her over to secrecy, 
 arrive in a high state of excitement, to bear 
 her away. 
 
 * Betha, dear,' says Ada, rather timidly, 
 as the carriage rolls rapidly with them to 
 Black Abbotts ; ' will you mind my asking 
 you something V 
 
 ' How can I tell, Ada, before I hear it T 
 
 * Well ! it's nothing very out of the way, 
 only this : papa's an awful old fad. you know 
 — always praying and that sort of thing — now 
 don't look frightened. I must say one thing 
 for papa, he never forces other people to pray 
 too, whether they like it or not ; but he's 
 dreadfully particular, and thinks everything 
 shocking ; so don't talk of the theatre 
 before him or mamma, will you '? there's a 
 dear.'
 
 Don't Tell Her.' 251 
 
 ' But, Ada !' cries Betha, her sensitive 
 nature immediately taking alarm. ' If your 
 parents hold such sentiments, how can they 
 approve of my visiting at Black Abbotts. 
 Oh ! I hope you and Ella haven't persuaded 
 them to invite me against their better judg- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' Not a bit of it, Betha ! What a funny 
 girl you are. Of course mamma knows all 
 about you, and that you are Major Durant's 
 daughter, and is delighted that you should 
 come to Black Abbotts — only, will you 
 promise me not to say anything about the 
 stage ? — not before her or papa — because they 
 don't like to talk of it — that's all.' 
 
 Still Betha's face looks troubled. 
 
 ' I am afraid they are ashamed of me,' 
 she says sadly. 
 
 ' Not a bit of it !' cries Ada ; ' only they 
 like long prayers themselves better than 
 theatres. Can't you understand ? Why, 
 even the people who only go to the play — 
 like Miss Masters, and lots of others — never
 
 252 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 speak of what they have seen before papa, 
 because he frowns and turns up the whites of 
 his eyes until they are quite ill.' 
 
 ^ Oh, I see !' exclaims Betha ; ' you don't 
 want me to introduce the subject for fear of 
 a lecture. Trust me, Ada ! I like sermons 
 as little as yourself. And, indeed, I have 
 but little to tell. I have been for so short a 
 time upon the stage, that it has been all 
 drudgery as yet. And at no time should I 
 much care, I think, to talk about myself. If 
 the world never hears of my name, without 
 my aid, the longer it remains in oblivion the 
 better.' 
 
 * Well ! that point's settled,' says Ada, 
 blithely ; ' and now we've got nothing to do 
 but to enjoy ourselves.' 
 
 It appears likely they wiU do so. Black 
 Abbotts is a beautiful old country seat, 
 capable of affording every amusement to 
 three lively girls, and Mrs. Matthews re- 
 ceives Betha with a motherly welcome that 
 makes her feel quite at her ease. She and
 
 'Dont Tell Her.' 253 
 
 her husband, who were ah^eady middle-aged, 
 when the double blessing was accorded them 
 of twin daughters, look much too old to be 
 the parents of Ada and Ella ; and feel much 
 too old into the bargain. 
 
 Consequently, the young ladies rule the 
 roast at Black Abbotts, and have done so 
 from their infancy, so that the pious old 
 father, especially, is generally but too glad 
 to get out of their way and leave them to 
 their own devices. No wonder, therefore, 
 that they have so little scruple in hoodwink- 
 ing their parents : and introducing their 
 friend Miss Durant simply as an old school- 
 fellow, passing the winter in Buton with an 
 acquaintance. And innocent Betha goes 
 into the trap, blindfold, never doubting that 
 she has been invited there, spite of her pro- 
 fession, and proportionately grateful for the 
 fact. 
 
 The weeks pass rapidly away. One — two 
 — three, have flown, and still the popularity 
 of the Buton pantomime shows no signs of de-
 
 254 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 crease, and Betlia is left in peace to enjoy 
 herself at Black Abbotts. 
 
