(EBook PDF) 3D Scroll Saw Patterns and

Techniques 1st edition by Henry Berns, Henry

Berro 1565230906 978-1565230903 full chapters
pdf download
https://ebookball.com/product/ebook-pdf-3d-scroll-saw-patterns-
and-techniques-1st-edition-by-henry-berns-henry-
berro-1565230906-978-1565230903-full-chapters-23404/

Explore and download more ebooks or textbooks

at ebookball.com
 Get Your Digital Files Instantly: PDF, ePub, MOBI and More
Quick Digital Downloads: PDF, ePub, MOBI and Other Formats

(Ebook PDF) Understanding Strategic Management 1st edition by Anthony

Henry 0192603639 9780192603630 full chapters

https://ebookball.com/product/ebook-pdf-understanding-strategic-
management-1st-edition-by-anthony-
henry-0192603639-9780192603630-full-chapters-20630/

(Ebook PDF) Supply Chain Risk Mitigation 1st edition by Yacob

Khojasteh, Henry Xu, Saeed Zolfaghari 3031091833 9783031091834 full
chapters

https://ebookball.com/product/ebook-pdf-supply-chain-risk-
mitigation-1st-edition-by-yacob-khojasteh-henry-xu-saeed-
zolfaghari-3031091833-9783031091834-full-chapters-21938/

Fixed Restorative Techniques Dental Laboratory Technology Manuals 1st

Edition by Henry Murray, Troy Sluder, Roger Barton 0807842508
9780807842508

https://ebookball.com/product/fixed-restorative-techniques-
dental-laboratory-technology-manuals-1st-edition-by-henry-murray-
troy-sluder-roger-barton-0807842508-9780807842508-8372/

Elementary Hydrostatics With Chapters on the Motion of Fluids and on

Sound 1st edition by William Henry Besant ISBN 0469641509
978-0469641501

https://ebookball.com/product/elementary-hydrostatics-with-
chapters-on-the-motion-of-fluids-and-on-sound-1st-edition-by-
william-henry-besant-isbn-0469641509-978-0469641501-16524/
On China 1st Edition by Henry Kissinger 0141049421 9780141049427

https://ebookball.com/product/on-china-1st-edition-by-henry-
kissinger-0141049421-9780141049427-15112/

(Ebook PDF) Unity 3D and PlayMaker Essentials 1st edition by Jere

Miles 1317414314 9781317414315 full chapters

https://ebookball.com/product/ebook-pdf-unity-3d-and-playmaker-
essentials-1st-edition-by-jere-
miles-1317414314-9781317414315-full-chapters-22722/

Carranza’s Clinical Periodontology 9th Edition by Perry Klokkevold,

Michael Newman, Henry Takei, Fermin Carranza, Fermin Carranza, Henry
Takei ISBN 0721683312 9780721683317

https://ebookball.com/product/carranzaaeurtms-clinical-
periodontology-9th-edition-by-perry-klokkevold-michael-newman-
henry-takei-fermin-carranza-fermin-carranza-henry-takei-
isbn-0721683312-9780721683317-8234/

Carranza’s Clinical Periodontology 9th Edition by Perry Klokkevold,

Michael Newman, Henry Takei, Fermin Carranza, Fermin Carranza, Henry
Takei ISBN 0721683312 9780721683317

https://ebookball.com/product/carranzaaeurtms-clinical-
periodontology-9th-edition-by-perry-klokkevold-michael-newman-
henry-takei-fermin-carranza-fermin-carranza-henry-takei-
isbn-0721683312-9780721683317-8280/

Pharmacology An Introduction 7th edition by Henry Hitner, Barbara

Nagle ISBN 1259718565 978-1259718564

https://ebookball.com/product/pharmacology-an-introduction-7th-
edition-by-henry-hitner-barbara-nagle-
isbn-1259718565-978-1259718564-3992/
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
 CHAPTER VII
“Is our age an age of genuine pity? I have my doubts. It is pre-
eminently an age of bustle, and fuss, and fidget; but I think we are
lacking in tenderness.”—Dr. Jessop.

