Miss Bretherton | Page 5

imagine he argued something like this: "Beauty
extraordinary--character everything that could be desired--talent not
much. So that the things to stake on are the beauty and the character,
and let the talent take care of itself." Anyhow, he got her on to the
Kingston theatre--a poor little place enough--and he and the aunt, that
sour-looking creature you saw with her, looked after her like dragons.
Naturally, she was soon the talk of Kingston: what with her looks and
her grace and the difficulty of coming near her, the whole European
society, the garrison, Government House, and all, were at her feet.
Then the uncle played his cards for a European engagement. You
remember that Governor Rutherford they had a little time ago? the
writer of that little set of drawing-room plays--Nineteenth Century
Interludes, I think he called them? It was his last year, and he started
for home while Isabel Bretherton was acting at Kingston. He came
home full of her, and, knowing all the theatrical people here, he was
able to place her at once. Robinson decided to speculate in her,
telegraphed out for her, and here she is, uncle, aunt, and invalid sister
into the bargain.'
'Oh, she has a sister?'
'Yes; a little, white, crippled thing, peevish--cripples generally are--but
full of a curious force of some hidden kind. Isabel is very good to her,
and rather afraid of her. It seems to me that she is afraid of all her
belongings. I believe they put upon her, and she has as much capacity
as anybody I ever knew for letting herself be trampled upon.'
'What, that splendid, vivacious creature!' said Kendal incredulously. 'I

think I'd back her for holding her own.'
'Ah, well, you see,' said the American, with the quiet superiority of a
three weeks' acquaintance, 'I know something of her by now, and she's
not quite what you might think her at first sight. However, whether she
is afraid of them or not, it's to be hoped they will take care of her.
Naturally, she has a splendid physique, but it seems to me that London
tries her. The piece they have chosen for her is a heavy one, and then of
course society is down upon her, and in a few weeks she'll be the rage.'
'I haven't seen her at all,' said Kendal, beginning perhaps to be a little
bored with the subject of Miss Bretherton, and turning, eye-glass in
hand, towards the sculpture. 'Come and take me some evening.'
'By all means. But you must come and meet the girl herself at my
sister's next Friday. She will be there at afternoon tea. I told Agnes I
should ask anybody I liked. I warned her--you know her little
weaknesses!--that she had better be first in the field: a month hence, it
will be impossible to get hold of Miss Bretherton at all.'
'Then I'll certainly come, and do my worshipping before the crowd
collects,' said Kendal, adding, as he half-curiously shifted his eye-glass
so as to take in Wallace's bronzed, alert countenance, 'How did you
happen to know her?'
'Rutherford introduced me. He's an old friend of mine.'
'Well,' said Kendal, moving off, 'Friday, then. I shall be very glad to see
Mrs. Stuart; it's ages since I saw her last.'
The American nodded cordially to him, and walked away. He was one
of those pleasant, ubiquitous people who know every one and find time
for everything--a well-known journalist, something of an artist, and still
more of a man of the world, who went through his London season with
some outward grumbling, but with a real inward zest such as few
popular diners-out are blessed with. That he should have attached
himself to the latest star was natural enough. He was the most discreet
and profitable of cicerones, with a real talent for making himself useful

to nice people. His friendship for Miss Bretherton gave her a certain
stamp in Kendal's eyes, for Wallace had a fastidious taste in
personalities and seldom made a mistake.
Kendal himself walked home, busy with very different thoughts, and
was soon established at his writing-table in his high chambers
overlooking an inner court of the Temple. It was a bright afternoon; the
spring sunshine on the red roofs opposite was clear and gay; the old
chimney-stacks, towering into the pale blue sky, threw sharp shadows
on the rich red and orange surface of the tiles. Below, the court was
half in shadow, and utterly quiet and deserted. To the left there was a
gleam of green, atoning for its spring thinness and scantiness by a vivid
energy of colour; while straight across the court, beyond the rich
patchwork of the roofs and the picturesque outlines of the chimneys, a
delicate piece of white stone-work rose into air--the spire