 A hard frost sets in, and skating becomes 
 the order of the day. The ornamental 
 water in Mr. Matthews's park is frozen over, 
 and the gates are thrown open for the benefit 
 of the public. 
 
 ' Now we shall have some real fun,' says 
 Ada; 'papa is so horridly particular, you 
 know, that he will not allow us to skate off 
 the grounds, for fear of our being spoken to, 
 or some rubbish of that sort ; but he can 
 hardly forbid our using our own ice, and 
 there's been a right of way through the park 
 for the last century, so he is unable to shut 
 that up, either !' 
 
 ' I am afraid your papa must find you and 
 Ella rather careful blessings/ remarks Betha. 
 * I wonder what he would say if you showed 
 an inclination to marry anybody !' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know ! He'd have a 
 fit, I suppose. You see, Betha, papa's a 
 great deal too old for girls like us. He was
 
 'Don't Tell Her: 255 
 
 seventy-six last birthday. How can you 
 expect him to sympathise with the wishes 
 and pursuits of eighteen ? But he won't 
 come down to the ice, thank goodness ! It 
 always makes him ill. And we shall have 
 all the county people over here to-morrow, 
 and no end of larks — everybody knows that 
 Black Abbotts water makes the best skatino^ 
 in Somerset.' 
 
 On the following day, she is very busy 
 pointing out the different visitors on the ice 
 for Betha's edification. 
 
 ' That's Lady Farley with the scarlet 
 petticoat — the one that was an actress, you 
 know/ she says in a whisper. ' Do you 
 think her pretty ? Miss Masters says she 
 dyes her hair — but T don't know, I'm sure. 
 I don't like it — it's just like a brass candle- 
 stick — you'll never change the colour of your 
 hair, will you, Betha ? It would be ten 
 thousand pities. And there's old Masters 
 herself with her beaky nose and her piggy 
 eyes ! I can't bear that woman ! I say all
 
 256 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 kinds of things to annoy her, and papa reads 
 me lectures about ''soft answers turning 
 away wrath." Here comes Emily Stewart ! 
 She used to be at the Princess College with 
 us, but she left before you came. Emily's 
 awfully nice and clever ; she wanted us once 
 to join in some private theatricals at her 
 mother's house — she said she was sure I 
 could act, because I make such queer faces — 
 and papa talked for three hours about the 
 *' devil's play-house," and the '' bottomless 
 pit," till we were all sick.' 
 
 ' Oh, Ada ! Ada ! how wild you are !' cries 
 Betha, * I ought not to encourage your 
 naughtiness, but I can't help laughing 
 at it.' 
 
 ' Of course you can't ! I did not mean 
 you to. But, Betha, skate down to the 
 farthest corner of the pond with me, and I'll 
 show you something really interesting — a 
 rich young man !' 
 
 ' Is a rich young man such a vara avis in 
 Somerset, Ada V
 
 'Dont Tell Her: 257 
 
 ' Yes ; they're scarce enough under any 
 circumstances, but this young man is more 
 than rich, he's ehgible. He's an only son, 
 and an only grandson, and his papa and his 
 grandmamma are to leave him all their money, 
 and they have made such an awful coddle of 
 him that I wonder they let him out on the 
 ice for fear he should take cold. 
 
 ' And yet you call him interesting !' 
 
 ' Of course he is, because he'll be so rich. 
 To tell you the truth, Betha, I believe papa 
 wants him to marry Ella or me, for he is 
 always bringing him home to Black 
 Abbotts unexpectedly to spend the evening 
 with us. Papa's awfully pious, and always 
 lecturing other people on their worldliness and 
 love of gain, but he's got an eye to the main 
 chance as well as his neighbours, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' But you don't see it in the same light, 
 Ada.' 
 
