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perturbation has escaped the eyes of Jeames

Jones.

"I'll tell you what it is, Miss Melia," said he, confidentially, "there is something not right with the Capting. This blessed morning as ever was, when I takes up his hot water, there was he, bless you, looking much more like a man going to be 'ung than to marry Miss Ella. 'Bottles "ere, of course,' he says: "I am a fool,' says he. But mark my words, there will be trouble some of these days, and all through that woman. T'aint often ladies comes promiscuous-like, and pays visits to gents as is going to be married, and makes 'em cuss and swear awful."

To which Miss Melia, who was much given to the reading of penny novels-" Mary the Faithless; or, the Haunted Murderer!" and such like-nor completely innocent of studious poring over the “Book of Fate," made answer, "Well, to be sure, now, Mr. Jeames, it is a bad omen when gentlemen is savage on their wedding mornings!"

The lesson I would draw from this is-that nothing escapes the attention of servants. Because you have some skeleton deeply hidden in the cupboard-because you have some secret sorrow preying at your heart-it follows not that it is hidden from the valet who brings your hot water, or the footman who stands behind your chair. Veil your sins, your foibles, your misfortunes, from your friends and intimates, from your family, as you may, you will not do so from the observant eyes of Martha, or John Thomas, or Eliza the cook. You drink a little more wine than is your wont at dinner-you push away your plate somewhat sharply-a sharp, contracted spasm contorts your mouth these things have been noticed, and will be talked of the same night, and furnish agreeable pabulum for the servants' eupper-table.

In the same way, if you are in business, the secret of a coming smash you may successfully hide from the world of your acquaintance-to them you may appear just the same well-to-do, warm man they have always known you, and they entertain not the slightest suspicion of the coming storm; but all these things are known to the boy who carries your letters, or sweeps out your counting-house-to the very humblest of your clerks. They have noticed the change in your face when the fatal letters have arrived; they have speculated on your anxiety to know whether a certain person has called at the office; and thus, when the final smash comes, and house, and furniture, and servants, and everything go to the dogs-when the rest of the world is thunderstruck, these people simply say, "Ab, always knew he could not last long." Little do you think that when the slightest change takes place in your countenance, or the least taste in life of a curse escapes the barrier of your teeth, that these things are carefully and minutely noted by the liveried menial who takes your money for service done, and that he does his best to propagate and make known generally the state of affairs. Easily, too, is it

done, and the whole world made au fait with your secret doings. For John Tummas tells Miss Eliza in confidence, and when she skips over to the general shop to buy a bit of ribbon she tells the shopkeeper in confidence, and the latter, in turn, tells her customers in confidence, till the whole thing, like Samson's foxes, is blazing all round the place.

Such is the penalty of polite civilized lifehaving to keep a set of people around us, who are spies on our most hidden conduct, and telegraph our every saying to the world at large. "Save me from my friends!" should now be translated into "Save me from my servants!"

CHAP. XV.

"THE WIFE'S TRIALS."

"ROYAL THESPIAN THEATRE. 200th Night of the exciting Drama of THE WIFE'S TRIALS. Engagement of MADAME CORALINE BRABAZON, from the Continental and American Theatres. Free-list entirely suspended. Lessee and Manager, Mr. Lawrence Hilton.

To this effect was the announcement, which was posted all over London in posters of all the colours of the rainbow-on omnibuses, on dead walls, or gigantic waggons; for Lawrence Hilton understood the magic art of advertising thoroughly, and knew that the man who would succeed in these days of competition must have for his motto, "Advertise! Advertise!" The little fib about the Continental and American theatres he reconciled to his conscience by arguing that a novelty would not draw the public did it not bring credentials from the Continental theatres, and he was very right. In these days, when people go into raptures over "the part of the Dane," played by a German, and the sweet love-story of Juliet, rendered with much impassioned gesture and much display of exuberant charm, by a Stella Colas, when the theatre--goers have wept by the hour over the miseries and death of a persecuted Leah, as played by that wondrous daughter of America Miss Bateman, he was fully aware that to take, a new actress lost nothing by being foreign; still he thought it a pitiable thing that the days of native British talent were gone by, and that people could listen no longer to the marvellous Shylock of Edmund Kean, nor shudder as they beheld the wondrous acting of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth. But so it is. He that wishes to prosper must please the public taste; and, should the public taste be depraved, the manager must heave a sigh over departed glory, and turn "to fresh fields and pastures new."

