“_A man who habitually pleases himself will become continually more
selfish and sordid, even among the most noble and beautiful conditions
which nature, history, or art can furnish; and, on the other hand, any
one who will try each day to live for the sake of others, will grow more
and more gracious in thought and bearing, however dull and even squalid
may be the outward circumstances of his soul’s probation._”--Dean
Paget.
|Ralph’s chief comfort at this time was in a certain free library at no
great distance from his lodgings. He made his way there now, and for a
time lost the sense of his troubles in the world of books. This evening
he had the good fortune to light upon Stanley Weyman’s “House of the
Wolf,” a story which gave him keener and more healthy enjoyment than he
had known for many a day. When he came back to the everyday world again
and set out for his return walk to Paradise Street, he found that the
fog had very much increased and it was with great difficulty that he
could make out his way. As he was groping cautiously along an almost
deserted street, he was startled by the sound of a shrill, childish
voice.
“Let me go! Let me go!” it cried passionately. “How dare you stop me?
How dare you?”
Ralph ran in the direction of the sound, until in the fog and darkness,
he cannoned against the form of a man who turned angrily upon him,
revealing as he did so, in the dim lamplight which struggled through the
murky air, the evil face of an old _roué_. Fighting to free herself from
him, like a little wild-cat, was the figure of a mere child; her vigour
and agility were wonderful to behold and it was a task of no great
difficulty for Ralph to help in freeing her from the clutches of the
two-legged brute. Spite of the imperfect light, the child had been
quickwitted enough to recognise the new comer as a protector, and she
clung firmly to his hand as they went down the foggy street, never
pausing until all fear of further molestation was over. Then, panting
for breath, she stopped for a minute beneath a lamp-post, and in the
little oasis of light, looked searchingly up into his face as though to
make quite sure what manner of man he was. He saw now that she must
be older than he had thought; from her height he had fancied her about
eleven but he realised both by her face and her expression, that she
must be at least fifteen. Her colouring was curiously like Evereld’s but
the face was sharper, and had a funny look of assurance and knowledge
of the world, which was, nevertheless, belied by the childish curves of
cheek and chin, and by the nervous pressure with which she still clasped
his hand.
“I don’t know a bit what this street is,” she said, with tears in her
voice, “And if I don’t soon get home grandfather will be dreadfully
anxious about me.”
“Where is your home?” asked Ralph, feeling curiously drawn to the
forlorn little mortal who had crossed his path so strangely.
“It’s in Paradise Street, Vauxhall,” said the child.
“Ah, that’s lucky!” said Ralph. “My rooms are there too. What takes you
out at this time of night? It’s not safe for you to be wandering about
London alone.”
“I always do go alone,” said the child, a little indignantly. “And no
one ever dared to bother me before. One of the dressers always walks
with me as far as our roads lie together, but this bit I always do alone
ever since I went to the theatre.”
“Oh you are on the stage,” said Ralph, his interest increasing; “Well,
you are lucky to have work; it’s more than I can get.”
“I used only to dance,” said the child, eagerly. “But now I have a
little part of my own, but of course you won’t know my name yet, it’s
not much known. I am Miss Ivy Grant.”
There was a comical touch of pride and dignity in the words. Ralph’s
lip twitched, but he bowed gravely and said he was delighted to make
her acquaintance. Then, having walked a little further, they suddenly
realised what road they were in and without much more difficulty groped
their way home to Paradise Street.
“I want you to come in and see my grandfather,” said Ivy, pausing at her
door. “He will be very grateful to you for having helped me.”
Ralph hesitated. “It is late for me to come in now,” he said.
“It won’t be late for grandfather, he never settles in till after
midnight. He is half paralysed. Please come.”
He couldn’t find it in his heart to resist the pleading little
voice, and Ivy took him through the narrow passage and into the front
sitting-room, where they found a fine looking old man whose flowing,
white beard and many coloured dressing-gown gave him a sort of Eastern
look. The small, grey, critical eyes, however, were not Eastern at all
and when he spoke Ralph fancied that he could detect a slight Scotch
accent, which together with the tone of voice made him think somehow of
Sir Matthew Mactavish.
He looked searchingly at the new comer, but on Ivy’s hurried explanation
held out his hand cordially, thanking him for coming to the child’s aid
with a warmth which was evidently genuine.
“She has to be breadwinner-in-chief to the establishment,” he said,
with a smile, “And being a wise-like little body seldom gets into
difficulties. Being a useless old log myself I should long ago have
been hewn down and cast into the Union had it not been for the Ivy that
supported me.”
“You say those pretty things because you know it will make me come and
kiss you,” said Ivy, saucily, as she threw off her cloak and hat and
wreathed her arms about the old man’s neck. “And now while I get your
coffee ready you must talk to Mr. Denmead, for he wants work at the
theatre and can’t get it.”