A
fter the pain of his farewells had begun to wear off a little,
Ralph, being naturally of a hopeful temperament, turned not
without some pleasurable feelings to the thought of the future
that lay before him. More and more his old dreams of becoming an
actor filled his mind, and in the sudden change which had befallen
his fortunes he saw something not unlike a distinct call to return to
his first ideal. He clung all the more to the thought because of the
uprooting he had just undergone, and as he travelled through the
Surrey hills on that summer evening, found comfort in the
anchorage of a firm resolve to do all that was in his power to fit
himself for his new vocation. That one did not climb the ladder at a
bound he of course knew well enough, and he had sense to guess
that it would be a difficult matter to get room even on the lowest
step of the ladder. A hard struggle lay before him, but he was full of
vigorous young life and did not shrink from the prospect. Then, too,
he was keenly conscious of the relief of no longer depending upon
the Mactavishes. He could exactly sympathise with Esther in “Bleak
House,” who was always sensible of filling a place in her godmother’s
establishment which ought to have been empty. It was something
after all to be free, even though not precisely knowing how he was
to keep body and soul together.
With the exception of old Mr. Marriott there seemed few to whom
he could apply for advice. His late master at Winchester was away in
Switzerland; the Professor and Frau Rosenwald were in Dresden and
were little likely to be able to help him, while of friends of his own
age he had scarcely any, owing to Lady Mactavish’s dislike to his
accepting invitations for the holidays which would have made return
invitations necessary.
On reaching Charing Cross he went straight to Sir Matthew’s
house in Queen Anne’s Gate, left his luggage there, arranged to
come the next day and pack the few things he had in his room, and
then walked to Ebury Street to inquire whether Mr. Marriott were at
home. London had such a deserted air that he began to fear that the
solicitor would have joined in the general exodus. But fortune
favoured him, Mr. Marriott was in town still and had just returned
from the City. He was ushered into a comfortable library, where, in a
few moments, the old lawyer joined him, receiving him in such a
kindly and courteous way that the friendless feeling which had taken
possession of him on his arrival in London quite left him.
“I hope you will excuse my coming at such an hour and to your
private house, but I half feared you might be away and I was very
anxious for your advice,” he said, when the old man’s greetings were
ended.
“I’m heartily glad you did come to-night,” said Mr. Marriott. “For
to-morrow I go to Switzerland with my sister and my daughter. Is Sir
Matthew still in town? Are you staying with him?”
“He has this very day turned me out of his house,” said Ralph, and
he briefly told the lawyer what had passed.
“This seems a serious matter,” said Mr. Marriott. “We must talk it
over together, but in the meantime, I will send round for your things,
and you will, I hope, spend the night here. After dinner, we will put
our heads together, and see what can be done.”
Ralph could only gratefully accept the hospitality, and it proved to
be just the genuine old-fashioned hospitality that does the heart
good, and is as unlike its forced counterfeit as real fruit is unlike its
waxen imitation.
Old Mr. Marriott’s sister proved to be one of those eternally young
people who at seventy have more capacity for enjoying life than
many girls of eighteen. Her vivacious face, with its ever varying
expression, her kindly human interest in all things and all people, did
more to drive bitter recollections from Ralph’s mind than anything
else could have done. Moreover, he lost his heart to pretty Katharine
Marriott, though she was many years his senior. Her large, serious,
brown eyes, and her air of gentle dignity seemed to him perfection;
he could have imagined her to be some stately Spanish lady in her
black, lace dress, and though she said little to him, her whole
manner was full of sympathetic charm. When the ladies had left the
table, Mr. Marriott began to make further inquiries as to what had
passed that afternoon.
“Is it not possible,” he suggested, “that you too readily took Sir
Matthew at his word? He has been kind to you all these years, has
he not?”
“He has carried out what he undertook,” said Ralph, “and twice,
no—three times—I remember that he really spoke kindly to me. For
the rest of the six years he has never noticed me at all except to find
fault.”
“Do you mean that you got into trouble? That your school reports
were bad or anything of that sort?”
“No, they were decent enough, and I was never exactly in any
scrape, but somehow, in little ways I always managed to displease
him; spoke too much, or too little, or too loud, or not distinctly. If
one made the least noise in coming into a room or closing a door he
couldn’t endure it, or if one stole in with elaborate care and
quietness, he would start and say a stealthy step was intolerable to
him. As to breakfast, the only meal we ever had with him as
children, it used to be a time of torture, for if you held your knife or
fork in a way which did not exactly meet his ideal way of holding a
knife and fork, he made you feel that you had committed a crime.”
“So there was never much love lost between you,” said Mr.
Marriott, with a smile. “Well it is what I feared would happen when I
last saw you. Did he often mention your father’s name?”
 “Hardly ever, except when some guest was there who was likely to
be impressed with his kindness in having adopted a poor
clergyman’s son,” said Ralph, flushing hotly at certain galling
recollections. “It was never until this afternoon, though, that he
dared to speak of my father as an unpractical fool who had left me a
