“Through ways unlooked for, and through many lands,
Far from the rich folds built with human hands,
The gracious footprints of His love I trace.”
Lowell.
Angus Linklater was in no danger of mistaking the traveller for a Brownie; one of his long, keen glances told him much of the truth about Ralph, for he had the rare gift of insight and his kindly heart warmed to the tired wayfarer.
He at once protested that it was out of the question to go on in such weather to Dalnacardoch, and invited Ralph to take shelter in his cottage, which was but a few minutes’ walk.
Ralph hesitated for a moment. The rain streamed down his face and neck, his boots felt like a couple of reservoirs, and the thought of shelter was very tempting.
“I will tell you just how it is with me,” he said; “I have but a few pence left and must reach Stirling before I have a chance of getting my letters and further supplies. I think I must press on, for there is no time to be lost.”
“Put ony thought o’ troublin’ us oot o’ your head, sir,” said Angus, instantly reading his companion’s thoughts, and beginning to walk on beside him. “The hame is just a but and a ben, and you’re kindly welcome to a’ that we can gie you in the way o’ food and shelter for the night.”
“You are very good,” said Ralph. “If you can conveniently take me in I shall be thankful. But don’t be putting yourselves out for me. When I tell you that I slept last night in the ruins of the old castle at Kingussie, and in a hay-cart near Grantown the night before, you will see that to be under a roof at all will be a luxury to me.”
He laughed. The shepherd gave him another of those sympathetic, discerning looks.
“You have had trouble I see,” he said. “But I’m thinkin’ that you’re meetin’ it in the right way.”
“Oh,” said Ralph lightly, “I’m just an actor out of work. For several weeks we have had plenty to do and no money; now we have neither money nor work, and I am hoping to get into another company.”
“It’s no right that ony man should work without wages,” said Angus; “it’s clean against Scripture. But just for a wee while I’m thinkin’ that it’s maybe no sic an ill thing for us to learn that a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance o’ the things which he possesseth.”
“Well, it’s not hard to agree to that now that I’m close to your house,” said Ralph, “but I’ll confess to you that I was beginning to despair before I met you.”
“Ay,” said Angus, a smile crossing his face, “Ilka ane o’ us is apt to be like this stray lamb that was tryin’ to mak’ its way hame and was scairt almost to death with encounterin’ deefficulties. It might have hed the sense to know that as the sayin’ goes, ‘Where twa are seekin’ they’re sure to find.’”
“Is that one of your Scottish proverbs?” said Ralph, struck by the beauty of the thought.
“Ay, it is, sir, and it often comes to my mind when I’m after the sheep. Ye mauna despair though you’re oot o’ work. We are maist o’ us ready to say ‘The Lord’s my shepherd,’ but at the first glint o’ trouble we change the psalm and say ‘but I’m terrible feart that I’ll come to want.’”
There was a sort of dry humour in his manner of saying these last words, and Ralph smiled.
“I see you are a thought-reader,” he said, “as well as a thinker.”
“Oh, as for that,” said the shepherd, “those that spend their lives amang the mountains have aye mickle time for thinkin’. It’s a gran’ preevilege to be set to mind the sheep.”
They were now within sight of the cottage and Angus Linklater led the way through a little garden; at the sound of their footsteps his wife opened the door, it seemed almost as though she were expecting her husband to bring some one back with him, but after one glance at the visitor her eagerness died away; she was a grave woman with dark hair parted plainly beneath her white mutch, and with a certain sadness in her eyes and in her voice. Her welcome was, however, as hearty as the shepherd’s and before long she had furnished Ralph with her husband’s Sunday garments and was busily preparing tea. When the tired traveller emerged again from the back room in dry clothes, he thought nothing had ever looked more comfortable than that homely little kitchen with its fire of logs, its old grandfather clock, and its quaint, corner cupboard, black with age. Some lines of Stevenson’s came to his mind as Mrs. Linklater made room for him by the hearth.
“Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,
An’ liltin’ kettle.”