“Half a dozen years ago when I was dramatic critic for the _Pennon_ I
might have done something for you,” said the old man, wistfully. “But
now I am little but a burden as I told you. A few pupils come to me
still for lessons in elocution, and I have the training of Ivy who is
going to be a credit to me.”
As he spoke he glanced towards the little housewife who with an air of
importance was preparing the supper. Ralph thought he had never before
seen any one move with such grace, and though her face was lacking
in the simplicity and peace which characterised Evereld, it was a
particularly winsome little face.
“How did you get on to-night little one?” said the old man.
“Very well,” said Ivy as she poured the coffee out of an ancient
percolator into three earthenware cups which had seen hard service.
Ralph observed that she kept the cup without a handle for herself, and
carefully selected him one which was without a chip on the drinking
side of the rim. “But I might easily have broken my leg,” she continued,
cheerfully; “for that stupid Jem had forgotten to shut one of the traps
properly, and Mr. Merrithorne stumbled and hurt his ankle badly.”
“What part does he play?” said her grandfather.
“Oh he hasn’t very much to do, he is a rather stupid footman and he was
bringing in the luncheon tray with the property pie and that old fowl
which wants painting again so badly, and when he tripped up, the pie
went bowling down the stage, and the fowl landed in Miss West’s lap and
every one roared with laughter. She was dreadfully angry, but afterwards
when it seemed that Mr. Merrithorne was really hurt she was rather sorry
for him.”
“Who is his understudy?”
“I don’t know. It is such a little part, perhaps he hasn’t one. But he
was limping dreadfully as he went away. I shouldn’t think he could act
to-morrow.”
“It’s possible that might give you a chance,” said the professor of
elocution. “A stupid, countrified man-servant you say, Ivy? Are you
pretty good at dialect?”
Ralph laughed, for he knew that he was an adept at a certain south
country dialect, and without more ado stood up and gave the Professor
a short and highly humourous dialogue between a ploughman and his boy,
with which he had often made Evereld and her governess laugh.
“Good,” said the Professor, his grey eyes twinkling, “I think you’ll
do young man; but come to me to-morrow morning at nine o’clock and I’ll
give you a few hints about voice production.”
Ralph coloured. “You are very good,” he said, “but to tell the truth
I am at my wit’s end for money and much as I would like lessons can’t
possibly afford them.”
“Pshaw! nonsense,” said the Professor, knitting his brows. “I’m already
in your debt, for it might have fared ill with the child had you not
taken care of her tonight. If I can give you a helping hand, nothing
would please me better. And after the lesson you might go round with
Ivy, and I’ll give you an introduction to the manager. He’s a man I knew
well at one time.”
Ralph’s face lighted up. “I should be very grateful,” he said, eagerly,
“for this waiting about for work is tedious enough, and I shall be
starved out before long.”
He went home much cheered and with great expectations. The Professor
interested him; there was something half mysterious about the
white-haired old man which puzzled him and piqued his curiosity. He was
particularly benevolent and kindly and yet he seemed as unpractical as
a mere visionary, and was surely to blame in letting a child like Ivy go
to and from the theatre each night alone.
Clearly the granddaughter was manager-in-chief as well as breadwinner,
and as he thought of her winsome little face with its shrewd, light-blue
eyes, slightly _retroussé_ nose, and small, firm mouth he felt a keen
desire to see more of her. She was so quaint in her brisk, housewifely
arrangements, so deft and clever in all her ways; a little conscious at
times, and quite capable of posing for effect, but lovable in spite of
that.
“I could soon laugh her out of those little affectations,” he thought to
himself. “And there is such a look of Evereld about her that she must at
heart be good. She is very clever, possibly she is even cunning, and she
has extraordinary tact--almost too much for such a child.”
He went to sleep and was haunted all night by that funny, pathetic,
little face of the child actress. Together they fled from a thousand
perils, and when next morning he saw her again face to face, it seemed
to him that they were quite old companions.
“Good day,” said the Professor in his bland, pleasant voice as Ralph was
ushered into the dreary little room. “Sit down for a minute, I have not
yet finished with my other pupil. Now sir! don’t mumble like a bee in a
bottle. You know well enough how to get the clear shock of the glottis
and that’s the secret of voice production. You have the voice and the
lungs and the knowledge of the method, but you are lazy, incorrigibly
lazy!”
The young man crimsoned and with an effort burst out with one of
Prospero’s speeches:
“I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
With that which, but by being so retired,
O’er prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature.”
There he was arrested; for the Professor thundered on the floor with his
walking stick, looking as if he would much have enjoyed laying it about
the victim’s shoulders.
