“_We ought all to count the cost before we enter upon any line
of conduct, and I would most strongly warn any one against the
self-deception of fancying that he who wishes to be an ambassador of
peace can do otherwise than weep bitterly_.”--Frederick Denison Maurice.
|During the weeks that followed, the only thing which marred Ivy’s
complete happiness was a certain jealousy of the bright-faced girl they
had met at Westminster Abbey on Christmas Day. She was constantly asking
Ralph questions about Evereld Ewart; at times he seemed pleased to talk
of her, at other times his face would grow grave and he would answer
only in monosyllables in a way which perplexed his small devotee not a
little. However, she gathered that he did not see any more of his old
friend and consoled herself by hurrying off to Whiteley’s sale to buy a
jacket and hat as much like Evereld’s as her purse would afford.
She wore them for the first time on the foggy February morning when
Ralph called for her at her grandfather’s rooms to take her to King’s
Cross. For it had been arranged that she should travel with him to
Dumfries where he was to place her under the special care of the
manager’s wife. The old Professor seemed much depressed when the parting
actually came; he kept looking at the child with wistful eyes and slowly
counting out money for the journey with a small, a very small surplus,
in case of accidents as he said.
“Have you kept enough for yourself?” asked Ivy, throwing her arms round
his neck. “I shall be away six months you know.”
“I have enough to last me a couple of months,” said the old man, “with
what my pupils will bring in. And by that time you will be able to send
me a little. You are to have a good salary--a very good salary and no
travelling expenses when once you’re in Scotland.”
“Yes, yes,” said Ivy, gaily. “I shall be as rich as a queen when I come
back.”
The old man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, when you come back,” he said, huskily, “When you come back. You
will do what you can for her if she needs help?” he added, shaking hands
tremulously with Ralph.
“I will, indeed,” said Ralph, heartily; and there was something in his
look and tone which satisfied the Professor and robbed the parting of
its worst pain.
Ivy, too much excited to feel the leave-taking, sprang into the cab with
a joyous sense that at last, like the heroine of a fairy tale, she was
setting out into the world to seek her fortune. It was scarcely right
that she should be starting with the fairy prince beside her, he ought
to have turned up later in the plot and just at some critical moment.
Still real life could not always be regulated by the rules of fiction
and she reflected that it was much nicer to have him at once.
She leant back in her corner of the third-class carriage, and thought
what care he had taken of her, how much more gentle his manner was than
the manner of any one else she knew, and how blissful it would be to act
with him for six whole months. He did not talk to her very much, being
still busy with his parts, but she was quite content with the mere
pleasure of his presence and with the delightful novelty of her first
long journey. The Company were to play “Macbeth,” “East Lynne,” “Guy
Mannering,” “Rob Roy,” “The Man of the World,” “Jeannie Deans,” and
several short plays such as “Cramond Brig,” a great favourite in
Scotland. Ivy was not well pleased with her parts in “Macbeth,” being
cast for _Donal Bain, Fleance and Macduff’s_ boy. But she reflected that
in the first part she would always come on with Ralph since he was to
play _Malcolm_, as well as the part of second witch, while later on she
should have the pleasure of being killed by him in his character of
first murderer. Ralph seeing irrepressible mirth in her face asked what
was amusing her.
“I have to call you ‘a shag-haired villain,’” she said, laughing till
the tears ran down her face, “and you have to stab me in the fourth
act.”
“We will have a private rehearsal then, beforehand,” said Ralph,
smiling. “And you will find my red wig very awe-inspiring, I can tell
you.”
Ivy looked pityingly at her fellow-travellers, wondering how they
endured their humdrum lives, and full of radiant hopes for her own
future.
The fogs of London had soon given place to bright sunshine, and it
seemed to her that she had left behind all that was cheerless and was
going forth into a glorious world of possibilities. It was certainly a
red-letter day in her life’s calendar.
The arrival in Scotland, however, was not so cheerful. The cold which
they had not greatly noticed in the railway carriage, seemed bitter
indeed when they left the train at Dumfries.
It was nearly six o’clock and there was little light left. What there
was, revealed snowy roads and slippery pavements. Ivy shivered and clung
fast hold of Ralph’s hand as they made their way to the manager’s
rooms, a red-headed porter, much resembling the shag-haired murderer
in “Macbeth,” going on before them with a luggage truck. He paused at
a high house in a particularly dingy street. The door was opened by a
shrewd, hard-featured woman who, upon Ralph’s inquiry, told them that
Mrs. Skoot was in, and ushered them upstairs to a room where the remains
of dinner still lingered on the table, and a large, portly lady, with
blonde hair and big cow-like eyes, sat with her feet in the fender
reading a novel.