Delicious too was the tea and the oatcake after his monotonous bread and water diet. Angus was still out attending to the lamb he had brought home, and Ralph wondered whether the shepherd and his wife lived alone in this quiet place. Among the few books on the shelf, he noticed, however, sundry modern adventuring books which had been the delight of his childhood. “I see you have some children,” he said, finding his hostess not nearly so talkative as the shepherd had been.
“We hae a son,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears, and crossing the room she took down “The Dog Crusoe” and showed him the inscription on the flyleaf.
It was a prize for good conduct awarded to Dugald Linklater. Ralph instantly felt that he had touched on a sore subject but whether the son were dead or a source of trouble to the mother he could not guess. The book was still in his hand when Angus returned.
“Ah,” he said, with a sigh, “you’re lookin’ at puir Dugald’s prizes. We’ve lost him, sir. But he’ll come hame yet. I’m no dootin’ that. He’ll come hame.”
Little by little Ralph gathered the facts of the case. It seemed that Dugald had been a clever and promising lad, that Lord Ederline having a fancy for him had taken him as his valet, and for a time all had gone well. But London life had proved too full of temptation for the young Scotsman, the betting mania had seized him, and had swiftly dragged him down, until ruined and disgraced he had disappeared into those hidden depths which are sought by the failures of all classes. It was now three years since anything had been heard of him, but the father and mother still lived in the belief that he would return, and Ralph understood now the expectant look which he had noticed in the sad face of his hostess as he walked up the garden path with her husband.
The absent son seemed to dominate their thoughts and it was with something almost like envy that Ralph, in his singularly desolate life, thought of this apparent waste of love. Was it pride, or shame or sheer wickedness that kept Dugald away from such a home, he wondered?
The Linklaters kept very early hours, and after “taking the Book” and “composing their minds to worship,” they bade their guest good-night. A bed had been extemporised for him on a comfortable old settle where, with the shepherd’s plaid to keep him warm, he thought himself in luxurious quarters. But sleep would not come to him at that hour in the evening and he lay for a long time watching the ruddy glow from the dying fire on the hearth and musing over many things. He was glad that the storm had overtaken him and that he had found shelter in this Highland cottage, for in its atmosphere there was something curiously peaceful and homelike. It was many, many years since he had felt so much at one with any household—almost it seemed to him like a return to his old home. For, perhaps, nothing has more effect on a sensitive, receptive mind than moral atmosphere; while those sweet, subtle associations, which are the aftermath of a happy childhood, are more readily awakened by this native air of the soul than by things which can be actually seen.
He took leave the next morning with a sense that these people had become his friends, and that somehow they would meet again. The shepherd would fain have helped him on his way, but he knew better than to offer what his guest would little like to receive; nor did he, of course, realise how very few were the pence still remaining to him. They gave him the best breakfast the house would furnish, and Mrs. Linklater insisted on wrapping up a shepherd’s pasty, which she said would make a luncheon for him; then, with kindly cordiality, they bade him farewell, begging him to let them know how he prospered.
Cheered by their friendliness, Ralph walked in very good spirits through the Gaick Forest to Dalnacardoch, and thence, after a brief rest, made his way southward to Tummel Bridge. The air felt fresh after the storm and walking was delightful, but he found no friendly shepherd’s cottage to shelter him, and passed a very cold and comfortless night under the shelter of a rick, which proved distinctly uncomfortable as sleeping quarters. Twice he was roused by mice running over his face, and in the dead of night a groan and the falling of some heavy object at his very feet made him start up. It proved to be a drunken and very dirty tramp, whose neighbourhood was highly undesirable, and Ralph shifted his quarters to the other side of the rick where the keen, north-east wind was far from pleasant. He woke again in the grey dawn, feeling stiff and miserable. The tramp still retained the leeward side of the rick, so there was nothing for it but to resume his journey, and gradually the morning mist cleared and the sun rose, revealing the fine outline of Schiehallion and chasing away the chill discomfort of the night. Indeed, by the time Ralph had reached the village of Fortingall, he was both hot and sleepy, and finding the kirkyard deserted, he lay down on a sunny patch of grass, with his head resting on one of the stone ledges that flanked the railings round the famous yew tree of three thousand years old. How long he slept he could not tell, but he awoke at length to the consciousness of hunger. Having eaten all the bread he had saved from the previous night, he wandered towards the kirk, and hearing the sound of a voice through the open windows, realised for the first time that it was Sunday. The preacher was giving out the One hundred and twenty-first psalm, and pausing to listen, he heard, to the familiar tune of “French,” the following quaint metrical version.
