King Hans lived to a good old age, and died a good man and wise monarch. *       *       *       *       *

It would be in vain to describe the enthusiasm that prevailed as Helen
concluded her fairy tale. Any story that partook at all of the
marvellous was sure to meet with thorough appreciation, whoever might be
the teller; but when the sunny dreams of fairyland were shaped into
words by lips so rosy as those of our host's daughter, Methuselah
himself might have felt his blood boil in his veins. All the old fogies of the club felt their youth suddenly restored to
them, and it was all they could do to keep themselves from falling
prostrate at the feet of the fair story-teller. As for our artist, he
had lost his heart long ago. Here was a pretty to do! As for Helen, I'm
afraid that she had caught the complaint. What was to be done? Well,
never mind at present; perhaps the dart may not have struck very deep. But here comes our host, who, roused by the boisterous cheering of the
guests, has come to call away his daughter to her meal. And high time,
too, unless he wishes all their heads to be turned by this bewitching
enchantress. The eulogiums on Helen's beauty, manners, and powers for story-telling
lasted until dinner time, and such an impression had her story and
manner of telling it made upon all, that no one felt inclined either to
relate or listen to another, and the club actually retired to rest that
evening without a story. CHAPTER VIII. THE HAUNTED STAGE BOX.--THE TRAGEDIAN'S STORY. The following morning was bright, clear, and frosty. At an early hour
two of our guests were to leave the "Headless Lady" by the mail for
London. These two were Captain Toughyarn and our comic friend, Mr.
Jollytoast. Each had urgent business on hand, and the other members of
the club had risen to see them off. Breakfast had been laid for these two worthies; their companions seated
themselves at the same table, and chatted with them whilst waiting for
the stage-coach. "Well, captain," said Mr. Oldstone, "after you return from your next
voyage, you'll visit us again and have another dream over our punch like
that last one of yours, won't you?" "Ay, ay, messmate," replied the captain; "you may be sure of that. That
is to say, if we are all still in the land of the living. I'd come, even
if I had no other inducement than the bright eyes of our host's pretty
daughter." "Avast there! captain," said Mr. Jollytoast. "Remember the mermaid! Think of Lurline! Take care, lest Helen should prove even more
dangerous." Just then the horn of the stage-coach was heard in the distance, and in
a short time the horses were at the door. Our two travellers took their
seats, after having been repeatedly invited to return, and some jovial
sallies having passed between our host and the driver over a stiff glass
of grog, the coach started, and was soon out of sight. After their two
friends had departed the rest of the club set out together for an hour's
stroll before breakfast, to enjoy the fresh morning air, walking all of
them abreast, and taking up all the carriage road. The way was long and lonely--not a soul stirring, and the landscape as
far as they could see covered with snow; but the sky was cheerful, and
the little birds sang overhead. Our club felt exhilarated by the nipping
air, and discoursed by the way on divers subjects, until Mr. Oldstone,
whose appetite for stories was insatiable, said that he saw no reason
why Mr. Blackdeed's story that was to come next should not enliven their
walk. The proposal was seconded, and Mr. Blackdeed, finding himself
loudly called upon, began his story thus:

I must begin, then, gentlemen, by informing you that my family name is
not the one I bear at present. It is many years since I dropped that. My
father was of good family, and possessed a large estate in ----shire. I
was an only son, and should have inherited my father's estate, had not a
rascally uncle of mine cheated me out of it. I was looked upon as a lad of great promise by my fond parents, and
from earliest youth seemed destined for the stage; for as far back as I
can remember my greatest delight was to see a pantomime. I was more
precocious than the general run of children at my age, for at an age
when few children have begun to read I was already manager of a toy
theatre. This taste of mine grew with my growth, and was encouraged by
my parents--probably because they saw it was an innocent amusement and
kept me out of mischief. At ten years old I began to write plays, in which I used to act myself
and invite my schoolfellows to act with me. This rendered me very
popular at school, both with the boys and with the masters, and I won
many a prize for public speaking and for learning by heart long passages
from Shakespeare and other poets. At fourteen I grew ambitious, and published a book of plays under my own
name, which, unluckily, was cut up unmercifully by the critics. This was
mortifying enough, but added to this I had to bear my father's
displeasure for having published the book under his name, my parent
believing it a great disgrace for a son of his to write books or plays. So he gave me a severe reprimand, and from that time forth thought it
his duty to discourage my taste for the drama. But nature will have her
own way, in spite of whatever obstacles parents, and friends place in
her path, and at fifteen I yearned for the mysteries of the "green
room." I had secretly, but no less determinedly, set my heart on following the
stage as a profession, and one day my father took me into his study, and
said it was high time I should make up my mind what profession to
follow. I replied that I had made up my mind already what profession to
follow. I told him that I intended to be an actor. At this he told me to
get such ideas out of my head as soon as possible, that he would never
allow a son of his to disgrace his name by associating it with the
stage. I repeated my determination. He grew furious, and after beating me,
locked me up in my room and ordered bread and water to be brought to me
by a servant. This treatment, he told me, was to last until I had come
to my senses. However well this mode of proceeding might have answered
with a youth of less spirit, it did not answer with me. Even an ordinary
boy of fifteen is no child, and I at that age was equal to a man of
twenty. I felt the indignity of this treatment as an excessively sensitive
organisation would. I refused to touch either the bread or the water,
and meditated an escape from the paternal roof, never to return. Now, it happened that at that time there was in the village a band of
strolling players, who had hired a barn to act in. These I had been in
the habit of seeing act every evening, till my passion for the stage was
augmented to an intense degree. The players were to leave on the morrow. Here was an opportunity! I
would wait till the evening, escape by the window of my chamber, and
offer my services to the manager.