beggar, and to taunt me with the high ideals which would never
have kept me from starving.”
“And did this lead to your quarrel?” said the lawyer, his brows
contracting a little.
“Yes,” said Ralph, “I replied that my father was at least an honest
man, and he seemed to take that as a sort of personal affront—I’m
sure I don’t know why. He went into a towering rage and ordered
me out of his sight.”
“He is morbidly sensitive as to his reputation,” said Mr. Marriott,
“and no doubt he thought you knew something to his disadvantage.
Did it ever occur to you as strange that he should have adopted
you?”
“At first I thought it was because he had really cared for my father
and because he was my godfather, but before long I began to think
it was chiefly as a sort of telling advertisement,” said Ralph, with a
touch of bitterness in his tone.
“All three notions were probably right,” said the lawyer, “but there
was yet another reason of which I can tell you something. On the
day we reached Whinhaven and began to look through your father’s
papers, one of the very first things I came across in his blotting-book
was the rough draft of a letter with a blank for the name in the first
line. Seeing that it bore reference to the unlucky investment he had
made, I glanced through it. It bitterly reproached the man he was
writing to, for having recommended him to place his money in the
company which had just gone into liquidation, and alluded to
assurances that had been given him of this friend’s close knowledge
of all the details, and complete confidence in the safety of the
company. I recollect that one sentence referred to you, and your
father said, ‘Should this illness of mine prove fatal, I look to you, as
Ralph’s godfather, to do what you can for him, for it was in
consequence of your advice that I made this unfortunate
speculation.’”
Ralph started to his feet. “It was Sir Matthew then who ruined
him!”
“Well,” said the lawyer, “on reading that I looked up and casually
asked him if he knew who your godfathers were, he replied that he
was one, and that to the best of his recollection, the other had been
a distant kinsman of your father’s, a certain Sir Richard Denmead,
who had died a few years before. Then, without further comment, I
handed him the letter, remarking that of course, I had no idea on
reading it that it bore reference to himself. He was naturally annoyed
and upset, but was obliged to own that it was the draft of the letter
he had received. He was doing what he could to justify himself when
you came into the room, and what passed after that you no doubt
remember.”
“I remember,” said Ralph, “that he patronised me—he—my father’s
murderer. The word is not a bit too strong for him. He murdered my
father just as truly as if he had stabbed him to the heart. It was not
the cold that killed him, it was the misery and the depression and
the anxiety for the future. And this false friend of his is the man that
goes about opening bazaars, and posing as a profoundly religious
man! Faugh! It’s revolting!”
“I have never liked Sir Matthew Mactavish,” said Mr. Marriott,
quietly. “It is wonderful to me how he impresses people; there must
be some germ of greatness in him or he couldn’t do it. I am quite
aware that the discovery of the truth must make you feel very
bitterly towards him, but if you will take an old man’s advice you will
dwell upon the past as little as possible. You can do no good by
thinking of the injury he has done you, and you will have to be very
careful how you speak of him, or in an angry moment you may make
yourself liable to an action for slander; legally you know a thing may
be perfectly true, but if maliciously uttered and in a way that injures
another in his calling it may be nevertheless slander. So you must
not proclaim your wrongs from the housetops. Now the question is
what are you to do to support yourself?”
“I want to try my luck on the stage,” said Ralph. “It was my wish
long ago, and I believe that I might make something of it. I shall
never be much good at examinations.”
“It seems rather the fashion for young fellows to try it nowadays,”
said the lawyer, “but I should think the life was a very hard one, and
like all other callings in this country it is much overcrowded. Still you
might do worse. I will give you a letter to Barry Sterne; he is a client
of mine and might possibly be able to help you. At any rate he would
give you his advice.”
Ralph caught at the suggestion, and when the next morning the
Marriotts started for Switzerland they left him in excellent spirits.
“Are you quite sure you have enough to live on until you get
work,” asked the old lawyer, drawing him aside at the last moment.
“I will gladly lend you something.”
“Thank you,” replied Ralph. “But I have enough to live on till the
end of September.”
“And by that time we shall be in London again,” said Mr. Marriott.
“Be sure you come to see us and let us know how you prosper.”
It was not without some trepidation that later in the morning
Ralph presented himself at the house of Barry Sterne, the great
actor. He sent in Mr. Marriott’s letter of introduction and waited
nervously in a small back sitting-room, the window of which opened
into one of those miniature ferneries which one associates with the
operating room of a dentist. Three dejected gold-fish swam
aimlessly up and down the narrow tank, and the ferns looked as if
they pined for country air. It was a relief when at length he was
summoned into the adjoining room. Here the sun was shining, and
there was a general sense of ease and comfort, Barry Sterne himself
harmonising very well with his setting, for he was a good-natured
looking giant with a most genial manner, and his broad, expansive
face beamed in a very kindly fashion on his visitor.
“I’m afraid I can’t do anything for you,” he said, but the words
carried no sting because the tone was so delightful. “I have
hundreds of these applications, and it’s about the most disagreeable