“So there you are, dear,” she said, greeting Ivy affectionately, but
retaining a greasy thumb in the book to keep her place. “I’m glad
you’ve come, for Mr. Skoot has just arranged to have an extra rehearsal
to-night.”
“Is this Mr. Denmead?” she inquired, extending her hand graciously and
taking a rapid survey of him from head to foot. “Have you found rooms
yet?”
“No, I have not,” said Ralph, his low-toned voice and quiet manner
contrasting most curiously with her loud accents. “I was going to ask
you if there is any list of lodgings.”
“To be sure,” she said. “Here it is; you’ll find those all very good and
reasonable. I’ve known most of them myself in past years.”
Ralph thanked her and turned to go, glancing with some compassion at
Ivy. “I shall see you again at rehearsal,” he said. “Mind you have
something to eat first.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll see to her,” said Mrs. Skoot, vociferously. “She’s to
board with me you know, her grandfather made me promise that. Half-past
seven for the rehearsal, don’t forget. Your landlady will be able to
direct you to the theatre.”
“What an awful woman!” thought Ralph to himself. “The Professor must be
out of his mind to let Ivy be with her for six whole months. She may be
all that’s virtuous--but as a constant companion! Poor Ivy! I wonder how
such a decent little fellow as Skoot comes to have such a wife!”
At this point in his reflections they reached the first house on his
list, but found the rooms already secured by other members of the
company. The same result followed the next application, and yet again
the next. He began to grow tired of wandering about the snowy streets,
and catching sight of a card in a window announcing that rooms were to
be had, he paused at a neat but unpretentious house and once more made
his inquiry.
A very prim-looking widow appeared in answer to his knock; she seemed
favourably impressed with his appearance and mentioned her terms.
“That will do very well. I want the rooms for a week,” said Ralph,
longing to get into a house, for he was half-frozen and very hungry.
“I don’t take lodgers that keep late hours,” said the widow, cautiously.
“I like to lock up by half-past ten, sir.”
Ralph made an ejaculation of dismay. “I’m afraid I can’t promise that,”
he said. “I’m an actor, you see, and am not likely to be in by that
time.”
The woman’s whole face stiffened, her very cap seemed to grow as rigid
as buckram, her upper lip lengthened. “We only take _Christians_ here,”
she said in a severe way, and then without another word she closed the
door.
It was the first time he had ever been made to feel himself an outcast
on account of his profession, and for a minute the words, by their
injustice, stung him. Then his sense of fun conquered and he laughed to
himself as he walked on with bent head in the teeth of the bitter, east
wind.
Referring once again to the list of professional lodgings, he consulted
the porter who told him which was the nearest house, and here he at last
got taken in, by a dishevelled but smiling landlady.
“There’s Mr. Dudley, one of Mr. Skoot’s company, in my house now,” she
said. “Maybe you could share the sitting-room.”
Ralph hesitated, but without more ado the woman stepped into her front
parlour and put the case to the present occupant.
“Oh, by all means,” said a hearty voice; and the door was thrown back
and into the narrow passage stepped a tall, powerful-looking man of
about forty, his large, clean-shaven face, twinkling eyes, and broad
mouth full of good humour. Ralph knew at a glance that it was not at all
a face of high type, but it was genial and attractive and it contrasted
most singularly with the forbidding face of the widow who only housed
Christians.
“Come in, my boy,” said the hearty voice; “you look half frozen.”
“It was the landlady’s proposal,” said Ralph. “You are sure you don’t
mind?”
“To be sure not! ‘Mine enemy’s dog, though he had bit me, should stand
this night against my fire.’ Skoot was telling me about you. The little
brute has called a special rehearsal; you had better look sharp and get
something to eat for there’s no knowing how long they will keep us at
it. The Skoots were always great hands at rehearsing.”
“You have travelled with them before?”
“Yes, many years ago, and there’s not much love lost between us.
Shouldn’t have taken this berth now, if I hadn’t been out of an
engagement for some time. I have my doubts if the tour will be a
success. Skoot is awfully hampered, you see, by having to run his wife
as leading lady.”
Ralph prudently forbore to make any comment, but the thought of acting
with Mrs. Skoot was a sort of nightmare to him.
“Have the rest of the company all arrived?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so. There’s little Ivy Grant--she’s coming on very well
indeed, devilish pretty girl into the bargain. Then there’s Miss Myra
Kay, a brunette, rather prudish, used to be in Macneillie’s company,
but lost her health, and is now only just starting afresh. As for the
men--well, you’ll see for yourself by-and-by--half of them in my opinion
are sticks, and the other half roaring ranters. Hulloa, you’ll find that
a bad speculation. Never order coffee in Great Britain, for they don’t
know how to make it. Take to whisky, my boy. It’s the only thing for
strolling players.”
“Thanks, I detest it,” said Ralph, “and if professional landladies don’t
understand coffee-making, why I’ll brew it myself as we used to do at
Winchester.”