 * Not I, my dear. My fancy lies in quite 
 a different direction. Now there's a young 
 fellow called Grantham. Oh, Betha, he's 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 just divine ! such eyes, such hair, and the 
 dearest, sweetest Httle silky moustache that 
 you ever saw — but no money of course. 
 Those handsome men never have, and papa 
 is always as surly with him as possible ; and 
 one evening, when he and I had slipped 
 away together into the conservatory to have 
 a little quiet talk, papa actually had the im- 
 pertinence to come after us, and he lectured 
 me so, and was so rude to Mr. Grantham 
 that he has never been near Black Abbotts 
 since. Wasn't it a horrid shame ? I was in 
 such a rage with papa that I didn't speak to 
 him for three days afterwards. But now for 
 the interesting Robert ! By the way, his 
 old grandame is to dine with us this evening. 
 Here comes his long nose down the left-hand 
 side. You might see it half a mile off with- 
 out glasses. And with a comforter round 
 his throat, of course. The molly-coddle ! 
 Stop, Betha ! don't start yet. It's only fair 
 you should have a chance. Wait till I have 
 introduced him to you.'
 
 'Dont Tell Her: 259 
 
 Betha is lauo^hino- at the nonsense of her 
 friend when a tall, lanky young man comes 
 skatins: full tilt agrainst them, and stretchinfir 
 out both his arms in an awkward endeavour 
 to avoid the inevitable collision, nearly sends 
 her flat upon her back. 
 
 17—2
 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 * I NEVER THOUGHT TO MEET YOU HERE.' 
 
 'Now then, stupid!' cries the hvely Ada, 
 ' where are you going T 
 
 The young man thus addressed makes a 
 violent effort to regain his equihbrium, and 
 then, with a very red face and breathing 
 hard, he manages to get his hand to his hat, 
 and commences to stammer out an apology. 
 But the first words have barely left his lips 
 before he interrupts them with an exclamation 
 of surprise : 
 
 ' Miss Durant ! is it possible V 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Frere ! I never thought I should 
 meet you down here !' and their hands are 
 simultaneouslv extended to in-eet each other.
 
 * I Never Thought to Meet You Here: 261 
 
 ' Why, do you mean to say that you are 
 already acquainted V says Ada. ' What a 
 little world this is ! I declare I never pre- 
 pare a pleasant surprise for my friends but I 
 find they know all about it beforehand. 
 Where on earth did you two meet X 
 
 ' In London, Miss Matthews. I have the 
 honour to know Miss Durant's aunt, Mrs. 
 Chapman, and we have met each other at 
 her house frequently. But it is very strange 
 that I should not have heard you mention 
 Miss Durant's name, Miss Matthews, during 
 the many evenings I have had the pleasure 
 of spending at Black Abbotts.' 
 
 * Not at all, Mr. Frere. When gentlemen 
 come to see me, I expect them to think of me 
 and not of my friends, so I am careful not to 
 introduce the subject. But really and truly, 
 neither Ella nor I thought there was the re- 
 motest chance of getting dear Betha down 
 here until we met her by mere accident in 
 Buton.' 
 
 ' Oh, are you staying in Buton \ Is Mrs.
 
 262 My Sister the Actress, 
 
 Chapman there, or — or any of your other 
 friends V 
 
 Betha feels conscious as she answers : 
 
 ' No, Mr. Frere, my aunt and cousin are still 
 in London, and I have not been at Earl's 
 Court since I left it to stay with. Miss 
 Kemyss at Albert Gate.' 
 
 ' Were you there ? How vexatious ! I 
 Avish I had known it. I tried so hard to get 
 your address from Miss Chapman, but she 
 ^vas so reserved on the subject that I became 
 afraid that I had offended you beyond hope 
 of pardon, and you had cautioned your aunt 
 not to divulge your place of residence to 
 me.' 
 
 This he ventures to say, seeing that Ada 
 lias skated a little way apart from them in 
 order to recoQ^nise another friend. Betha 
 grows scarlet, remembering the circumstances 
 under which they parted, but her self-posses- 
 sion does not forsake her. 
 
 ' Did we not part friends, Mr. Frere V she 
 says quietly.
 
