They had parted with Leighton in the full zenith of his career, Keene the rising young actor of five-and-twenty, even then considered by old playgoers to be far in advance of all others.
The one had been cut down in the prime of his manhood, his life’s happiness seared by one of the basest treacheries ever perpetrated by a friend. His enthusiasm damped, his sensitive nature shrinking beneath the blow, he could not endure the former publicity that had attached to his lightest action, preferring to live in an obscure country town, away from the torment of the world’s pity.
“You have reached so high a pinnacle that the critics cannot influence, yet you will not disdain my congratulations, Francis. You were always greater far than I, and to your own power you add that of unrivalled management——”
Keene laughingly put his hand over the speaker’s mouth.
“Opinions differ, my dear Lyon. I would give a very great deal to have the old days revived. You worked wonders with your pupil here. I had little or nothing to add to your training, given at such disadvantage.”
“I should like to witness the performance to-night from the front, if it can be managed. Can you put me somewhere out of sight?” Fenton asked; “if not——”
“Your chair will be placed in the stage box,” Keene answered, softly; “no one shall bother you. Colin Carroll—you remember him?”
“The writer? Yes; a very amusing fellow.”
“He has married since you knew him—a charming little woman. I thought of asking them to take care of you; here they are.”
“And Mr. Gascoigne!” cried Muriel. “Mr. Keene, you are inimitable.”