Meanwhile, the famous actress who was to startle the playgoing Londoners was settled comfortably in lodgings of the kind manager's choice in a quiet street adjoining the Thespian, so that she might lose no time and incur no

trouble in attending the frequent rehearsals. | first rehearsal was over she had the satisfaction And here for awhile, in the fresh excitement and amid the hurly-burly of London life, she forgot for a short time the trouble that was haunting her, just as one forgets the excruciating pain of a toothache, or heart-ache for the matter of that, in the perusal of some engrossing story; but in the silent watchings of the night, when the day's excitement was over, then came back the furies to tear her heart and howl around her bed-to her as to Orestes, haunted by the grim Erinnyes. The sweet restorer sleep brought no cessation from care: as the body was relaxed from occupation, the mind became more exposed to the terrors of grief and remorse. Times methinks are changed, since Oliver Goldsmith penned those stanzas of his'When lovely woman stoops to folly," or, in his own sweet unworldly simplicity, he saw not actual but ideal life; for certainly, in this our day, the "lovely woman" tries every art to wring her lover's bosom but dying.

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of knowing that she played as "though to the manner born," and several of the actors who were to play with her-Algernon Montfort, the heavy tragedian, who played the false husband's part, and Miss Travers, who was the second wife-warmly complimented her on her acting, and assured her that she was quite a relief after Madame Vertot, who never let a rehearsal end without a shindy with them all round. From these people Nathalie shrank instinctively, not that she deemed them anything but quiet, unassuming persons enough; but they were not the slightest use to her in the grand object of her life-simply those upon whom her lot was just now cast, and were not deserving of notice, and as they have nothing to do with the story I shall spare the reader a detailed account of the various actors, their appearance and peculiarities. If it be true that "all the world's a stage," it holds good that every stage is a little world in itself, and people quarrel and make up their Some prefer to play "the lovely and accom- quarrels, fraternize and cut one another, very plished victim" part in the Divorce Court, and much the same as they do in real society. For to obtain heavy damages; others prefer nursing the manager, Lawrence Hilton, her regard intheir wrath, till they can be revenged, and of creased every day; there was so much real kindthis kind was Nathalie Duprez. With her, as ness in his conduct towards her, so much of with Charlotte Corday, the idea of revenge had gentlemanly courtesy in his dealings with his become almost a religion; she clung to and wor- company, that her heart began insensibly to shipped the faint hope of distant revenge, and recognize the presence of an equal. Well she she hoped to make it as signal and as knew that he had accepted the engagement at celebrated as that of the simple country girl, very great risk-the risk almost of his good who rid the world of the detestable tiger Marat. name with the public-and she honoured the "Jealousy is cruel as the grave, if love is strong large-hearted man for his kindness. Had it as death." In a man the passion for revenge not been for him, she might at that moment sometimes dies out; he has not the intensity of have been reduced to beg her bread in the cold purpose which a woman possesses: she never streets, or, worse still, might have been comforgets and never forgives. At present, how-pelled to have had recourse to that little phial of ever, the winning of daily bread was the chief colourless liquid which the Obeah woman had object, and Nathalie bestowed all the power of given her, and rushed into her Maker's presence her mind on the piece she was to play in, to such "unhouseiled, unannealed." There was a purpose that she really thought that she had large fountain of gratitude still in her woman's been born an actress, and that the manager's heart, which sorrow and despair had not comidea was a correct one. She mastered the con- pletely crushed out, and this with true foreign ception thoroughly; and though the play was warmth she lavished upon her benefactor, her nothing very extraordinary in its plot, the most saviour-for so she called him, much to Hilton's that could be said for it was that it was some-wonderment, who could not conceive what all what painfully true to life, and that was all; the language was of the regular tragedy style, very turgid and very nonsensical: it had been written for effect-stage effect simply-and some of the positions were startling and dramatic enough.

