The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-04-24 00:00:00

CALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
THE HEIRESS

ATHERSTONE GRANGE.

EY THE AUTHOR OF
" 4llan
_Thornton," "Effie _ Baird," _ "Almost a

Leon—ora's Legacy," 4-c.

CHAPTER VII.
A COMING SORROW.
I'm wearing awa', Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean ;
I'm wearing awn'
To the land o' the leal.—BunNs.
was a very poor and dingy lodging that Mr.
afa-
bters, s new star occupied—a single room, "two-pair
°aek," looking out into some mews, and Beryl's heart
Was very heavy as she sat there two nights before her
' 11,PPearance, stitching busily away at her child's dress.
!ter own was done, and she would look as well as her
laded face would permit; and she had no fear of the
e
t one's success, for the child was perfect and con-
eat, and entered heart and soul into the business.
.at Leonard was very ill, hardly able to lift his bead
'tom the pillow, and his glittering eyes and hollow
cheeks came terribly between his wife and her work.
She glanced from him to the falling rain outside,
Which was coming down with a steady swish that of
Itself was enough to depress the brightest spirits, and
tor a moment she let her depression overcome her,
Slid, letting her work drop into her lap, she burst into
'Passionate tears.
" Don't, my darling, don't do that for God's sake!"
Slid her husband, from the bed. " When I see you
,crY, I fancy there's neither hope nor comfort lett in
gao 'world. What is the matter? Are you ill ?"
.." No, dear, no," said Beryl, struggling with her
b.`vars. "It's only a little outlet of nervousness and
"cirr.Y. • It comes over me sometimes when I look at
You and think what I have brought you to."
„ "Say rather what I have brought you to," returned
e sick man. "But for me you would have been at
L‘ne very top of the tree now—married to a duke, who
ilkows ?"
"I'd rather have you, and work my fingers to the
h°lle, than the richest duke in Christendom, Len; but
4 good cry clears away the cobwebs now and then."
" And blurs your eyes, and swells your lips, and
reddens your nose, little woman; so dry them up this
tittle," said Leonard, and his wife smiled and dried
her eyes, though her heart was weeping still. It was,
as she said, nothing but an ourburst of pent-up feeling,
iinich she rarely allowed herself to indulge in in her
tishand's presence, but she was worn out, and could
Ilot repress it.
'l'll get the tea," she said. "I daresay a cup will
care me. Dot mustn't see that her mother has been
crYing, or she'll lose faith in my superior wisdom for
ever."
" Dot" was the pet name of Miss Beryl Margaret
ktherstone, who presently came bouncing into the
a happy healthy, round-faced child, with a voice
"4e a happy bird's carolling a childish song.
Oh, what owl's light !" she exclaimed. "DO light
9,naanarna. I've got something. Some grapes for
1/5Pa. Mrs. Jarvis gave them to me."
Mrs. Jarvis was the landlady, and the little one had
"eon downstairs playing with her children. She was
S thorough child, in spite of her talent, and had none
Of the painful airs of precocious womanhood so visible in
a'ost infant prodigies. Her mother lit the gas, and
tevealed a plump little girl, with fair hair falling in
Ifvaves over her shoulders, well-formed limbs, and a
t4oeo which, when its baby roundness had given way
b a more perfect oval, bade fair to be surpassingly
eautiful. Very like her mother was "Dot ;" her only
.teaerablance to her father being in expression and the
le-s. She had the soft brown eyes that Leonard
ktherstone had inherited from his gentle mother, and
a turn of the head that often brought the dim re-
ternbrance of the long-buried lady back to her son's
tiad. "Little Dot was every inch a lady," he was
ont to say, and, indeed, the child seemed to have
"eert born well bred, and to have intuitively the
grace and good-breeding which some can never
ttequire.
"See the grapes, mamma," she said, opening a little
asket she had brought in with her. " Arn't they
"eaUties ?"
„,.They were, indeed, and to the fever-parched lips
°t the sick father they were a treat Indeed.
My darling, you should have hept them for your-
,7▪ 1," he said, after eating a few with eager relish.
You don't have many nice things."
But I shall have" replied Dot. "After to-
olorrow night, papa, Mr. Masters is sure to engage
liPalrmaa, and give her ever so many pounds a week,
4,tld then we can have nice dresses, and meat every
"I. and a carriage to go out in; and you'll soon be
Well..
" I'm nearly well now, Dot," said her father, with a
smile. "1 think the sight of my little girl is
iter than physic to me. Give her some tea, mamma;
8 cold."
-Nearly well! Beryl's heart ached as she heard the
NPrds. She was beginning to feel the truth—that the
, 'Vs of her husband's life were slipping by with
'errible rapidity, and that when he could say he was
welt it would be on the other side of the veil, where
She could have no share in his renewed life. Well he
Inight be by and by, but never again in this lower
World.
him
gave his cup of tea to Dot, who carried it to
'dm deftly, as if she were well used to the office, and
When she had finished her meal, asked her if she
Would go through her part.
' No, ' promptly responded the child. "I'm perfect
12K1 not a bit nervous. Let me try my dress on,
Illarnma dear."
She was a true woman in her love of finery, and
7ed to see herself in gorgeous array, and glittering
with spangles. So the dress was tried on, and Lconard
ktherstone watched the gleaming little figure dancing
round the room with a sigh.
wish my father could see her," he .said. "1
'ink he would relent."
t, "Perhaps he may—who knows ?" said Beryl, un-
,.fts_tening the pretty dress, and carefully folding it up.
the county grandees do come to the Birmingham
'▪ heatre, I hear."
My dear child, my father would as soon jump into
t`te Pit of Tophet as enter a theatre. There's some
reraendous reason—some scandal of his youth—to
iliceount for it, which I don't clearly understand. No,
ell never see Dot that way."
After the child had gone to bed, he resumed the sub-
'Get. It seemed to be heavy on his mind on this
Particular evening.
, 'I shall write to my father, Beryl," he said, when
line had once more taken her seat beside him.
"Again, Len, dear ?"
"Yes; once more."
"But why ?"
r, "Because it will be the last time, dear. I shall make
'4_lle more appeal to him to give my child the station
41at is hers by right—a little help forward in the
t‘vorld. When he knows that lam dying, he won't
efllse me, may be."
0." Oh, don't say that, Len,";said poor Beryl, in a tone
agony. "Not dying, dear."
" Just that, wife,'
No, darling, no—not dying—very ill—weak
want of proper nourishment and everything an
ilaValid most wants; but to live for many a day yet I
to be quite well again when the bright days
.°Me round. And they are coming, Len; the worst
la Past now."
I hope it is, my darling; and if Heaven wills it, I
bt'all be glad to live. Life is very sweet with you and
. n c't- I will write to-morrow, and we shall have an
'aswer by Wednesday night."
er " Oh howl wish Wednesday night were come," sighed