part of my life to be for ever saying ‘no’ to people.”
He put a few questions to him, all the while observing him
attentively with his keen eyes.
“Well, you see,” he remarked, leaning back easily in his chair and
telling off the various items on his fingers as he proceeded. “Things
seem to me to stand like this. You have a good presence, a good
voice, a good manner; but you have no experience, you have had no
special preparation, you have no money, and you have no friends or
relatives in the profession. There are three points for you and four
against you. That means that you will have a very hard struggle, and
will have to be content to take any mortal thing you can get. Are you
prepared for that?”
“I am prepared to begin at the very bottom of the profession if
only it will give me a real chance of getting on,” said Ralph.
“To make a fool of yourself in a pantomime, for instance,” said the
actor, eyeing him keenly. “Or to walk on and say nothing in a piece
that runs for a couple of hundred nights?”
“Yes, I would do it,” said Ralph, thoughtfully. “If, in the meantime,
I was really learning and making some way.”
“Right,” said Barry Sterne. “That’s the way to set to work. But as a
rule a gentleman thinks he must step into the first ranks of the
profession straight away, which is a confounded mistake. I’ll write
you a note of introduction to Costa, the agent. You may thoroughly
trust him, and he may perhaps be able sooner or later to put you in
the way of something. I wish I knew of any opening for you. But I’m
off to America next month with Miss Greville’s Company.”
The name instantly recalled Macneillie to Ralph’s mind.
 “When I was a small boy,” he said, “Mr. Macneillie was once very
good to me. If he were in London still, I might have gone to him. Do
you know what has become of him.”
“Hugh Macneillie? Why he would be precisely the man for you. He
went to America about six years ago, had a tremendous success
over there, and when he came back to England started a travelling
company of his own. Oh, Macneillie is a sterling fellow, you couldn’t
do better than try to get in with him. Costa will be able to tell you
his whereabouts.”
After that, with a few kindly words and good wishes, Ralph found
himself dismissed.
The day was intensely hot; however, he set off at once for the
agent’s, handed in Barry Sterne’s letter, was sharply scrutinised by
Costa’s keen Jewish eyes, and had his name entered upon the
books, after paying five shillings.
“You must not be too sanguine,” said the agent, his dark
melancholy face contrasting oddly with Ralph’s fresh colouring, and
hopeful eyes. “I have one thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine
names down of members of the profession who are out of
employment, or of people who seek to enter the profession. You
bring up the total to two thousand.”
Ralph turned a little pale. “Is it so bad as that,” he said. “Then I
have no chance at all it seems to me.”
He asked for Macneillie’s present address and went off in very low
spirits to write his letter, pack up his worldly goods, and take up his
quarters in the rooms which Geraghty had recommended.
People seldom do things well when they are in low spirits, and
Ralph, who detested giving trouble or asking favours, wrote a stiff,
short letter to Macneillie, asking his advice and inquiring whether he
could possibly give him a place in his company. It was precisely the
sort of letter which Macneillie received by the dozen from stage-
struck youths in all parts of the country. Had he spoken of his boyish
hero-worship of the actor, or of their encounter at Richmond, there
would have been a human touch about the letter which would at
once have appealed to the Scotsman; he would certainly have made
a special effort for one so closely connected with the most tragic day
of his life. But Ralph after floundering hopelessly in a sentence which
alluded to the past, tore up his sheet of paper and wrote the bald,
curt note, which so ill conveyed the real state of his case.
Macneillie, wearily returning from a rehearsal of four hours’
length, in which his temper had been severely tried, found the
missive in his dreary lodgings at a south-coast watering place,
hastily glanced through the contents and thrust the letter into his
letter-clip among other similar requests, about which there was no
immediate hurry. A fortnight later he wrote the following short reply:
“Dear Sir,
“I have no opening at present in my company, and if you really
intend to go into the profession, and have realised that it demands
incessant and most arduous work, I should strongly advise you to
begin at the beginning of all things. Try to get taken on as a super at
one of the leading theatres, where you will have opportunities for
studying really great actors. Costa is a trustworthy agent.
“Yours truly,
“Hugh Macneillie.”
The letter chanced to arrive in Paradise Street on a foggy
September evening when Ralph was in particularly low spirits. He
had expected much from Macneillie and was proportionately
disappointed. It seemed almost as if an old friend had shut the door
in his face, nor did he quite realise that few men as busy, and as
much tormented by importunate scribblers as Macneillie, would have
troubled to answer his appeal at all. What was he to do? Where was
he to turn for work? And how much longer would Evereld’s money
hold out? The question was more easily than satisfactorily answered.
It was clearly impossible that he could exist much longer in Paradise
Street, and though its dingy room and bare, scanty furniture was far
from inviting, yet he had grown fond of his good-natured landlord
and took a kindly interest in the whole family of Doolans, with their
easy, happy-go-lucky ways, and strong sense of humour. Life was
lonely enough now. What would it be if he were altogether without a
home in this great wilderness of London?
 CHAPTER VIII
“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.