“I thought you had been at a public school. What made you take up with
the stage? Didn’t your people object?”
“I am alone in the world,” said Ralph. “My guardian wanted me to be a
parson, but I couldn’t go in for that, and so, being turned out of his
house, I thought I would try to realise an old dream of mine and be an
actor.”
Dudley had watched him keenly during this speech. He was a man who had
led a notoriously evil life, but he had a good deal of kindliness in his
nature, and there was something in Ralph’s transparent honesty, in his
evident purity of heart and life that appealed to him. Bad as his own
record had been he was wholly without the fiendish desire to drag other
men down with him.
“Your dreams were probably very unlike the reality.” he said, with a
smile. “Are you prepared to rough it?” Ralph laughed, and gave him
the account of the straits he had been reduced to, and Dudley having
described the merits and drawbacks of a provincial tour under Skoot’s
management, suggested that they had better be setting off for the
rehearsal.
They had scarcely opened the stage door when Mrs. Skoot’s shrill voice
made itself heard. She was vehemently complaining about some mistake
made by the baggage man, and the poor harassed culprit stood meekly to
receive her angry threats of dismissal, not daring to proffer excuse or
explanation. Ivy looking scared and cold, stood not far off; her whole
face lighted up when she caught sight of Ralph, and she stole over to
whisper in his ear, “Isn’t Mrs. Skoot dreadful?”
“Suggests the queen in ‘Alice in Wonderland,’” he replied, smiling. “Off
with his head!”
Ivy was obliged to laugh a little.
“That is Miss Myra Kay,” she said, indicating a pale, slim girl, who was
pacing to and fro, book in hand. “I think she is very selfish; they
say she hardly speaks to any one, but just takes care of herself and is
quite wrapped up in her own affairs.”
“Take care,” said Ralph, warningly; “you may be overheard.”
Dudley now introduced him to one or two of the actors, and before long
the manager himself arrived. He seemed in good spirits, greeted Ralph
pleasantly, pacified his wife, and promptly set them all to work.
Only too soon, however, they realised that the length of the rehearsal
depended on Mrs. Skoot and not on her husband. Although it was no
business of hers she seemed unable to refrain from constant interruption
and fault-finding, and before the evening was over she had reduced Miss
Kay to tears, had tormented poor Ivy into the worst of tempers and had
goaded most of the men into a state of sullen wrath.
At last, after four hours of this, Mr. Skoot looked at his watch and
announced that it was half-past eleven. Time was the only thing which
had ever been known to conquer Mrs. Skoot; she wisely bowed to the
inevitable, and having reminded Miss Kay that the call was for eleven on
the following morning, she allowed herself to be helped into a handsome
fur cloak, and telling Ivy to follow her, quitted the theatre.
Ralph went back to his rooms in low spirits and the next morning did
not much mend matters, for they were kept rehearsing from eleven in
the morning till five in the afternoon. Had it not been for Dudley’s
unfailing good humour, his flashes of fun, and his genial kindliness,
Ralph thought he could not have endured so great a contrast to the whole
atmosphere of Washington’s theatre.
He began to feel a sort of angry contempt for the manager who seemed
but a tool in the hands of his wife and was quite indifferent to the
annoyance she gave to others.
But in the evening when “Macbeth” was given, when, for the first time in
his life, he had one of Shakspere’s characters to portray, he forgot all
the previous misery. Into the comparatively small part of _Malcolm_ he
had put an amount of thought and study and imagination which surprised
Dudley, and the elder man, as they walked home together, spoke words of
hearty commendation and encouragement which cheered the novice’s heart
as nothing else could have done.
On the day before they were to leave Dumfries for Ayr, it chanced that,
being released earlier than usual from rehearsal, Ralph suggested a walk
to Ivy. It was the first chance they had had for any sort of relaxation,
and Ivy listened with delight to the proposal of a visit to the grave of
Burns and to Lincluden Abbey.
She was not at all pleased when as they drew near to the Burns’
mausoleum they caught sight of Myra Kay. As yet Ralph had made no way at
all with this pale, dark-eyed girl, they had scarcely exchanged a dozen
words, and her manner was very reserved and distant. All that he knew
about her was the little he had gleaned from the men of the company. It
was reported that her marriage was to take place in the summer, and that
she was engaged to an actor named Brinton who was now in Macneillie’s
Company. She had the reputation of being cold, cautious, and
conventional, but in comparison with Mrs. Skoot she was so delightful
that Ralph felt drawn to her and was chafed by a perfectly clear
consciousness that for some reason she disapproved of him. He was
pleased when she volunteered a few tepid remarks about Turnerelli’s
sculpture, and to Ivy’s disgust he asked her if she would not join them
in their walk to Lincluden Abbey.