“I to the hills will lift mine eyes.
From whence doth come my aid?
My safety cometh from the Lord,
Who heav’n and earth hath made.
Thy foot he’ll not let slide nor will
He slumber that thee keeps.
Behold he that keeps Israel
He slumbers not nor sleeps.
“The Lord thee keeps, the Lord thy shade
On thy right hand doth stay;
The moon by night thee shall not smite,
Nor yet the sun by day.
The Lord shall keep thy soul; he shall
Preserve thee from all ill.
Henceforth thy going out and in
God keep for ever will.”
As the last words were sung, Ralph made his way to the door and entered the little building, just as the congregation stood up to pray. He felt, as he had done in the shepherd’s cottage, that sense of fellowship which was what he needed in his loneliness; nor could the length of the sermon, with its bewildering array of heads, spoil for him that May morning, and the strengthening influence of the calm worship hour, which seemed to him more spiritual, more grand in its simplicity, than elaborately ornate and showy ceremonials.
He went on his way refreshed, and, taking the road to Fearnan, soon reached the shores of Loch Tay. Away in the distance Ben Lawers rose rugged and stern against the pale blue of the sky, and the walk left nothing to be wished in the way of beauty. The only drawback was the growing sense of fatigue that come over him. He wondered that a walk of eighteen miles could so exhaust him. It was true he had been out of training when he started from Forres, and had walked many miles each day upon short rations, but he was dismayed to find that his powers of endurance were not greater.
It was evening by the time he reached the Bridge of Lochay, and learnt that he was within a mile of Killin. Feeling now tired out, he resolved to go no further; moreover, he had learnt from experience that it was better to sleep at a little distance from towns or villages. He paused to talk to an old labouring man who was leaning over the bridge. To the left there was a lovely little wood closely shutting in the river; to the right, the stream wound its way through green hayfields, and on through the wild beauty of Glen Lochay to the distant hills which were bathed now in a mellow, sunset light. Learning from his companion that he could get food close at hand, Ralph made his way to the little white old-fashioned inn just beyond the bridge. Its walls were covered with creepers, its garden gay with flowers, and in the porch were two comfortable chairs. The landlady seemed a little surprised at his request for two penny worth of bread: she would have been yet more surprised had she known that he gave her his very last coins in payment; for the rest, she answered his questions about Killin, and the distance from thence to Callander, and let him rest as long as he liked in the porch, bidding him a friendly good-night when at dusk he once more resumed his journey. Evidently the inn closed early on the Sabbath, for Ralph heard the door shut and bolted behind him.
He paused, and looked round in search of shelter. Not far off, the ground sloped steeply up, and fir-trees were planted about it. Climbing over the low stone wall, he made his way towards a fallen tree, the wide-spreading roots of which pointed darkly up against the twilight sky. It lay just as it had fallen in a wintry gale, its rough bark was veiled here and there by clumps of brake fern, and the turf still grew between the roots as it had grown when the tree was torn out of the earth by the storm. It proved a good shelter from the cold night wind, and Ralph crept closely down beneath it, and soon slept. His sleep, however, was disturbed by horrible dreams, and when in the early morning he awoke unrefreshed and with aching head, he felt no inclination to stay longer in his lair. Stretching his stiff limbs, he stood for a minute looking at the wonderful view before him. Beyond the river there lay a grand panorama of mountains; here and there were large plantations of fir, then came wild, bare tracks of heather, black and cheerless now without its bloom, but relieved at intervals by grey boulders and patches of grass, while little, white cottages were dotted, like rare pearls, about the landscape.