R
alph’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?
 CHAPTER IX
“If I were loved, as I desire to be,
What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And range of evil between death and birth,
That I shall fear, if I were loved by thee?”
Tennyson.

I
f yer plase, yer honour, Mr. Geraghty is below, and would like to
see yer honour if its convaniant,” said little Nora Doolan,
thrusting her untidy head into the cheerless back room in
Paradise Street.
Ralph, who was pacing to and from learning a part in a
Shakesperian play which he was little likely to act as yet, glanced
round with brightening face.
“What? Dear old Geraghty!” he exclaimed. “I’m glad he has looked
me up. Show him upstairs Nora, for I should like to have a talk with
him.”
The old man-servant responded with alacrity to the warm
welcome he received.
“It’s delighted I am to see you again, Mr. Ralph,” he exclaimed,
looking him over with an air of satisfaction as though he had some
share in his well-being. “And it’s in good health that you are looking,
sir, and no mistake.”
“Nothing like hard work, Geraghty, for keeping a man well,” said
Ralph. “And I hope I’m settled now for some time to come. You can
tell Miss Evereld that I’m at the very theatre we so often used to go
to, and that I have the pleasure of seeing Washington act every
night.”
 “I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Geraghty. “We all knew long ago, sir,
that you’d make a first-class actor; it took but a little small bit of
discrimination to see that much.”
Ralph laughed. “Well, Geraghty, you mustn’t run away with the
notion that I’m a star, for, as a matter of fact, I am nothing but a
super at a pound a week. But it’s better to begin at the beginning in
a good theatre than to be cock-of-the-walk in a fifth-rate one.”
“To be sure, sir, it’s just what I was saying but now to my sister
about placing her eldest girl. ‘Never mind how little she earns the
first year or two,’ said I, ‘but for heaven’s sake place her in a
gentleman’s family, and don’t let her demean herself by takin’
service with them that hasn’t an ounce of breeding to bless
themselves with. Let her be kitchen or scullery-maid or what you
will, but have her with gentry.’”
“Geraghty,” said Ralph, with a mischievous smile, “You have such a
respect for birth that it’s my firm conviction you’ll be the last and
most staunch supporter left to the House of Lords.”
Geraghty laughed all over his face, and his broad shoulders shook.
“I’ve seen just a little too much of the aristocracy to pin my faith
to them, sir. Handsome is as handsome does, and gentle is as gentle
does. But from the House of Lords and their marrin’ and muddlin’—
Good Lord deliver us!”
Ralph who had purposely provoked this tirade from the Irishman,
laughed and changed the subject by an inquiry after Evereld.
“Well, thank God, she’s getting on finely, sir. Seems as if there was
a special Providence over orphans, and Bridget she says why that’s
natural enough, that their parents can see better how to guide them
bein’ higher up so to speak. But, however that may be, at first we all
thought she’d fret her heart out with missin’ you, sir. But in
September, Bridget took her down to the school at Southbourne, and
though she was a bit faint-hearted at the notion, she’d no sooner set
eyes on the place than she was sure she’d be happy there. Bridget
says it’s the most beautiful house and garden you ever saw, and all
so comfortable and homelike in spite of the size. And Miss Evereld
writes that she’s as happy as the day is long, and that they’re
teaching her how to nurse sick folks, and that she’s learnt to darn
her own stockin’s—a thing she never got a chance o’ doin’ at home—
and to dance the minuet, and to do algebra, and I don’t know what
beside. But, from what Bridget told me, I foregathered that it wasn’t
a school where they cram them like turkeys for Christmas or geese
for a Michaelmas fair, but just a home on a large scale for turnin’ out
well-mannered young gentlewomen who’ll have a very good notion
how to manage a home on a smaller scale.”
When the old Butler had gone, Ralph fell into a reverie. The effect
of hearing all about Evereld had been to make him long very
impatiently for the end of their separation. It was true that when she
returned to the Mactavishes at Christmas he could write to her
without any breach of regulations, but there seemed no chance of
their meeting, and he greatly missed his old companion. He began
to weave all manner of visions of future success, and to imagine that
in an incredibly short space of time he had gained quite a high
position at Washington’s theatre, that he met Evereld in society, and
that Sir Matthew, who always paid homage to the successful,
became quite friendly and cordial to him. How strange it would be to
be invited as a distinguished guest to the very house in Queen
Anne’s Gate where he had been snubbed and scolded as a boy.
It was with something of a shock that he came back to the prosaic
present and found himself merely a super about to go through, for
the fiftieth time, the wearisome business which was his allotted
share in a play which was likely to run for many months more.
It was just at Christmas that he was confronted by one of those
decisions that form the chief difficulty of an actor’s career. To seize
the right opportunity of promotion, yet to avoid “Raw haste, half-
sister to delay”; to have precisely that right judgment which often
determines the success or failure of a life, is hard to all mortals, but
hardest to those of the artistic temperament. The temptation to
escape from the monotony of his present work came to him through
the Professor’s granddaughter.
To little Ivy Grant he had from the very first seemed a full fledged
hero. He was the first man she had ever looked up to, for although
devoted to her old grandfather it was not easy to respect the
Professor. He seemed, to shrewd little Ivy, a very weak old man, and
she despised the weak, not understanding at all that habit of making
large allowance for human infirmity which grows with the growing
years. The old man was a confirmed opium eater. The habit, begun
in a time of physical pain and great mental worry, had now bound
him fast in its cruel chains, and the kindly benevolence which had
struck Ralph at first sight as so strange a contrast with his
blameworthy neglect of Ivy’s safety, was all due to the influence of
the drug. His will was now not in the least his own, and though he
had his moments of exquisite exaltation he had always to pay for
them by times of black depression and misery. Under these
circumstances the child’s life could hardly be a happy one; she was,
moreover, scarcely strong enough for the late hours and the
exposure to all sorts of weather which her work entailed, and in
spite of her brisk, managing ways she began to crave for something
more strong and trustworthy to support her than her grandfather
