“Be noble! and the nobleness that lies
In other men, sleeping, but never dead
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own;
Then wilt thou see it gleam in many eyes,
Then will pure light around thy path be shed,
And thou wilt never more be sad and lone.”--Lowell.
|The entire change of scene, the vigour of his own mind, and the sturdy
resolution with which he laid aside care and anxiety soon restored
Macneillie to a great extent. He recovered his power of sleeping, and
returned to Stratford to find Ralph and Evereld already settled there
and awaiting him with a warmth of welcome which did his heart good. To
hear him telling comical stories of his adventures among the Dutch as
they lingered over the supper table that first evening, no one would
have believed that he had passed through any ordeal whatever, and he
seemed quite ready for all the hard work that lay before him.
Indeed Ivy Grant thought him unnecessarily vigorous.
“It’s all very well for Mr. Macneillie who has been enjoying a holiday
all these weeks, but it’s rather hard on us,” she protested, “to be kept
rehearsing every day till four o’clock, just when we wanted a little
free time, too.”
For Ivy was rejoicing in the presence of Dermot and Bride O’Ryan, who
had come down for the Shaksperian performances, Bride for pleasure,
and Dermot chiefly to see Ivy and to write a series of articles for his
paper.
Evereld was delighted to have her friend with her and thoroughly enjoyed
her first experience of the Memorial week. Stratford had naturally very
happy associations for her, and though the weather was not quite so
perfect as it had been during their brief honeymoon, it did not affect
the audiences which were always large and enthusiastic.
One evening towards the end of the week Bride and Evereld were as usual
setting off together for the theatre. There had been rain during the
day but the evening was bright and clear so that there was nothing to
prevent them from going by the river.
“There is something so delicious in just stepping into the ‘Miranda’
and being rowed to the very door,” said Evereld as she took her place
in that same boat in which only a little while before Macneillie
and Christine had had their last interview. “It must be like this at
Venice.”
“Minus the Shaksperian associations and plus the smells,” said Bride
with a smile. “Here come these vicious swans that look so picturesque
and are really so bad tempered. One of them nearly made an end of Dick
the other day, according to Bridget.”
They glided on peacefully, watching the mellow sunset sky and the church
spire and the stately trees surrounding it until the landlord rowed them
up to the steps in the garden surrounding the theatre, and here as they
climbed the grassy bank they were surprised to come across Macneillie
walking to and fro with someone they did not recognise. Evereld wondered
much how it came that he was deep in conversation, for it was nearly
time for the performance to begin. He seemed somewhat relieved when he
caught sight of her and introduced Mr. Barry Sterne, then telling her to
see that the attendants gave him a good place, and arranging to meet
him later on, he hurried to the Stage door, leaving Evereld and Bride to
enjoy the talk of the new comer.
“This looks something like Shakspere worship,” he remarked glancing
round the perfectly built theatre which was already well filled. “I wish
I had here with me the curious old fossil I met to-day in the train.
There were a couple of Americans plying him with questions about
Stratford; they set upon him the moment we left Euston, and ‘Wanted to
know’ everything. The old gentleman couldn’t get in a word edgeways for
some time, what with the tunnels and the sharp fire of questions. At
last he remarked stiffly, ‘I have never read any of Shakspere’s plays
myself, but I have always understood that he was a most immoral writer.’
You should have seen the faces of the two Yankees! It was as good as
a play. And the old fellow was quite unaware that he had said anything
extraordinary and blandly went on reading a religious newspaper!”
The play was “As You Like It,” and for the first time Ivy was to play
the part of Celia and Ralph was to make his first appearance as Orlando.
Evereld wondered much what Barry Sterne thought of the performance. He
was rather silent at the close of the second act and she was half
afraid that he had not approved of it until she found that he had been
listening to the criticisms of the people immediately behind them.
“It is to me about the most amusing thing in the world to hear the
comments of the public,” he said to Evereld. “Your amateur is always
such a merciless critic. The less he knows the more scathing will be
his fault finding. Now Macneillie’s melancholy Jaques is about as fine a
piece of acting as one could wish to see, I don’t know anyone who makes
so much of the character. But those wise-acres behind are carping away
because they think it shows what cultured mortals they are.”
“It is much the same at the Academy,” said Evereld. “The less people
know about painting the more severe are their comments.”
“If Lear wrote a modern version of his nonsense alphabet it ought to
be ‘C was the carping cantankerous critic who cavilled and canted
of Culture,’” said Barry Sterne with a laugh. “Your husband makes an
excellent Orlando. I hear, too, that his Romeo is very good. I suppose
you have often seen him in that part?”
“Oh, yes, very often. The last time,” she smiled at the remembrance,
“was in the autumn up in the north of England; I shall never forget it.
Exactly opposite the theatre on a bit of waste ground, a wild beast show
was being held, and it had the most noisy band imaginable. All through
the Balcony scene it was thundering out ‘The man that broke the bank
at Monte Carlo.’ And the next night Hamlet had to soliloquise to the
strains of ‘Daisy Bell.’ It was the funniest thing I ever heard!”
Barry Sterne capped this story with a reminiscence of the days when he
had been in a travelling company, and by the end of the evening Evereld
was ready to consider him the best raconteur she had ever met.
He went round afterwards to Macneillie’s dressing-room and Evereld was
escorted home by Dermot and Bride, who would not however accept her
invitation to supper as they were already engaged to meet Ivy at the
Brintons’. The night had turned chilly. Evereld was glad to find a fire
awaiting them, and she curled herself up comfortably in an armchair
waiting for the return of the men-folk and finishing Black’s charming
story “Judith Shakspere.”