' c,
„, 00 do I, little woman. It is to be the beginning
the good times, you know. Dot will prove a true
t'rePhet—see if she does not."
If I could only think it," said Beryl, her eyes
!lettering with tears. "I can't be hopeful to-night,
veal'. It's only a castle in the air, Leonard, and it will
anish like the rest of them."
The letter was written and posted, but Beryl could
`4no sort of hope that it would produce any effect,
f 4 she prepared to go to rehearsal rather nervously,
i(l3r it was still raining heavily, and she was afraid of
Ve getting wet, and catching cold.
They might have sent a cab for you," Lecnard re-
allied. "They are very thoughtless."
They don't know I have no money left," his
Ife replied. " I shall do very well. I am only anxious
‘uout Dot."
rhe landlady coming in at the moment, overheard
e
'" Words and made some remark.
8,44 Ouly about her getting wet," Beryl replied with a
"The theatre is cold and draughty, and if
f e Were to catch cold DOW it would be a bad bud:less
iz)r us!,
" She shant catch cold," said Mrs. Jarvis kindly.
John.'ll carry her. He's going right past the theatre
‘4oor now this minute."
"She's so heavy.'
Not she. She's just nothing to him. You shoula
Bee the weight he has to carry at the works. I'd send
,Z a cab, Mrs. Atherstone, but John and me haven't
"ugh money left between us; and I know you've
ietlt all yours. Ah, don't look so worried, my dear,
4°ll'll have enough after to-morrow night; but your
legs have cost £0 much, haven't they?"
They have, indeed !' said Beryl, with a sigh, think-
w. of what would become of them if her appearance
weto not a success, or Dot did not make a hit. There
48 a week's rent, and everything that was 82 much
xieeeded for all of them, and tile luxuries that Leonard's
eak state demanded. Where was any money to
f:ale from if the audience did not receive her with
ijcillr? Her foster-father had helped them to the ut-
st of his power, and she did not anticipate any
'uQswer to the letter.
b.„; )tie 'went back to Leonard's side and bade him good-
With a smiling face, telling him how the child was
to her morning's work dry shod and warm. He
Very much better, and brighter,this morning, in
e of the depressing weather. The little excitement
talt7l.,iting to his father had done him good, and he
if .'eut about going to the theatre with them at night
it as flee.
he,: 1 should worry myself into a fever if I stayed
be said. "And I rather like the bustle and
mt °I the green room."
e10a.'1123- Jarvis insisted on lending Beryl a waterproof
that and wrapping the child up in a warm shawl, so
„"fle was well protected from the wet.
jar_.she's just as light as a baby," said honest John
tt„,.v,l " and sits quite easy on my arm," and he
"ced along the dingy street. leaving Beryl to follow.

"I don't know ho vF to thank you," she said press-
ing the landlady's hand. "You have done us a great
service." _ _

" Nonsense ! Not a bit of it,"was the blunt response.
"John likes the dear child, and the cloak's nothing;
I'm not going to want it. Don't you worry yourself,
Mrs. Atherstone. I'll take care of your husband till
you come back."
Beryl was hardly out of sight before a cup of strong
broth and a slice of toast were taken up to the invalid,
and thankfully enjoyed, for Mrs. Jarvis had a real
liking and respect for her lodgers, though they were
" play-actors," a class of people she had hitherto held
in virtuous abhorrence.