She hesitated for a moment, then with a glance at his open, boyish face
seemed suddenly to arrive at some determination more important than that
of the mere decision to take a walk.
“I will come part of the way with you,” she said. “But since my illness
I am not much of a walker. It is one of the few grudges I harbour
against Mr. Macneillie.”
“You were in his Company?”
“Yes, and at Oxford, while playing in an outdoor representation of
‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ got soaked to the skin and had to wear the
wet clothes. The rest of them escaped with colds but I was laid up for
six months. The manager was extremely good to me I must say, and in
August I hope to be back again in his Company.”
“You like him then as a manager?”
“Yes, indeed, there couldn’t be a better. I don’t know how I shall
ever endure all these months with the Skoots, and had I known that that
scoundrel Dudley was to be in the Company I should never have accepted
the engagement.”
Ralph raised his eyebrows. “That’s a severe word,” he said.
“It’s no more than he deserves,” said Myra Kay, frowning. “I am
astonished that you can share rooms with him and make him your friend.”
“He is very likely no worse than many others,” said Ralph, nettled by
her tone.
“No worse!” she said, scornfully. “Is it possible you do not know that
he is the wretch who figured in the Houston case? You must remember
it--the stir was so great and it is not eighteen months ago.”
“I was at school eighteen months ago and never troubled my head with
_causes célèbres_.”
Myra Kay walked on in silence for a few moments; then she briefly told
him the facts of the case and was pleased to see him wince.
“The man has been properly punished,” she continued, with satisfaction,
“and now no decent manager wall have him--at any rate, till the details
of the case are forgotten. He is desperately hard up for money, and
every one cuts him. I hope, now that you know all this, you will have no
more to say to him.”
“Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf,” said Ralph, looking up from
the discoloured track where they were walking to the pure white fields
beyond.
Myra Kay gave a sarcastic little laugh.
“You are far too innocent, Mr. Denmead,” she said; and Ralph thought
there was an unpleasant touch of patronage in her tone. “Does he look as
if he were repenting?”
“Men can’t go about in sackcloth and ashes,” said Ralph; “and you surely
wouldn’t have him cultivate a face a yard long? It’s his nature to be
full of fun, and, for my part, I would far rather have to do with a
man who has been openly punished than with a hypocrite who sins with
impunity and goes about posing as a philanthropist.”
He thought resentfully of Sir Matthew.
“I can’t think how you can speak to him,” said Myra Kay bitterly, “For
your own sake, and for the sake of the profession, you ought to have
nothing to do with him. It was not just a common case of wrongdoing--it
was a specially atrocious affair throughout. They say you are the son
of a clergyman. I should have thought you would have had better judgment
than to mix yourself up with such a man.”
“He is precisely the sort of man my father would have befriended,” said
Ralph, warmly. “There was nothing of the Pharisee about him. I remember
how when all the village cut a man who had been in prison for some
bad offence, he found out the fellow’s one vulnerable point--a love
of flowers--and had him up with us at the Rectory the whole of one
Bank-holiday, pottering about the garden and greenhouse, and as happy as
a king in exchanging plants with us, and helping to bud roses.”
“That may be well enough for a clergyman, but for you--a mere boy,
knowing so little of the world--it is different. You ought not to have
chosen such a man as your companion.”
“I didn’t choose him,” said Ralph, with some warmth. “An ‘unco guid’
widow shut the door in my face, because I was an actor, and said she
only took in Christians. Then at the next place I went to they gave me
shelter and kind words, and Dudley was goodness itself to me. If I cut
him now I should be a contemptible cad.”
“Well,” said his companion, with a shrug of her shoulders, “you must
‘gang your own gait.’ But remember that I have warned you.”
She turned back soon after this, and Ivy, who had thought the whole
discussion very tiresome, skipped for joy when a bend in the road hid
her from view.
But Ralph seemed unusually silent, and as they looked at the ruins of
the old abbey, Ivy could not at all understand the shadow that seemed to
have come over his face.
Not a word ever passed Dudley’s lips about his previous life, but there
were not lacking people who promptly told him that Ralph Denmead had
just learnt all about it; and when they moved on to Ayr, he said in his
blunt way:
“You’ll not care that we should pig together any longer, I daresay?”
“I had much rather share diggings with you than with any of the others,”
said Ralph, heartily. “If I’m not in your way, that is? You are the only
man who has shown me the least kindness.”
Dudley made an inarticulate exclamation. He was more touched than he
would have cared to own.
“You are thankful for small mercies,” he said, “and gratitude is a rare
thing in the profession. But I like you, lad, and am glad to have you as
a chum. You shall not have cause to be ashamed of me.”
And so throughout the strange vicissitudes of the Scotch tour these two
oddly-contrasting characters bore each other company, and for some time
Myra Kay kept aloof from them both.