whose simile of the lifeless trunk of the tree kept up by the ivy
supporting it, had been singularly near the truth.
When Ralph no longer played at the same theatre, and their
meetings became less frequent, the little girl flagged and lost heart.
She had good impulses but she was easily led, and her friendship
with Ralph had filled her with a sense of dissatisfaction with her own
life, and the lives that most nearly touched her own. Her busy little
brain began to form eager plans for the future, and at last fate put
in her way a chance which revived her drooping spirits, and lighted
up her blue eyes with hope. Her good news arrived on Christmas
day, otherwise the festival would have been cheerless enough, for
the old Professor had slept in his invalid chair the whole of the
morning, and Ivy, sitting in solitary state beside the fire, had eaten a
sober little Christmas dinner consisting of a slice of cold meat and a
mince-pie kindly given to her by the landlady. Then having tidied the
bare little room, and stuck a solitary piece of holly in the window
that people might see she was “keeping Christmas” properly, she
returned to her place on the hearthrug, and tried to become
interested in a penny novelette which should have been exciting, but
somehow failed to touch her.
“Stupid thing!” she exclaimed presently, throwing the book to the
further end of the room with a little petulant gesture. “I can’t even
cry when the heroine dies. What is the good of a book if you can’t
cry over it?”
Just then there came a tap at the door, and in walked Ralph with
his cheerful face, and in his hands was a great bunch of ivy and
mistletoe.
“A happy Christmas to you,” he said, taking her cold little hand in
his. “How’s the Professor? Not worse I hope?”
“He is no worse,” said Ivy, “but he has been asleep all day, and it’s
dreadfully dull. Where did you get such lovely evergreens?”
“Walked out into the country this morning, right away beyond
Hampstead. As for the mistletoe, that’s a particular present from
Dan Doolan, and I’ve just had to kiss seven small Doolans beneath it
before they would let me out of the house. Now your turn has
come.”
Ivy laughed and protested, but was thrilled through and through
by the kiss, though it was just as matter-of-fact as that which he had
bestowed on Tim Doolan, aged three. Her little, pale face lighted up
radiantly, but unobservant Ralph saw nothing of that, he was
bestowing all his energies on the decoration of the dreary, little
room, and crowning with ivy the portraits of sundry great actors and
actresses.
“Do you think Mrs. Siddons ever looked as stiff and forbidding as
this?” he said, glancing round with a smile, as Ivy held him a laurel
branch to put above the frame.
 “Yes,” she replied, saucily. “She must have looked like that when
she said in awful tones, ‘Will it wash?’ to the poor frightened
shopman who was serving her.”
“Ah, perhaps. Well, Ivy, there is no fear that you will ever strike
terror into any one’s heart.”
“Who cares for striking terror into people?” she replied, merrily,
and as she spoke she began to float dreamily away into an
exquisitely graceful skirt-dance; her little, childish face growing more
and more sweet and tranquil as she proceeded.
Clearly dancing was her vocation. Ralph stood with his back to the
fire watching her perfect grace: it seemed to him the very poetry of
motion. And Ivy was at her very best when she was dancing; at
other times her ways occasionally jarred on him, her acting left
much to be desired, and a certain vein of silliness in her now and
then awoke his contempt, but when dancing she seemed like one
inspired; he could only wonder and admire.
“Some day you will be our greatest English dancer,” he said, as
once more she settled down into her nook beside the fire.
“I don’t want to be that,” said Ivy, “English dancers are never
made so much of as foreigners, and besides, a dancer’s position is
not so good. I mean to be an actress.”
“It’s a thousand pities,” said Ralph. “Why do people always want
to do things they can’t do well.”
Ivy pouted.
“Grandfather doesn’t wish me only to dance,” she said. “And
besides I have just heard of quite a fresh opening. What would you
say to earning two pounds a week?”
“I should say I’m not likely to do that yet awhile,” said Ralph,
philosophically.
“But you can! you can!” said Ivy, clapping her hands joyfully.
“There’s an opening for you as well as for me, for I specially asked.
It’s a ‘fit up’ company and we should be wanted in February when
the pantomime is over.”
“Where?” asked Ralph, looking incredulous.
“For a tour in Scotland. A ‘fit up’ company too, and nothing to
provide but just wigs and shoes and tights.”
“Who is the manager?”
“The husband of the leading lady. His name is Skoot.”
“Don’t like the name,” said Ralph, laughing.
“Why what’s in a name?” said Ivy. “The poor man didn’t choose it.
For my part I think it is better than assuming some grand name that
doesn’t belong to him. And then his Christian name is Theophilus.”
But Ralph still laughed.
“Worse and worse,” he said. “Theophilus Skoot is a detestable
combination. Dick, Tom, or Harry, would have been better. No, no,
Ivy; I think we had better stay where we are.”
Ivy looked much disheartened, and to change the subject Ralph
suggested that they should go together to the Abbey. This pleased
her, she forgot the Scotch tour and only revelled in the bliss of the
present. To walk to church on Christmas day with her ideal man, to
feel the subtle influence of the beautiful Abbey, the lights, the music,
the religious atmosphere, seemed to her a sort of foretaste of
heaven, a slightly sensuous heaven perhaps, but the highest she
was as yet capable of imagining. Ralph was not sorry to have the
child with him, for his Christmas had been lonely enough. But his
thoughts wandered far away from her during the service. He was
back again at Whinhaven listening to his father’s voice, or he was
with Evereld and her governess listening to solemn old chorales at
Dresden.
Presently a very slight thing recalled him to his actual
surroundings. The sermon was about to begin and some one sitting
in front of him rose to go just as the text was given out:
 “And in the fulness of time God sent———”
He heard no more for the vacant place had revealed to him, at a
little distance in front, a profile which arrested his whole attention.
Something in its earnest, absorbed expression, in its exquisite purity,
in the listening look of one who is eager to learn, appealed to him
strongly. Then suddenly his heart gave a bound, for it was borne in
upon him that he was looking at Evereld. Not the Evereld he had left
on that summer day as a playmate and comrade, but a new Evereld
who had developed into a woman—the one woman in all the world
for him. He did not wish the sermon ended, he could have been
almost content to sit on there for ever just watching her; that
curious description of heaven as a place