A good swim in the river revived him, after which he went on to Killin, and, seeing little chance of selling his mackintosh there, hoped for better luck that night at Callander; and learning that there was a short cut to Glen Ogle, left the road and struck across the mountainside, gaining, as he walked, fine views of Ben Vorlich. Toiling up in the sun proved warm work, however, and by the time he reached the gloomy, narrow glen he was thankful to wait and rest. He wondered whether it was the effect of the place or merely his own fault that such deadly depression began to creep over him. The stern, purple mountains seemed to frown on him, the tiny stream down below in the middle of the glen looked miserably insufficient for its wide, rocky bed, and the lingering mists of early morning still hung about in weird wreaths. This was the sixth day on which he had been a vagabond, and he began to wonder whether he should ever reach Glasgow. With an effort he shook off for a time the sense of impending evil, and forced himself to eat the remains of the loaf he had bought on the previous night.
“Now,” he thought to himself, as once more he tramped on, “I am bound, whatever happens, to reach Callander this evening. I must walk or starve; that will be a good sort of goad.”
The road was mostly down hill, and he made a brave start, passed Loch Earn, which lay far below in the valley, looking exquisitely lovely in the May sunshine, and then toiled up again towards Strathyre, pausing only to ask for some water at a grey, slate-roofed farm on the outskirts of the village. Here he learned the comforting fact that it was but “eight miles and a bittock” to Callander, and went on in better spirits. Away to the right he caught beautiful glimpses of the Braes of Balquhidder, and at last, to his relief, came down to the shores of Loch Lubnaig.
But the loch was nearly five miles long, and before he had gone half its length such intolerable pain and weariness overpowered him that he could hardly drag one foot after another. He was forced to rest for a while; then once more blindly staggered on, wondering what was going to happen to him and counting the milestones with the eagerness of despair. At length the loch was passed, and the two railway bridges. He knew that he must be in the Pass of Leny, and as he toiled up the hill could hear the rushing sound of the river among the trees to the right. Then came the moment when he could do no more, but sank down half-fainting by the roadside, his head resting on a rough seat which had been placed against the wall. How long he lay there he could not tell, but he was roused by the sound of footsteps close at hand. Half opening his eyes he caught sight of two hard-featured men, who glanced at him critically and shrugged their shoulders.
“Drunk,” he heard one of them say, “and as early in the afternoon as this!”
The words rankled in poor Ralph’s mind.
“If I had not tried to be honest it would never have come to this,” he reflected. “Because my clothes are shabby and my boots in holes they judge me. Well, it’s what the poor always have to put up with!”
He dragged himself to his feet, and, noticing for the first time some steps in the wall and a path leading down to the river, thought he would hide his misery and escape from further comments. He was parched with thirst, too, but to reach the water proved hopeless. Though the river was swollen with the recent storm, it went surging and foaming below him among the rocks in a way which made him feel sick and giddy. He just staggered on by the narrow, rocky track and the wooden gallery till he reached the smoother path beyond, which led into a little wood, and here once more his powers deserted him, and he again lost consciousness.
When he came to himself he was lying uneasily across the path, his head on the mossy bank and his feet hanging perilously over the water. It just crossed his mind that he might easily enough have lost his life had he fallen in the opposite direction, and he wondered dreamily whether it would not have simplified matters, yet, wretched as he was, he felt somehow glad to be alive. Away in the distance he could see Ben Ledi rising in its tranquil beauty beyond the foaming river. There was a rocky islet, too, in the centre of the flood, with a tall, stately fir-tree growing upon it, the dark foliage strongly contrasting with the white foam and the vivid green of the trees on the further bank. To his fancy, the rushing river seemed to ring out the tune of
“I to the hills will lift mine eyes,”
as he had heard it sung on the previous day at Fortingall Kirk.
All sorts of half-misty memories thronged his fevered brain. He thought he was walking again with Angus Linklater as he carried the ugly little black lamb; or he was out boating with his father; or he was at rehearsal, and Mrs. Skoot was wrathfully haranguing him. Through all these feverish fancies, there remained the ever-present consciousness of physical misery, and the rankling recollection of the words he had heard from the two men who had passed him on the road. Presently, yet another fancy took possession of him. He was sitting with Evereld in a theatre, and could distinctly hear the actual words of Shylock’s part:
“What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?”
“I thank God, I thank God. Is’t true, is’t true?”