Nathalie's predecessor- -a gay voluble, but excessively handsome woman-had not rendered the part of the wife much justice; she relied principally on the very liberal exposure of her charms (which pleased the stalls) and a continental reputation. The first rehearsal which Nathalie attended was a nervous thing for her. All the theatrical jargon was so strange to her, the stage directions so complicated and puzzling, that she wondered she did not break down before the enquiring gaze of the company, who scanned her every movement; but, like many other things, theatrical puzzles may be solved by patient observation; and when the

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the mystery was about. On the Sunday preced-
ing her first appearance before the public he
had invited her to dinner at Bayswater, and,
though hesitatingly, she did accept the kindly-
meant offer; for it was wearying to sit in her
solitary room, the prey
of her own reflection,
with nothing to distract her but, ever and anon,
the cry of Watercreases," in the street below,
or the monotonous cry of the milkman. Hilton
called for her himself, in his carriage, and people
wondered whether this dark, handsome lady,
who looked so sad, was the new actress, as they
bowed their acknowledgments to the well-
known manager. That Sunday's dinner at the
Bayswater Cottage was an event in Nathalie's
life, so peaceful and refined, it seemed that she
bad found rest at last, and, as it were, a firm
place for the sole of her foot, after battling with
the sea of troubles. Two gentler, tenderer crea-
tures than Jane and Harriet Hilton never

breathed, their only fault, if fault it could be, was a devoted admiration of their brother. They absolutely worshipped him, and, although they were averse to theatres and operas as a rule, would nevertheless attend the first representation of his new pieces with the most religious regularity, and pretend a great enthusiasm In the thing which they did not actually feel, simply because they knew it pleased him. As for old Mr. Hilton, he was fast losing all concern for the world and its belongings, and was cheerfully awaiting for the close of his life when he might join his Mary in Heaven. A cloudy stormy life bad his been, and great his struggles to keep his son at a decent school till he was well launched into the world; but now, poor soul, he was very like that Barzillai, the Gileadite, and he might have well echoed the veteran's mournful plaint: "I am this day fourscore years old, and can I discern between good and evil? can thy servant taste what I eat and drink? can I hear any more the voices of singing men and singing women?" His only wish was that he might die in his own city and be buried by his father and mother. Yet, when Lawrence Hilton's well-earned success came to his ears, his fine old face would brighten, and a gleam of fire would glisten in his eye, and he would pat his favourite son's head, and say: "Well done Larry, good boy. My heart is proud to hear this, good boy." And then the white head would drop feebly, and he would sink into childishness again.

This was the household that Nathalie was introduced to. What wonder that she felt at peace that quiet sabbath evening, and forgot her troubles? And when dinner was over, and Laurence ensconced in his favourite arm-chair, with his cigar, opposite the old man his father, Nathalie did not require much pressing, but went to the piano and played, with beautiful touch, the grand Preghiera from "Moïsé in Egitto," and after that sang, with devotional sweetness, simple hymns which brought the tears into the manager's eyes; and crowned the whole by giving them "O Salutaris Hostia," till the melody of her fine voice filled the room as with waves of music, and rolled out far into the stillness of the night, whilst the passers-by stopped enchanted, and drank in every note of the magnificent composition. And then came prayers; for Hilton's was a religious household, and the family had an old-fashioned habit of ending each day by family prayer, no matter who the guests might be so that it was commonly said that stage celebrities heard prayers there who heard them in no place of worship; for your actor generally is not a man of deep religious impressions. To read prayers was Hetty's task, and the dear woman gave her whole soul to the words-not to her mere words of form and ceremony-and who shall describe the influence they had over the poor wayfaring stranger who knelt there, and of the fearful struggle they caused? Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us." What strange words were these, that con

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vulsed the kneeling woman's form with sobs, which seemed bursting from a broken heart! "Ah! poor thing. I am afraid all is not right with her, Larry," said the tender-hearted Hetty, when she had taken her departure.

