The record-union. [volume] (Sacramento, Calif.) 1891-1903, 1899-06-04
The SPlNSTER
and The PLAYERS.

green between the manor house and a
narrow ravine that hides the brook on
| its way down to the river in Greenlow
| Dale, band of strollng players, who
called themselves the Wilmot Dramat-
| ic Company, had built dingy booth
of well-patched gray canvas. The whole
| village was in a state of great excite
ment, for entertainments are held there
! but rarely, and at least ten years had
| passed since a dramatic performance
| had been given. The repertoire, ac-
cording to the posters, was satisfying
| enough, for besides "Belphegor" and
THE Hunchback," four of Shakes
peare's comedies were to be played,
and at a Saturday matinee Roderick
| Wilmot, the chief, was proclaimed to
delight the nobility, gentry, and others
with his wonderful limitations of cele
brated players of the last generation.
| The principal actors had taken all the
| available rooms of the two small inns,
and the lesser stars had found lodg-
| ings in the cottages. All were middle
aged-even Miss de Lille, who took the
part of the girl heroine, had long since
passed her fortieth year. In good fell
| lowship alone were they rich, for they
| had acted for years in each others
| company, and known always of each
others strange subterfuges to keep a
| good exterior for the public eye. On
| the nights when receipts had been in
| excess of the amount required for in
| cidental expenses, Roderick Wilmot had
| given Suppers, where all, even to the
wagon man and the prompter, Toasted
at the same table. But the lowest of
! them had once owned a belief in his
or her genius, and adverse fortune
alone had compelled them to accept
subordinate positions.
| Roderick Wilmot had brought the
players to Milton out Of longing to see
| once again before he died the place
where he had spent his boyhood and
youth So many years had passed
| since he had visited the Peak Country
that he believed that none could recog-
nize him again. His identity was con-
cealed under an assumed name, but
even if it were not, few would remem-
Der Roger Eyre of East Lees, for his
black hair had grown white and scanty
and his tall figure had shrunk. But he
knew to perfection the art of making
up. and, save for a slight stiffness, on
| the boards one might have believed
him to be scarcely more than youth.
| One woman, however, on the very
| first night felt sudden tears leap to
| her eyes, and her heart beat wildly
as soon as he appeared. This was
| Miss Chetwynd of The Hallowes, whom
he had courted in his early manhood
| She was a tall and comedy spinster,
well-nigh 60 years old, but still famed
for her lnorsemanship-in fact, she rode
so admirably that none of the maids
or wives in the neighborhood present
ed half as pretty a sight as she when
on horseback Rumor, still living,
spoke of a fiery temper that had been
the outcome of love disappointment
Her father Sir William, the eighth
Baronet, had interposed, she had yield
ed out of filial devotion, and had shown
no sign of her sacrifice save by the
losing forever of her former mildness.
It is probably enough that her out
bursts, in spite of their violence, did
nobody any harm, for her bosom COW
cred heart of gold.
She had always displayed great in
terest in vagabond folk, and it caused
no surprise when she appeared in one
of the two stage boxes. Her cousin,
Mr. Offerton of Horsleygate, accompa-
MED her After his second bereavement
he had begun to nourish a hopeless pas
sion whose quenching amused her at
their early meeting. The wiry old fell
low, however, had too great a respect
for his kinswoman to pass to offensive
extremes. Before the tawdry curtain
was rolled jerkily upward he had lean
ed back in his chair, and with hands
deeently composed over his waistband,
had fallen fast asleep.
After the first moment she had lifted
her fan of embroidered gauze and hid
den her face, so that none might OBJ
serve her emotion. She was white as
death, and her cheeks were quivering
beneath a downfall of tears. For the
whole of the evening it seemed that at
any moment she might give a sudden
cry of anguish She alone of all the
audience saw beneath the actors dis
guise, and understood that he who ca
pered as young gallant was already
on the verge of the grave.
Much Ado About Nothing was the
play-Wilmot the Benedick, Miss De
Lille the Beatrice. Miss Chetwynd di-
vined that in some measure the heroine
shared her distress; between the sticks
of her fan she saw the woman's lips
drawn tight every time that Wilmot
laughed, as if she realized that his gay
ETY. cost him some monstrous effort.
At the interval between the third and
fourth acts Mr. Offerton woke, and i'm
mediately assumed an aspect of great
WEAKNESS.
my dear cousin!" he said, expostu-
latingly. This is most excessively dull.
Let us go outside and walk in the
moonlight till Barton comes. I am too
much bored even to be angry!"
Miss Chetwynd made no reply, and
the gentleman, fearful of having said
something indiscreet, was silent for the
rest of the evening. 1t was not until
they We're driving to the Hallowes that
she spoke. Mr.. Offerton had begged
that her carriage might not be used,
and that he might act as her escort to
and from the booth.
There is no reason why I should con-
ceal the fact" she said. half to herself,
as the lodgekeeper unfastened the gate.
II was anything but wearied with the
play. Indeed, so much did 1 enjoy it
that I purpose going again tomorrow
night The playful promises Katharine
and Petruchio-The Tanning of the
Shrew.'"
"Of course I shall be pleased to ac-
company YOU" said Offerton. though
I can't for the life of me understand
how you can be interested in such
performance. I've a tenants dinner
but 1 needn't be there"
by all means co. said Miss Chef
wynd impatiently. Your farmers will
be disappointed if you don't drink with
them. Perhaps I was only jesting-as