“I thank thee good Tubal; good news! good news! ha,
ha, where? In Genoa?”
The voice was certainly not Washington’s. He was puzzled.
“Thou stickest a dagger in me,” it resumed, then suddenly broke off, and in the pause that followed he heard steps approaching. He opened his eyes, but saw only the familiar view of Ben Ledi and the foaming river. He had no notion that just behind him stood a tall, striking figure, and that some one was keenly studying him, not with the critical harshness of the passers-by in the road, but with the reverent sympathetic manner of the artist.
“Every man’s task is his life-preserver. The conviction that his work is dear to God and cannot be spared, defends him.”—Emerson.
Can I do anything for you?” asked a mellow, penetrating voice.
Ralph shifted his position a little, and looking round, saw a man bending over him with a curiously attractive face, chestnut-brown hair fast turning white, large, well-shaped, blue-grey eyes, and that mobile type of mouth which specially belongs to the actor. He had a strange impression of having lived through this scene before, and in a moment there flashed back into his mind a recollection of his first day at Sir Matthew’s house, of his adventure in the park, and of how Macneillie had pulled him out of the water. “Oh, is it you?” he cried, with a relief that could hardly have been greater had he met an old friend.
Macneillie in vain racked his memory: he could not in the least recall the face. However, he was not going to betray this. “Glad I came across you,” he said. “I often come down here by the river to study a part, this path is little frequented till the tourist season begins. Let me see, where did we last meet?”
“You will hardly remember it,” said Ralph; “it was at Richmond. I was quite a small boy and ran up to thank you for having pulled me out of the water a few weeks before in St. James’ Park. You gave me your knife.”
A look of keen and sudden interest flashed over Macneillie’s face.
“Of course!” he exclaimed; “I remember it all perfectly. I’m very glad to have come across you again. What is the matter now? You look very ill. Are you taking a walking tour?”
Ralph smiled. “I set out from Forres last Wednesday morning with sixpence in my pocket,” he said. “It has been a roughish time.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said Macneillie, glancing from the slightly-built figure to the thin, finely-shaped hands, and realising in a moment how little fitted this lad was to endure hardships. “From Forres you say? What was it I was hearing a day or two ago about Forres? Oh, to be sure, Skoot’s Company came to grief there.”
“Yes, I was in the company,” said Ralph. “Skoot left us in the lurch, and it was a sort ofsauve qui peut.”
“So you belong to the profession,” said Macneillie. “That gives you another claim upon me. Perhaps you are the very Mr. Denmead that Miss Kay mentioned in her letter.”
“Yes, I am Ralph Denmead. Miss Kay promised she would inquire if you had any opening for me.”
“We’ll see about that, but in the meantime, if I’m not much mistaken, the influenza fiend means to work his will on you. By the look of you I should say that you were in a high fever.”
“I don’t know what is the matter with me,” said Ralph, miserably. “I suppose I fainted just now in the road. I know that a priest and a levite looked at me, said I was drunk, and passed by on the other side.”
“Trust them to leap to the worst conclusions,” said Macneillie. “It’s the way of the world. But come, I must somehow contrive to get you to my house.”
Ill and exhausted, Ralph for the life of him could not keep the tears out of his eyes.
“You are very kind,” he said, brokenly; “but I didn’t mean to thrust the part of Good Samaritan on to you. I’m not fit to come to a decent house.”
He looked down at his travel-stained clothes, and at the holes in his boots.
“Did you mean to lie here all night?” said Macneillie.
“No, I meant to get on as far as Callander and to pawn this mackintosh. I am better. I’ll push on now. Perhaps there may be a hospital.”
“Well, there isn’t, as it happens,” said Macneillie, watching him attentively as he struggled to his feet; “and it’s two miles to Callander, and if you think I’m going to allow you to walk as far as that you’re much mistaken. I’m a very indifferent Good Samaritan, having no beast to set you on, but if you’ll try to come with me to the little village of Kilmahog which is not far off we can rest at a cottage I know of, have a cup of tea, and take the coach from the Trossachs which will pass there in about an hour. As for your scruples in coming home with me, you must just make away with them. My mother has often received me in quite as bad a plight years ago when I was struggling to get my foot on the ladder. We most of us have to go through it unless we happen to belong to an old professional family.”