"She's too good and modest for it, that she is ;" the
good woman soliloquised; "and so's that child. It's
a hard world for them, and him dying too—for he is
dying—half an eye can see that.'
The little girl was proceeding to the theatre the
while in a very comfortable fashion. She and honest
John Jarvis were great friends, though he was a rough,
outspoken, blunt man, and inclined to be noisy and
boisterous in his cups, and he was not the most sober
of the staid citizens of Birmingham. He could sing
quaint, old-fashioned ballads in a voiee that was a
marvel of sweetness and melody, considering his
herculean frame and rough exterior, and the little one
had already caught several airs from him.
The two talked gravely as they went along, Dot
perfectly content with her bearer, and John Jarvis
pleased to have her in his arms.
"You are so kind to me,''_ she said simply.
_ _

"I like you, my little lass," he replied but you'll
forget me when you are a grand actress. You won't
remember me carrying you then."
"Indeed I will," replied the child, simply. "I
shall always remember you, Mr. Jarvis—always, mind
that."
" Always 'is easy said, my pet, when you have all
your life before you; but you'll have more than an old
rough manlike me to think about by. and-by. Here you
are, little one, as dry as a bone ; and here's your mother
coming round the corner. Shake hands with me,
there's a lady, for carrying you so far."
"I won't shake hands," said Dot, raising herself on
tiptoe, and pulling at his shaggy beard.
"1,11 kiss you, Mr. Jarvis, ever so many times; and
I'll never, never, never forget you—there !"
And she never did. The words were spoken from
the fulness of a child's heart, lightly and childlishly
enough, but there came a time in the life of Beryl
Atherstone the second when they had grave meaning,
and John Jarvis had sad reason to remember the touch
of those pretty lips, and Vile fresh young voice that
prattled so confidingly into his ear.
He was very much gratified with the child's affec-
tion, and thought much about her as he walked away
from the theatre. . _ .

"She'll never forget me, won't she ?" he said to
himself. "Ah, pretty dear, she thinks so now, but I
doubt she will. I wonder what makes me think so
much of her? It's her pretty ways, I suppose, and
her sweet face, too. She's her mother's own child for
beauty, all but her eyes, and they are her father's nwn.
Poor fellow! he's a handsome lad too; but I'm think-
ing he's not long for this world."
Little Beryl went through her rehearsal bravely
with all a child's fearlessness, surprising even the
members of the company, who are slow, as a rule, in
expressing the appreciation of any new " star," by her
evident talent. Mrs. Atherstone was not so successful
in the impression she created. She was letter-perfect,
as professionals have it, in the Rosalind, and was
thoroughly au fait to all the business of the piece; but
there was a faded, weary look about her and an ex-
pression of sadness in the set of her lips which told
of sorrow and endurance. She was a very different
" star " to the satin-clothed ladies who came in broug-
hams, with prancing horses, and were heralded far
and wide by tremendous names, who sometimes visited
Birmingham. Miss Joyce was to stand or fall by
failure. She heard a remark of the kind somewhat too
loudly spoken, and for a moment she almost broke
down in a speech she was rehearsing. Care and grief
were weighing too heavily upon her for her to bear
any more worry, however trivial, and her eyes filled
with tears.
Mr. Masters was standing close by, and he saw the
quivering lip, and guessed what caused it, and he
strove, by extreme politeness and kindness to her
during the rest of the rehearsal, to give his company
a hint. When it was over he drew her aside.
"Don't be nervous," he said. "You'll do; it's a
treat to see a real actress once more. They are few
and far between now. I'm really grateful to Whiffin
for the introduction. Pat home worries cut of your
head, and never mind them," with an expressive jerk
of his thumb to the other people on the stage. "You
know what they are. I'll take care there's no more of
it. They'll follow my lead— they're like Gabriel
Grub's demons, 'they kick when royalty kicks, and
hug when royalty hugs.' Oh, I sre you read Pick-
wick,' and can laugh yet. Succeed to-night, and your
laughing days shall soon come back, see if they
don't."

After a kindly question or two about her dress and
an offer to lend her anything that the wardrobe could
supply, Beryl assured him that both herself and the
child were quite prepared, and Mr. Masters drew the
little one to him and examined her critically.
"There's not much doubt of success," he said. "A
child never fails to please when she is clever and not
too precocious.
He put something into the little one's hand, and
went with them to the door, the respect of the com-
pany having marvellously increased during the brief
colloquy between them. The rain had ceased, and
the sun shone out as they walked home, like an omen
of brightness, poor Beryl thought; and the piece of
money Mr. Masters had given Dot turned out to be a
sovereign, out of which a bottle of wine was bought for
Leonard, and carried triumphantly by his proud little
daughter.
(7o be continued,)