"There is some great grief evidently pressing upon her mind, I can see that at a glance. I would that I could help her!" returned the manager; "but it is a delicate thing, you see, Hetty dear, to inquire into circumstances of this sort. One thing I do know, and that is, a better actress never trod the boards; and I shan't be surprised if she attracts immense houses."

At last came round the eventful night which was to witness Nathalie's first appearance upon any stage; and it is useless to deny that she felt a choking, burning sensation in her throat, and a giddiness in her head, as she prepared for the trial. with me when I say that there can possibly be no greater trial to the nerves than to appear before a crowded assembly for the first time, the cynosure of every eye. It is certainly bad enough to preach the first sermon, or to make the maiden speech in the House, though in the former case the criticisms are not outspoken, only the gaze of the congregation fixed pitilessly curiously on the new preacher, too ready to find fault should occasion present itself; but on the stage those horrors are increased tenfold. There is the danger of forgetting one's part, or breaking down, and the dread of the storms of applause or hisses (both equally fatal) from the noisy gallery. Nothing can equal the stagefright; the unfortunate débutant loses, at the same time, all voice, nerve, and sight, and stares hopelessly for a few moments at the sea of upturned faces.

Many who peruse these pages will agree

Nathalie's fame seemed to have gone before her, and the Thespian that night, long ere it was her turn to go on, was crammed to excess. The regular pit-goers had sat through the roaring farce, " Margate Sands," which preceded "The Wife's Trials," and patiently waited for the new actress, and meanwhile regaled themselves affably on oranges, and stout, and gingerbeer, as is the manner of those in the pit.

And now came dropping into the stalls and boxes the upper ten-men from the clubs and dinner-parties-who had forsaken the whisttable entirely that night, to see "that new woman Hilton has got; wather a swell, they say!" and settled down, languidly, into their seats, and stroked their amber moustaches complacently. Then ladies (late of course), in all the witchery of evening toilet and resplendent beauty, began to gleam amidst the sombre array of black-coated men, like gay parterres of flowers; and, last of all, the whole house rose as a Royal personage entered the State-box, and bowed, smiling, to the crowded assembly, and people whispered:

"How well the Prince is looking to-night!" One, two, three, and crash breaks out the orchestra into Auber's most brilliant overture

that to "The Crown Diamonds"-a mad medley of delicious music, the echoes of which are borne to Nathalie's ear as she tremblingly adjusts her dress for the first scene, and receives Lawrence Hilton's last injunctions to keep steady, and not think of the people at alljust to fancy the story was her own, and throw all her spirit into it. A faint smile was Nathalie's only response. She was beginning to feel the trials of her position; but she held up bravely, conscious that so much depended upon her.

Softly the crash of the contending instruments has died away into a dreamy echo, and the conductor resumes his seat.

"Madame Brabazon!" shouts the call-boy; and, with a step she knew not how, Nathalie found herself face to face with the mighty house, with every eye and every opera-glass in the vast assembly turned upon her.

The first scene was to represent the happy married life of Sydney Delville (Algernon Montfort) and his deceived bride Kate Delville, the heroine of the play. There was nothing to call for much comment in this scene; but Nathalie, as she progressed, felt her powers coming back to her, and played the part of the fond, happy wife to perfection, ever at Sydney's side, and keeping at bay the crowd of his fellow-officers; but her triumph was to come.

The curtain fell on the first act, and people began to think that the new actress was not so good as Madame Vertot. Certainly the latter had more vivacity.

"Well done, Madame Brabazon!" said her fellow-actor-" couldn't have been better!"

But the anxious manager, in a side-box, felt not very exultant as he read the feelings of the house. He would have liked a greater demonstration of feeling than the few" Bravos" which fell on his ears.

Meanwhile, Nathalie had changed her dress into one of squalid poverty. She was supposed to be deserted by her treacherous husband and friends, and reduced to beg her bread. And now the triumph of her acting began.