As he talked he had slipped his arm within Ralph’s, and was guiding him up the narrow path, which, after a steep climb landed them once more in the road. Without waiting for much response he went on, telling story after story of his own early days as an actor, and at length the tiny village of Kilmahog came into sight, and they paused before a little, low white cottage with a picturesque porch and tiny garden. The mistress of the house seemed delighted to see her visitor, and responded most hospitably to his request for a cup of tea while they waited for the coach. She took them into a parlour hung round with sacred pictures, and possessing a most curious bed made on a sort of shelf in a curtained recess. Ralph looked longingly at it as he sank into a chair, but Macneillie shook his head.
“Yes, I see you want to be Mrs. Murdoch’s patient, but those ‘congealed beds,’ as I always call them, are not well-suited to a fever.”
“And when did ye come hame, sir,” inquired the landlady, returning with the tea tray; “and hoo are ye likin’ your braw new hoose?”
“I came home at the end of last week,” he replied; “and as for the house it’s to my mother’s liking and that’s all I care for. We hear the trains a trifle too plainly for my taste, but she likes that, says, you know, that they are a sort of link with me when I’m away.”
“Ah, but Mrs. Macneillie she’s main prood o’ her beautiful rooms, but I’m thinkin’ it’s mair because it’s her son that’s made them a’ for her. She was in Kilmahog last month settlin’ the account for the milk, and she said to me that if a’ mithers were blessed with such a son as hers there’d be a hantle less sorrow in the warld. Those were her verra words, sir.”
Macneillie laughed. “My mother was always prejudiced in my favour,” he said. “It’s the one subject you can’t trust her upon.”
The good woman bustled off to make the tea, and the actor turned again to Ralph.
“My mother is the best nurse in the world: she will soon have you well again.”
“Why not let me stay here?” said Ralph. “It would give you less trouble. I shall only spoil your holiday, and perhaps bring the infection into your house.”
“Oh, we have most of us been down with this plague already,” said Macneillie, cheerfully. “I know you covet that antique bed, but we must have you in a more airy room than this. Perhaps it will make you hesitate less if I tell you in strict confidence that the new house would never have been built at all if it had not been for you.” Then, seeing the bewilderment of his companion’s expression, “I’ll tell you just how it was some day, it’s too long a story now, for I hear the tea-things coming.”
Ralph, utterly at a loss to see how Macneillie could be under any sort of obligation to him, was obliged to leave the riddle unsolved for the present. The tea revived him, and when the coach came into sight he almost thought he could have walked that last mile. A dreamy sense of relief began to steal over him as they drove on beside the river between the wooded hills and through the pretty environs of Callander, until at last they reached the main street itself, and turning sharply to the left began to climb a steep road. Here, nestling cosily under Callander crag, with fresh green woods behind it, stood the comfortable, squarely built stone house that the actor had planned for his mother. The coach paused at the iron gate, for it was out of the question that they should drive up the steep approach to the front door; indeed, it was not without difficulty that Ralph dragged himself up the pebbly incline; he was panting for breath by the time they reached the house, and it was with some anxiety that he looked up at the white-capped old lady who stood to greet them in the porch.
“Mother,” said Macneillie, “this is my friend, Mr. Denmead. He has walked all the way from Forres, and is quite fagged out.” The keen, shrewd eyes of the Scotchwoman had perceived from a distance the sorry plight of the visitor, and she looked now not at his deplorable boots and shabby coat, but at the honest, dark eyes lifted to hers; she saw directly that they were full of dumb suffering.
“I am glad to see any friend of my son’s,” she said, and there was something curiously comforting in the homely sound of the Scottish accent, but when she had shaken hands with her guest an almost motherly tenderness stole into her voice. She begged him to come in and rest, made minute inquiries as to the hour when the fever attacked him, and having left him installed on a sofa in the dining-room, drew her son into the hall. “Hugh,” she said, “the poor laddie is very ill. I will go and make a room ready for him, and you had better be fetching the doctor.”