 'I Xever Thought to Meet You Here.' 263 
 
 * We did, thanks to your goodness ; and I 
 trust we meet the same. Are you staying 
 here for any time V 
 
 * I am not sure. It is quite uncertain. I 
 may be recalled any day.' 
 
 ' Recalled to London V 
 
 'No, to Buton, where I am living with a 
 lady friend.' 
 
 ' I hope you will not receive that summons, 
 then, for a long time to come. How delight- 
 ful it is to have met you ! I suppose you 
 know that my father's seat, Baron's Court, is 
 only three miles from here !' 
 
 ' Indeed, I know nothing. Ada has never 
 mentioned your name, and this meeting was 
 quite as great a surprise to me as to your- 
 self 
 
 ' Oh, you must come over and see tho 
 Court some day. It is such a fine old place, 
 you will be charmed with it. I must speak 
 to Mrs. Matthews about it this evening. 
 By the way, we are all to dine at Black 
 Abbotts to-night, and then I shall be able
 
 t2G4 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 to introduce you to my orandmother, Lady 
 Frere.' 
 
 ' I am rather afraid of Lady Frere, from 
 what I have heard of her/ says Betha, laugh- 
 ing nervously. ' Aunt Janie used to say she 
 was so very rigid in her principles and 
 notions of decorum.' 
 
 ' But you won't think the worse of her for 
 that, I am sure, Miss Durant/ replies Bobby, 
 eagerly ; 'it is just what a lady should be. 
 If my grandmother has a fault, it is pride of 
 birth and an unstained name. The idea of a 
 woman stepping out of her position to do 
 anything that is lowering to herself or her 
 family, is terrible to her. I think she is 
 rather hard sometimes upon her own sex. 
 and seems to forget that she was once young 
 herself; but she has been a kind and good 
 grandmother to me ; a mother, I may say, 
 for I do not remember my own.' 
 
 * She will never like me /' exclaims Betha, 
 determinately. 
 ' Don't say that ! Why shouldn't she V
 
 */ Xerer Thought to Meet You Here.' 265 
 
 * Because I am sure she won't — for a 
 thousand things. In the first place, I am not 
 at all her type of young lady. I am fearless, 
 and independent, and love to have my own 
 way.' 
 
 ' But you will never do anything unbecom- 
 ing a gentlewoman I I will take my oath of 
 that/ cries Bobby, hotly. 
 
 ' Not in my own ideas of what is unbecom- 
 ing. But many people might think my ideas 
 all wrong. And Lady Frere is one.' 
 
 * Don't judge her before you have seen her,' 
 says her companion, imploringly ; and then 
 Ada returns to Betha's side, and the girls 
 keep together for the remainder of the morn- 
 ing, and there is no opportunity for Bobb}^ 
 Frere to do more than let his eyes rest 
 admiringly on Betha's figure whenever they 
 are not diverted elsewhere. The homage is 
 very unobtrusive, but it does not escape the 
 notice of the Miss Matthews, who ^chafi"' 
 poor Betha unmercifully on the subject till 
 dinner-time.
 
 266 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 ' You've made a conquest, my dear. 
 Hooray ! Let me congratulate you ! Mrs. 
 Robert Frere, of Baron's Court ; and when 
 his old father's dead, you'll be Lady Frere, 
 with about fifteen thousand a year ! Upon 
 my word, Ella, when I come to think of it, 
 ought we to sit down quietly and let her 
 carry off the prize ? Why, the creature will 
 have enough to keep both of us, and as we 
 have made up our minds never to separate, 
 the arrangement will be most convenient. 
 Even his lonor nose will become a ' blessino^ 
 in disguise' (as papa says) under the cir- 
 cumstances. That will bear division as well 
 as his purse. Ella, my child ! let us wear 
 our new blue dresses this evening and cut 
 this interloper out. Bobby will never be 
 able to withstand an assault from such com- 
 bined forces.' 
 