“Where congregations ne’er break up,

And Sabbaths never end,”—

a notion which has cast a gloom over so many children’s hearts,

seemed to him in his present mood after all not so impossible.
When the service was really over, and the people began to
disperse, he was in a fever lest he should be unable to reach her,
and it was not until he had discovered that Bridget was her
companion that he could feel at all secure of any real talk with her.
Ivy, quite unconscious of all this, wondered a little when he
paused in the nave; but she did not at all object to standing there
with him, looking into the dim beauty of the stately building, and
with a proud little consciousness that many people glanced at them
as they passed by. It was so nice, she reflected, to go to church with
a man like Ralph, a man wholly unlike any other she had yet come
across in her short and rather dreary life.
Meanwhile, Evereld was drawing nearer. Ivy was just admiring her
dark-green jacket and toque with their beaver trimmings, and
longing to have just such a costume herself, when she saw a vivid
colour suffuse the wearer’s face, her blue eyes shone radiantly, her
lips smiled such a welcoming smile at Ralph that no words, no hand-
clasp, seemed necessary. Side by side they passed together out of
the Abbey, while Ivy, in blank surprise, followed in their wake.
“To think that you were there all the time and that I never knew
it,” said Evereld, when the greetings were over. “Where is Bridget?
How surprised she will be. Look, Bridget, here is Mr. Ralph come
back.”
“An’ it’s glad I am to see you, sir. There’ll be no need, I’m thinkin’,
to wish you a happy Christmas, for I can see by your face that
you’ve got it.”
Ralph did, indeed, seem to be in the seventh heaven of happiness,
but as he gave a cordial greeting to the old servant he happened to
notice Ivy’s wistful, little face, and, with a pang of reproach for
having altogether forgotten her, he took her hand in his and
introduced her to Evereld.
“This is a little friend of mine,” he said. “The granddaughter of
Professor Grant, my elocution master.” Evereld liked the look of the
little fairylike figure, but she seemed to her the merest child, and
after a few kindly words she thought no more of her, being naturally
absorbed in Ralph and having so much to say to him after their long
separation.
Ivy, with a sigh, dropped behind with Bridget, who, in her
motherly fashion, took her under her special protection as they
crossed the wide road near the Aquarium, little guessing that this
small person was well used to going about London quite alone at all
hours.
“And how are things going at Queen Anne’s Gate?” asked Ralph,
when Evereld had told him all about her life at Southbourne.
“It’s so dull I hardly know how to bear it,” said Evereld. “You see,
I’m too big now for children’s parties, and, of course, I’m not out
yet. I miss you all day long, and no one so much as speaks of you,
except now and then Mr. Bruce Wylie, and he always did like you.”
 “Not he,” said Ralph. “He made believe, though, for the sake of
pleasing you.”
“I see that you have not lost your way of thinking evil of people,”
said Evereld, reproachfully. “Mr. Wylie is the kindest man I know.”
“But you don’t know him,” said Ralph. “You merely see him now
and then and like his pleasant way of talking, and find him a relief
from the Mactavish clan.”
“And how much do you know him?” said Evereld, teasingly.
“Not much, certainly,” he was constrained to own with a smile,
“and it may be jealousy that makes me decry him. Yet, if instinct
goes for anything, he is a man I should never trust.”
“What! such a frank, straightforward sort of man as that?” she
exclaimed, in dismay.
“I know he’s very plausible, I know he has many good points
even, but I fancy he could persuade himself that anything was right
if only it promoted his own ends.”
“At any rate, he is the one person who ever troubles to inquire
after you, and I believe that is the chief reason I have for liking him.”
Ralph was so well content with this speech that he let the subject
drop, and, as Evereld was eager to hear all that he had been doing
since they had been separated, he began to give her an amusing
account of the straits he had been in and the work he had obtained.
Far too soon they reached Sir Matthew’s house, and were obliged to
part.
“You will write when you can?” said Evereld, wistfully, as she
lingered for a moment on the steps with her hand in his. “I don’t
think Sir Matthew has any right to object, and I shall want to know
what you decide about Scotland.”
“Yes, you shall hear directly it is decided,” said Ralph, trying to feel
hopeful. “I wish I knew what would be the wisest thing to do.”
 Then, with a lingering glance into the sweet eyes lifted to his, he
bade her good-bye and turned away.
“How I wish I were the Professor’s little granddaughter,” she
thought to herself as she glanced down the dark road after them,
with a sick longing to be going too. And, had she but known it, Ivy
was at that very time thinking enviously of Ralph’s old friend and of
her many advantages.
Meanwhile Geraghty threw open the front door, and in the cheerful
light that streamed through the hall Evereld caught a vision of Sir
Matthew coming down the stairs, and, taking her courage in both
hands, she entered the house and went straight up to him.
 CHAPTER X
“Savage at heart, and false of tongue,
Subtle with age, and smooth to the young,
Like a snake in his coiling and curling.”
T. Hood.