When the curtain rose on one of the prettiest scenes of the play-"a country village, labourers drinking"-the applause of the house was tremendous, and increased as Nathalie, in sorrow, with her infant in her arms, crawled forth to beg alms of the rustics. No need of paint, or cork-lines, to simulate the agony in that fine countenance; the very presence of woe itself was there; and the beautiful voice, so plaintive in its earnest petition, that the eyes of the tenderer part began to fill; and men felt a sort of choking sensation. The labourers (as stage-labourers always do) made a series of unmeaning noises amongst themselves, supposed to be significant of their desire for a song, and then Nathalie, sinking down on a rude bench, began the mournful song described before:

"For the weary heart in Death there's rest." The effect was electrical: even before the last

wild note had died away, a storm of applause burst from all sides of the house. The gallery was in extacies, and yelled “hangcore!" at the top of their voice; and ladies clapped their little hands till their gloves were rent in frag

ments.

"Nathalie almost cowered before the storm of cheers, but recovered enough to sing one last stanza over again, to the frantic delight of the | gallery, and more than one bouquet fell on the stage.

"That will do," thought Hilton; and he rushed into the green-room, and shook the new actress warmly by the hand. "The song has done it all. My sisters have been crying no end," he exclaimed. "I hope you don't feel fatigued. This is the last scene now, and then all will be over, and your success complete."

Meanwhile, the false Sydney is supposed to have married again, and, with his wife, is staying at a seaport-town over the honeymoon. The last scene was a miracle of the painter's art, representing the beach crowded with idlers, the calm sea beyond, and the large hotel where Sydney is staying. Nathalie enters, dressed this time in mourning weeds, for the loss of her babe, and dragging her weary limbs along the stage, evidently in the last state of consumption; and here her make-up was perfect-and the hollow cheeks and fiery eyes spoke of the destroyer; and the voice, weak and trembling, now craved but a bit of bread. She crawls up the hotel steps, and is face to face with her husband; and the wild shriek that rang through the house then made people shudder. With renewed strength at the sight of the loved one, she almost rises to her full height, and points to the shrinking woman at his side, and asks him who it is that stands where she has the right to be.

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Sydney, of course, trembles and blanches, like all stage-villains; and replies, huskily: Ada, my love, leave me a moment. I know this woman," and advances to support the excited creature.

Beautiful was the ray of pleasure and hope that spread over the dying wife's face as she whispered: "Ah! now I am happy, Sydney, happy," and, amid the deathlike stillness of the house, sobs from the audience were distinctly heard, and cambric handkerchiefs freely used. Sydney, who was that woman?"

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Katie, forgive me!-O God, forgive me!that woman is my wife-and you I was never married to."

Nathalie, as she was about to rise, just cast her eyes up to the stalls, and there (could she be mistaken? Ah, no! too painfully distinct) there was Grantley! looking excessively uncomfortable; and with him a beautiful girl, in white, who must be his wife. She felt that she was going to faint. Was it possible that Grantley did not recognize her?

With a mighty effort she recovered consciousness, and proceeded with the acting, while her heart felt like a stone within her. Little did the people who hung upon her every word and

gesture know the secret of that impassioned display-one only in that crowded house; and he was playing a part of his own, quietly and skilfully.

dience were in a state of the utmost perplexity, really not knowing what to do; so they patiently waited, and broke up into little knots, and admired the new actress's wonderful acting. The "Did you ever see such fine acting?" said curtain fell, and the orchestra commenced Ella to her husband, as they sat in their stall."God save the Queen!" But louder far than "The woman does it all as if it were real. And I declare, Harry, she is looking up this Is she not magnificently beautiful?"

way.

Grantley heard not a syllable of what was said. Too well he could see the vengeful eyes fixed upon him with that dreadful glare; too well he knew the reason of all this acting. Everything seemed going against him. He must leave London at once, lest this vengeful woman find him out, and expose him in the midst of his day-dream, and break his wife's heart.