 ' You can easily cut me out,' says Betha, 
 laughing, ^ for I have no dress to put on, Ada, 
 except the one I wear every evening. I 
 never thought you would have dinner-parties
 
 'I Never Thought to Meet You Here.' 267 
 
 at Black Abbotts, or I should have told you 
 that I was not prepared to do you credit 1' 
 
 ' My dear gh'l/ says Ada, * there's a deep 
 plot underlying your apparent humiUty. 
 You know that your plain black dress is the 
 very thing to ingratiate you in the eyes of 
 Lady Frere. The old lady wears black velvet 
 and diamonds herself, but she considers that 
 young girls are much better without any 
 ornaments whatever. And, if Ella and 1 do 
 wear the blue dresses, she and papa will 
 retire to a corner, and shake their heads over 
 them for an hour together ! No, no, you're 
 the girl for Bobby's grandmamma ! I 
 shouldn't wonder if she ordered him to marry 
 you on the spot.' 
 
 ' She might order a long time before I 
 should obey her,' says Betha, merrily, as the 
 girls separate to dress for dinner. 
 
 Lady Frere tallies well with Ada's de- 
 scription. As Betha enters the drawing-room 
 she finds herself led up to a grand dignified 
 old lady, clad in the richest black velvet.
 
 268 Mij Sister the Actress. 
 
 Her features, though cast in a more refined 
 mould, bear all the family characteristics, 
 which she is so proud to see reproduced in 
 her son and crrandson. 
 
 Lady Frere's nose is long and sharp, her 
 eyes brown and piercing, and the slender 
 tapering fingers of her fine old hands are 
 covered with the most magnificent diamond 
 rings. 
 
 Her white hair, which is worn in two large 
 puffed curls on either side her face, gives 
 her the appearance of a Frenchwoman, which 
 is enhanced by her wax-like complexion, 
 and the perfect taste displayed in her 
 attire. 
 
 She looks at Betha keenly as the girl 
 courtesies gracefully before her. 
 
 ' A daughter of Major Durant, did you 
 say, Mrs. Matthews ? Glad to know you, 
 mj dear ! Glad to see you've got some one to 
 teach you how to dress ! It's very seldom I 
 see a girl in a nice modest gown nowadays. 
 They think of nothing but showing their
 
 'I Never Thought to Meet You Here: 269 
 
 shoulders and their feet. '' When is a lady 
 not a lady ? When she's a little bear 1" 
 That's my favourite riddle — but very few 
 girls can answer it as you could. And 
 where does your father live ? — in London f 
 
 * Yes, Lady Frere.' 
 
 ' He is a Durant of Morristown, I suppose. 
 I knew one of the family some years ago. 
 Willoughby/ — to her son — ' you remember 
 Sir Fergus Durant, who was staying in Kome 
 Avith us in 'forty-three. He must be a con- 
 nection of this young lady. All the 
 Durants came from the same stock.' 
 
 Sir Willoughby Frere, who bears an 
 almost ludicrous resemblance to his son, 
 having the same height, features, colouring, 
 and awkward gait, shambles forward and 
 mutters some incoherent reply to his mother's 
 question. 
 
 * Of course you do,' resumes the talkative 
 old lady (if Bobby has any gifts of con- 
 versation, he has inherited them from his 
 grandmother, and not from his fither). ' No
 
 270 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 one could forofet Sir Fero^us. He was a 
 delightful young man, and never missed any 
 of his religions duties. I hope you are re- 
 ligious, my dear ! No good ever came of a 
 young woman that was not !' 
 
 ' I — I — try to be so, madam/ replies 
 Betha, hesitatingly. 
 
 ^ You must do more than " try,'' my dear ! 
 you must he so once and for all !' says Lady 
 Frere ; ' and don't encourage too great a love 
 for dress, or flirting, or theatres, and such 
 vain amusements. They have been the 
 perdition of too many young people already. 
 If I thouorht our Robert set store on such 
 follies, it would break my heart.' 
 