“How long they are to-night!” she exclaimed, when the last page was
turned and Judith whose grave she had seen in the chancel of Stratford
church only that morning, had been left happily with her lover Tom
Quiney. “I shall starve if they don’t come soon. What a fire this is for
toast! I will make some to pass the time.”
After a while steps were heard on the stairs and in came Macneillie and
Ralph with apologies for having kept her so long. Macneillie, who was a
man with a strong shrinking from any sort of change in his surroundings,
felt a pang as he reflected that soon there would be no bright-faced
little housekeeper waiting to welcome him, and making a home out of each
place they stayed at in their wandering life. He stood warming himself
by the fire noticing dreamily the mute caress which passed between
husband and wife, the funny way in which Evereld divided her attention
between the perfect toasting of a particular slice of bread, and the
discussion of the way in which Orlando had carried Adam in the forest
banquet scene, and then her half anxious glance in his direction which
seemed to say, “I know you are tired and out of spirits but you shall
not be bothered with questions, you shall be fed.”
She made them laugh at supper over Barry Sterne’s travelling companion
who had been sure that Shakspere was a most immoral writer, but she
could see that something was troubling Ralph, for instead of being the
life of the party he was silent and abstracted.
Macneillie soon solved the mystery, and turning to her with one of his
humourous smiles, said, “I am sure you would think to look at him that
he had dismally failed or had been half slaughtered by the critics. I
assure you, my dear, it’s nothing of the sort. He has just had the offer
of a very good London engagement.”
“What, from Mr. Sterne?” asked Evereld in amazement.
“Yes, they brought out a new piece you know on Easter Monday and it
seems that Jack Carrington is again going to prove Ralph’s good genius
by failing altogether to get hold of the part he has to play. The fact
is, Carrington is excellent as far as he goes, but his range is limited,
he feels that he will never succeed in this play and Sterne sees it too.
They are parting quite amicably, and he wants Ralph to take his place.”
“I can’t leave you, Governor,” said Ralph with a vibration in his voice
which made the tears start to Evereld’s eyes.
“Oh no,” she said eagerly. “Don’t let us go--why we belong to you now.”
“My dear child,” said Macneillie, “don’t you go and encourage him in
refusing an offer which he ought to jump at. We have been arguing the
matter ever since we parted with Barry Sterne at the station and nothing
can I get out of Ralph but protests which quite take me back to Mrs.
Micawber. The fact is you two read Dickens to such an extent that you
are quite saturated with him. This is an excellent offer and ought to be
accepted.”
“But I never will, no I never will desert Mr. Macneillie!” quoted
Evereld merrily. “Why are you so anxious to get rid of us? You always
pretend that you miss us when we are away.”
“So I do, my dear, there’s no pretence about it,” said Macneillie, “but
joking apart, it really would be madness to refuse such a chance as this
just because we are the best of friends and are very happy together.
Moreover there are two special reasons why I want you to accept it. The
first I will tell you now, and the second shall be for Ralph presently.
I don’t deny that I shall miss you horribly, but I shall be happier in
the long run to think that you have a home of your own, and I should
always reproach myself if Ralph neglected a chance which will probably
lead on to fortune. You and I must consider what is best for his career.
If he were my own son I should insist on his going, as it is I can only
strongly advise it.”
They talked for some little time over the proposed change, and then
Evereld went to her room leaving the men to argue the matter out at
still greater length over their pipes. In her own mind she began to have
some vague suspicion of the reason why he was so anxious for them to
accept the offer, and later on Ralph confirmed her in this idea. She was
still brushing out her sunny brown hair when he came in.
“Well darling, I believe we shall have to go,” he said. “Hateful as it
will be to leave Macneillie, it is of course a step upward, and he seems
really anxious that we should not lose such a chance. Moreover it is not
alone of us that he is thinking. It is of Miss Greville.”
“I felt somehow that it was, and yet what difference can it make to
her?” said Evereld wonderingly. “I admire her more than I can tell you,
but of what possible use can we be to her?”
“Well it’s hard to say, but she seems to have told Macneillie that
she had taken a great fancy to you the other day when we met her at the
Herefords, and then I think he said something about the possibility of
some opening in London for me, and naturally she would like to help his
friends. Then too from what he told me she must be awfully lonely, and
though she tries to lead as retired a life as possible yet difficulties
are always cropping up.”
“Where does she live?”.
“She has had a flat in Victoria Street, but is leaving, Barry Sterne
told us. I think he said she had got another flat at Chelsea.”
“Could we afford to live in such a neighbourhood as Chelsea?”
“Yes, I think we might if we can find anything suitable, my salary will
be better than it is now, and we could furnish by degrees.”
“Oh, Ralph! what fun!” cried Evereld her eyes lighting up at the
prospect of furnishing, for she was a true woman.
“We would do it very, very economically. We would begin like Traddles
and Sophy ‘on a Britannia metal footing;’ there would always be the
Memorial spoons for visitors, you know.”
And thus Macneillie’s plot prospered exceedingly, and though the wrench
of parting was hard, Ralph and Evereld soon settled down very happily
in their new quarters, a snug little flat at the very top of the same
building at Chelsea in which Christine Greville occupied the first
floor, and she could see as much or as little of them as she liked. She
liked to see a great deal of them as it happened, and Evereld and Dick
were always ready to come in and companionise Charlie, while Ralph
proved himself a most trusty knight-errant, and the happiness of the
young husband and wife cheered Christine as it had cheered Macneillie.
Those whose lives have been clouded by some grievous trouble are
supposed theoretically to hate the sight of happiness; but that is
merely a popular fallacy. With the great majority it is an intense
relief to come across happiness, the mere sight of it does good, and the
happy confer on the sorrowful a real boon by their mere existence.