I

He felt excessively relieved when young Lord Sefton entered the box, followed by our friend Robson, who had, as he said, "tooled up from garrison to see the wonderful woman, you know. Ah, and I declare and here's Grantley! How d'ye do, old fellow? Wish you all kind of joy! And how d'ye do, Mrs. Grantley? House very full, isn't it?-enough to choke one. can't see the fun, myself, of broiling by the hour in these places; so Sefton and I have had a quiet pool, and then turned in here. Fine woman, isn't she-splendid woman?-and acts to the point, can assure you. I seem to thinkaw-that I've seen her before: all fancy I suppose, and that sort of thing, you know. Look at her now! by Jove, I shouldn't care about being that fellow Delville; he seems to be getting it hot and strong. That's right, ma'am, warm him freely! Been long back, Mrs. Grantley?-hope to see you soon again at Turlminster. Dreadfully slow now there. Thanks, no-I haven't been married yet, 'pon my word. I believe nobody will have me; I'm too small. Ah, brava! that was well said. I hope the gentleman in the swellattire feels that. How dye'do, Lady Lufton ?"

Thus prattled the harmless, good-tempered little Ensign, and thought what a rise he would take out of the fellows at Turlminster by the recital of all this.

Grantley sat moodily concealed in the shadow of the curtain, not daring to look at the stage, where the scene was fast coming to an end.

The injured wife's dying curse was fast drawing to its climax, and the orchestra had commenced the slow music to which Nathalie was to die, when an exclamation from Lord Sefton startled the inmates of the box.

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the instruments, and the crash of the drums, arose a mighty shout, that shook the building, for the new actress.

"Madame Brabazon! Madame Brabazon !" ceased, and Hilton came before the curtain and And the shouts got so frantic that the orchestra

bowed.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I would willingly gratify you in presenting Madame Brabazon to you; but, unfortunately, she has not quite recovered from a fainting-fit. Let me return my sincerest thanks for the compliment you have paid her."

A little lull followed this speech; then a voice cried, "We'll wait till she's all right-see her we must!" And the hurricane raged again more furiously.

Hilton, on his return, found Nathalie perfectly conscious, but very pale and trembling.

"I am very sorry, but I am afraid that you frantic to see you. It will only be a moment. must show yourself for a moment: they are Lean on my arm. You feel better now, don't will not be contented unless you appear!" you? It was the heat, I suppose. Hark! they "Oh rest on your arm. Thanks, I can manage it I will go," said Nathalie, "if I may now." And they went on before the curtain.

yes,

"Hur

"Hurrah!" Wilder rose the storm of cheers again, as Nathalie bowed repeatedly. rah! with three-times-three for the manager!"

Charles Kean once said, "The house rose at me as one man!"- -so might the actress have said this night, for the storm only died away when everyone's physical power of shouting was exhausted, and fitful shouts would break out ever and anon, till the house was empty once more. People lingered to talk of the wonderful actress as they went home.

"Poor creater!" said a motherly-looking woman, "she must 'ave 'ad a sight of trouble to look like that. Did you notice, Mrs. 'Arris, how her poor face was all lined, like? I don't believe as it was all hacting, myself. I never cried so much in all my born days-the poor lone thing and her little babby-and I arn't certain that my man didn't cry too: he was terrible and husky, I know, when he spoke about it!"

"My eyes, Bill, wasn't she stunning as the dying wife? though, mind you, I wouldn't like to live with her-not by no means! She's got something nasty in her eye when she looks like that!"

I say, look there! What can be the row, Robson? Good God, the woman has fainted!" It was so. Overcome by the fatigue of the When Nathalie reached her home that night, acting, and the shock from seeing Grantley, after escaping from the congratulations of the Nathalie had, just at the moment when Sefton company and such as were favoured to enter spoke, sunk into a deathly swoon on the stage. the green-room (for Lawrence Hilton was firm Hilton saw the occurrence immediately, and in his role not to allow danglers of any kind dashed into the green-room for some water, behind the scenes, to annoy or disgust the acwith which he proceeded to lave the face and tresses), she felt as if the days of her life were temples of the lifeless woman, whilst the au-over-a sickly, throbbing sensation seemed to

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