 ' Dinner is ready, Lady Frere,' says Mr. 
 Matthews, at this juncture, as he hears her 
 off upon his arm. Betha follows with Bobby. 
 The conversation she has just held depresses 
 her. If, with such sentiments, Lady Frere 
 knew of the calling she pursues, would she 
 condescend to sit down at the same table 
 with her. And has she the rio-ht to make
 
 'I Xever Thought to Meet You Here,' 271 
 
 ^Ir. and Mrs. Matthe^YS feel as uncomfortable 
 as they must be feeling at the deception they 
 are compelled to assist in keeping up ? 
 
 ' Do you disapprove of theatres ?' she 
 whispers timidly to Bobby, as they file 
 through the hall into the dining-room. 
 
 ' I 1 of course not ! I think they're the 
 j oiliest things possible, and go to them when- 
 ever I have the opportunity. But I don't 
 tell grandmamma. She is uncommonly 
 particular — so, in fact, is my father. They 
 consider theatres and all places of amusement 
 tvrong ! Well, let them continue to think so. 
 It pleases them, and it doesn't hurt us ; and 
 they'll never alter my opinion on the subject 
 if they talk till Doomsday.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that/ says Betha ; and she 
 gives Bobby's arm a grateful little squeeze as 
 she speaks. The young man misinterprets 
 the action. She is glad — poor child — to 
 think that there is one person, at least, who, 
 if the truth were told, would not condemn- 
 her ; that she has one friend in the company
 
 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 who she feels is not too good nor too pious 
 for her to talk to. The young people are 
 merry enough during the ensuing meal, and 
 Betha soon forgets the uneasiness caused by 
 Lady Frere's address. But as soon as the 
 ladies return to the drawing-room, she calls 
 the girl to her side again. She has taken a 
 fancy to her appearance. There is something 
 so refined and aristocratic-looking about the 
 cut of her features and the willowy lines of 
 her figure : something so true and good in 
 the earnest expression of her eye, and the 
 mobile curve of her pure sweet lips. 
 
 'You must come and see me at Baron's 
 Court, my dear,' she commences, ' I have 
 just asked Mrs. Matthews to bring you over. 
 We have a beautiful music-room there, and 
 a gallery of pictures and many other things, 
 that I think you would like to see.' 
 
 'You are very good, madam,' says Betha, 
 gratefully. 
 
 'And the loveliest lake all fringed with 
 evergreens !' interrupts Ada. * Lady Frere,
 
 *7 Never Thovght to Meet You Here' 273 
 
 does your ice bear well, and may we bring 
 our skates over and have a skate V 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear, if your mamma ap- 
 proves of it. For my part, I don't think that 
 skating is a very desirable exercise for young 
 ladies. If they could pursue it by them- 
 selves, it might be different, but the presence 
 of gentlemen, and the love of display, and 
 the indelicate dresses now worn for the pur- 
 pose, all tend to promote much folly. I hope 
 you do not wear those absurdly short dresses 
 on the ice, Miss Matthews. They are not 
 decent.' 
 
 ' Oh no ! I always skate in a riding 
 habit !' cries Ada, mischievously. 
 
 * I need not put the question to you,' 
 continues Lady Frere, as her eyes rest ap- 
 provingly upon Betha. 
 
 * I do not possess a skating costume,' re- 
 plies the girl, smiling : ^ so I am obliged to 
 appear in my ordinary dress.' 
 
 ' All the better, my dear ; all the better/ 
 is the old lady's answer ; and she does not 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 My Sister the Actress. 
 
 even resent the marked attention shown 
 by Bobby to Betha during the remainder of 
 the evening. 
 
 The whole family, indeed, seem to have 
 taken a fancy to the girl. Lady Frere insists 
 upon fixing an early day for the visit to 
 Baron's Court before she leaves, and Sir Wil- 
 loughby, Avhen shaking hands with Betha, 
 intimates his pleasure at the prospect of 
 welcoming her there, whilst Bobby, his face 
 beaming with delight, stands by and shows 
 his satisfaction by his blushes. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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