S
o you have been to the Abbey?” he said, smiling benevolently
upon her.
“Yes,” she replied, her blue eyes looking straight into his.
“And we have seen Ralph. He was there, too, just behind us. He
walked back with us.”
Sir Matthew frowned slightly. Then, recollecting the presence of
the servants, he beckoned Evereld to his study.
“Come in here, my dear,” he said, in his soft voice. “You are quite
right to tell me all so frankly, and it is natural enough that you
should be pleased to meet your old playfellow. But you must
remember that things are not now as they once were.”
“Ralph and I shall always be friends,” said Evereld, gently, but with
a firmness which startled her guardian. “Things are not altered
between us because we don’t live under the same roof now. How
could that alter us?”
“My dear, it is for Lady Mactavish and myself to decide who shall
or who shall not be your friends,” he said, with quiet decision.
“That may be,” said Evereld, “as far as new friends are concerned,
but I cannot unmake a friend to order—no, not even if the Queen
commanded it.”
 They both smiled a little. Sir Matthew paced the room in silence.
“I must not forbid her to hold any communication with him,” he
reflected, “or let her feel that I am a tyrant and they a couple of
martyrs. After all, she is so young and simple and innocent; no
mischief will come of it.”
“Has Ralph found work?” he inquired, not unkindly.
“Yes,” she said, “at Washington’s theatre; and perhaps he is going
on a Scotch tour.”
“Good!” said Sir Matthew, approvingly. “After all, he has talent,
and will make himself a name in time. His best chance would be to
marry some experienced actress older than himself. That has
answered very well in one or two cases. His birth and education
would go for something, and if he plays his cards well the stage may
make his fortune. By-the-by, Bruce Wylie is to dine with us to-night.
You like him, do you not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Evereld, “I like him very much.”
And Sir Matthew, satisfied with the warmth of her tone, dismissed
her with a paternal kiss, and an injunction to put on her prettiest
gown in honour of the festival.
Bruce Wylie was certainly the most attractive and amusing of the
men who visited the Mactavishes. He had the easy, comfortable air
of an old friend, and he came and went at all hours, yet never
seemed to be present when he was not wanted. His fair hair and
short, fair beard contrasted rather curiously with his dark, keen eyes.
He had a brisk, kindly, pleasant manner, and a particularly winning
voice. There was about him, too, a saving sense of humour, and the
rather heavy atmosphere of Sir Matthew’s household always seemed
less oppressive when he was present. He was a first-rate raconteur,
and Evereld was never tired of listening to his stories.
It was all in vain that she tried to see him with Ralph’s eyes. She
decided in her own mind that his hard experience of the world had
made Ralph somewhat cynical and distrustful. He had convinced her
with regard to Sir Matthew, but to belief in Bruce Wylie she still
clung with all the loyalty of her fresh, innocent youth.
And yet the ladies had only left the dining-room a few moments
when Bruce Wylie revealed a very different side of himself.
“Ewart’s little girl is looking prettier than usual tonight,” he
remarked, as he picked out the preserved apricots from a small dish
in front of him, leaving only bitter oranges and citrons for those who
might come after.
“Yes,” said Sir Matthew, “Southbourne has done wonders for her.
She had better have another six months there.”
“Was she not eighteen in the autumn? She will want to come out
next season.”
“I don’t think it,” said Sir Matthew. “She is happy enough there,
and we shall do well to keep her from the heiress-hunters till she is
safely betrothed to you.”
“Poor little soul!” said Bruce Wylie, reflectively. “There would be no
danger in letting her see a little of the world first.”
“We won’t risk that,” said his companion. “What’s to prevent her
falling in love with some young fellow and refusing to look at you. If
she ever lost her heart, she would be the veriest little shrew to
manage—there would be no taming her. We might prevent her
marrying till she was of age, but you know what revelations would
come about when her affairs were looked into. No, no; she must be
safely married to her worthy solicitor, Bruce Wylie, as soon as
possible after she leaves school.”
Bruce Wylie seemed lost in thought. Sir Matthew watched him,
half-suspiciously. They were friends and confederates, but the
company promoter trusted no one in the world implicitly.
“You are thinking that it is a risky venture,” he said, quietly, “but
under the circumstances it’s far the best thing that can be done. If
the South African affair goes on as well as it promises, her money
will be safe enough in the long run; and if a smash comes, why her
Welcome to Our Bookstore - The Ultimate Destination for Book Lovers
Are you passionate about books and eager to explore new worlds of
knowledge? At our website, we offer a vast collection of books that
cater to every interest and age group. From classic literature to
specialized publications, self-help books, and children’s stories, we
have it all! Each book is a gateway to new adventures, helping you
expand your knowledge and nourish your soul
Experience Convenient and Enjoyable Book Shopping Our website is more
than just an online bookstore—it’s a bridge connecting readers to the
timeless values of culture and wisdom. With a sleek and user-friendly
interface and a smart search system, you can find your favorite books
quickly and easily. Enjoy special promotions, fast home delivery, and
a seamless shopping experience that saves you time and enhances your
love for reading.
Let us accompany you on the journey of exploring knowledge and
personal growth!

ebookball.com