Cruel Barbara Allen | Page 4

am much mistaken, you will
not long have to mourn that unpleasant condition of affairs.'
'Are your parents aware of your design, Miss Allen?' This from the
lady.
'I have no parents,' faltered Barbara. 'I am living with my uncle.'
'Does he know your wishes in this matter?'

'No,' said Barbara, and the feeling of guilt returned.
'If he is willing to entrust you to my tuition,' said Mrs. Lochleven
Cameron, 'I should be willing to instruct you without charge on
condition that you bound yourself to pay to Mr. Cameron one-third of
your earnings for the first three years.'
This opened up a vista to Barbara, but she was certain that her uncle
would give his consent to no such arrangement.
'You had better lay the matter before your uncle, Miss Allen,' said the
tragedian. 'Without his consent, Mrs. Lochleven Cameron could not see
her way to an arrangement. She is; aware--as I am--of the undeserved
stigma which has been cast upon the profession by bigotry and
ignorance. She has no respect for the prejudice--nor have I--but she will
not violate the feelings of those who are so unfortunate as to suffer
under it.'
'Ye're quite right, Joe,' said Mrs. Cameron colloquially, and then, with
added grandeur, to Barbara, 'Mr. Lochleven Cameron expresses me
own feelings admirably.'
Barbara made no reply. It would have been sweet to work for
Christopher even by so audacious a means as going on the stage. But
the vision crumbled when she thought of her uncle. She dropped her
veil and drew on her gloves slowly, and as she did so a rapid step
ascended to the front door, there came the click of a latch-key, the slam
of the street door as it closed, and then, with an imperative knock
which awaited no answer, a young man rushed into the room and
shouted,
'Done at last!'
There was triumph in this young man's eyes, and the flush of triumph
on his cheek. He was a handsome young fellow of perhaps
five-and-twenty, with a light curling beard and a great blonde
moustache. His clothes were a little seedy, but he looked like a
gentleman. He did not notice Barbara, and the tragedian and his wife

apparently forgot her presence.
'You don't mean------?' began Mrs. Lochleven
Cameron.
'But I do mean it,' cried the new-comer.
'Rackstraw has taken it. It is to be put in rehearsal on Monday, and
billed for Monday-week. How's that for high, eh?'
'Good, dear boy, good!' said the tragedian, and the two shook hands.
'But that's not all,' said the new-comer. 'Milford was there.'
'The London Milford?' asked Mr. Cameron.
'The London Milford,' said the other. 'Milford of the Garrick. He heard
me read it, prophesied a great run for it, has promised to come down
again and see it, and if it fulfils his hopes of it, means to take it up to
town. In fact, it's as good as settled.'
'I congratulate ye, me boy,' said Mr. Cameron. 'I knew ye'd hit 'em one
of these fine days. I knew ut.'
Through all this, which she only half understood, Barbara was silent.
She took advantage of the lull which followed the tragedian's
expression of friendly triumph to recall Mrs. Cameron to the
knowledge of her presence.
'I will speak to my uncle,' she said, 'and I will write to you.'
The stranger looked round when she spoke, and snatched his hat off.
Barbara bent her head in general salutation and went her way. When
she left the street, she could scarcely believe that it had not all been a
dream. It was so unlike herself to do anything so bold-She felt more
and more guilty as she waited for the coach, more and more afraid of
confiding to her uncle such a scheme as that she had so hastily formed.
When she reached home she made one or two inward overtures towards

the attempt, but her courage failed her, and she kept silence. Yet she
used to think sometimes that if she had the power to shorten poor
Christopher's struggles, it was almost a crime not to do it.
CHAPTER II.
We who live in London know well enough that its streets are not paved
with gold. If one had asked Christopher his opinion on that point, he
would no doubt have laughed at the childishness of the question, yet he
came up to London with all the confidence and certainty which the old
childish belief could have inspired. He was coming to make his fortune.
That went without saying. He was brim-full of belief in himself, to
begin with. 'The world's mine oyster,' he thought, as the cheap
parliamentary train crawled from station to station. The world is my
oyster, for that matter, but the edible mollusc is hidden, and