His scathing sarcasms, his merciless interruptions, his sharp criticism,
would have tried the patience of Job himself, but his unfortunate
pupil struggled on and really improved marvellously, while Ralph sat an
observant spectator, learning not a little from all that went on. At the
close of the instruction the old man’s serenity of manner returned--he
even praised the youth he had so violently abused but a minute before.
The reason of this soon transpired; he needed his help with the next
pupil. “You are not pressed for time?” he asked, with a smile. “Then I
shall be much obliged if you will kindly help my new pupil, Mr. Denmead,
with the first exercise.”
The victim glanced somewhat anxiously at the clock, but the Professor
was evidently an autocrat, and it would have been easier to refuse a
request made by the Czar himself.
“You will lie at full length on the floor,” said the Professor, with a
lordly wave of the hand towards Ralph. “My pupil, Mr. Bourne, will then
kneel on your chest, and you will in this position practise the art of
breathing.”
Ralph obeyed, not without a strong sense of the absurdity of the whole
scene. Could Sir Matthew Mactavish have seen him at that moment, lying
on the bare boards of a dingy lodging-house in Vauxhall, with a young
reciter of no mean weight kneeling on his chest, with a paralytic
and mysterious old sage roaring and shouting instructions and beating
impatient tattoos with his stick at intervals, while a pretty young girl
sat by the window covering stage shoes with cheap pink satin, how amazed
he would have been.
This was certainly beginning at the beginning of all things. By eleven
o’clock that morning he was for the first time in his life entering the
stage door of a theatre,--it was one of the outlying suburban houses at
which there was a stock company and a frequent change of plays,--while
Ivy, with her funny little air of importance, showed him all that she
thought would interest him.
The manager, a somewhat harassed looking man, took the Professor’s note,
read it hurriedly, and glanced keenly at Ralph.
“Does Mr. Merrithorne act to-night?” asked Ivy, anxiously.
“No, my dear; he won’t be fit to go on again for a month at least. I
understand, Mr. Denmead, that you are a pupil of Professor Grant.”
“Yes,” said Ralph, “but I am quite a novice.”
“H’m,” said the manager, taking a long look at him. “You’re positively
the first man that ever made that confession to me. I’ve a mind to try
you. Come with me, and I will give you the part. You can read it at
rehearsal if you haven’t time to learn it.”
Ivy beamed with delight when he returned to her.
“The manager was just in his very best temper,” she said, happily. “Come
to this quiet corner, and I’ll see that no one interrupts you.”
The part was short and simple, and Ralph, who had an excellent memory,
learnt it easily enough. But when it came to rehearsing his scenes
in the dreary vastness of the empty theatre amid distant sounds of
hammering and scrubbing, and the perfectly audible comments of his
fellow actors, he felt in despair; there was no getting inside the
character, he could only feel himself Ralph Denmead, in uncomfortable
circumstances, and breathing a curious atmosphere of hostility. He went
home feeling nervous and miserable, but Ivy’s talk helped to amuse him,
and distract his attention.
“They will like you when they get used to you,” she said,
philosophically. “But some of them think you are just a wealthy amateur,
and that you have paid for the chance of appearing in public. We all
hate that kind of man. Some others say you are an Oxonian wanting a
little amusement during the long vacation, and that you will be going
back to the University next month. And Miss West thinks you are a
disguised nobleman.”
“Well, then, they’re all of them wrong,” said Ralph, obliged to laugh
in spite of himself. “I’m not a disguised duke, nor even a marquis, but
just plain Ralph Denmead, with very few coins in his pocket, and not a
single relation or rich friend to help him.”
When the evening came, Ralph found that the flatness and coldness of the
morning had entirely passed; every one seemed in better spirits, and the
two men who shared his dressing-room were friendly enough directly they
found he was a genuine worker, not a mere _dilettante_.
A youngster who was neither conceited nor grasping, but was content to
begin with a very small part, and a still smaller salary, was quite
a phenomenon, and, as usual, Ralph’s good humour and common-sense,
together with his readiness to see fun in everything, stood him in good
stead.
When the last awful moment arrived, and he stood at the wings in
his gorgeous livery of drab and scarlet, with powdered hair and
knee-breeches, he found that the atmosphere of hostility which he had
felt so oppressive at rehearsal was entirely gone.
“Good luck to you!” said the heavy man, laying a fatherly hand on his
shoulder. “Never fear; you’ll do well enough.”
And with these words to hearten him, he took that first desperate plunge
into the icy-cold waters of publicity.
Ivy’s face beamed upon him as he returned.
“That applause was for you,” she said, rapturously, “and they don’t
generally laugh nearly as much after that blunder with the luncheon
table.”
“But I see where I might improve it,” said Ralph, thoughtfully. And
truly enough he did improve each night he played the servant and other
small parts.
Then, at the end of a month, Merrithorne’s ankle recovered, he returned
to the theatre, and Ralph once more found himself out of work.
What was his next step to be?