“I will by-and-bye, but first let us get him settled. Put him into my room, it’s the most airy. I’ll tell you who he is, mother.” The two had gone upstairs as they were speaking, and Macneillie closed the door of his room behind them, and began helping in a deft, sailorlike way to strip the sheets off his bed. “He is the boy I told you about years ago, who saved me from making an end of myself on Christine’s wedding day.” At the name, a sort of shudder of distaste passed through Mrs. Macneillie; it was a name very rarely mentioned by either of them, and the mother fondly hoped that at last her son had banished from his mind all memory of that romance of his youth. But, dearly as they loved each other, there was a good deal of reserve between them, and she could not tell how it was with him. After his absence in America, he had come back looking much older, but apparently in good health and spirits, and more than ever engrossed by his work. Little as she liked his profession, for she was full of old-fashioned prejudice and clung to all her old traditions, she nevertheless often blessed it in her heart for she saw that he lived for it, and, spite of herself, could not help taking some interest in his efforts to raise the drama, to give only such plays as were worth acting, and to manage his company in the best possible way. Still it was undoubtedly the grief of her life that her son had chosen the stage instead of the ministry, and he was quite aware of it, and was obliged to get on without her entire sympathy. She was unable to see that he was really doing quite as good work as any minister in the land, nor did she understand that an actor in refusing to follow his clear vocation, would be as blameworthy as a divine who put his hand to the plough, and then looked back. She did not speak a word now until they had the clean sheets spread and all things ready for the invalid. Then she drew her son’s face down and kissed it.
“I shall love to wait on him, Hugh, now that you have told me that.”
“You’ll like it for his own sake too,” said Macneillie. “It takes a fellow of good mettle to tramp more than a hundred miles on six-pennyworth of bread, and wear the look he wore when I found him. Oddly enough, too, I learnt something about him from Miss Kay’s letter on Saturday; he belonged to that company that failed, and she told me that she much feared he had spent almost all the money he had left, on sending back to London a forlorn little child-actress who had been deserted by the manager’s wife.”
“A child? Poor wee thing! There are many perils and dangers in your profession, Hugh, you can’t deny that.”
“Yes there are,” he said, “but I am not sure that life in society, or in other professions, or in shops and factories, isn’t even more risky. As for this little Ivy Grant, you may be quite happy about her; he had the good sense to send her to trustworthy friends.”
No more was said, for it was time to fetch the invalid and to send for the doctor. But later on, Mrs. Macneillie opened her heart to her son.
“It’s all very well, Hugh,” she said, “to think that everything is made right by the little girl being in good hands for the time; but you mark my words, it will be the same story over again as your own. This poor lad will be shielding and helping Ivy Grant, and when she has other admirers, why she’ll throw him off like an old glove. It will be your own story over again, Hugh.”
“I hope not,” said Macneillie. “Let us believe he would have done as much for any distressed damsel. He is a generous fellow, and every inch a gentleman; why must we assume that he has fallen in love with the lassie?”
“Didn’t I find him sobbing his heart out the moment he was left to himself?” said Mrs. Macneillie.
But at this her son would do nothing but laugh, “My dear mother,” he said, “That is just the sure and certain sign that he has the influenza, but as to that far worse malady no sign whatever.”
“So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate,
True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth,
And between earth and heaven stand simply great,
That these shall seem but their attendants both.”
Lowell.
For some days Ralph gave his new friends a good deal of anxiety; no doubt the worry and the underfeeding of the past nine months had told upon him, and culminating in this week of hardship and exposure had left him very ill-fitted to resist the modern plague which was scourging the country. By the time he had turned the corner and was able to spend part of each day in the adjoining room, he had wound himself very closely about the hearts both of the mother and the son. For there was something in his blithe cheerfulness which was very winning and which not even the depression that always accompanies influenza could affect for very long, any more than Sir Matthew Mactavish’s treatment could really embitter his nature, though it occasionally made him speak a few cynical words.
Macneillie had by this time heard the story of his life, and had set his mind at rest by offering to have him in his company at the beginning of August. He wrote, moreover, to a friend of his, the manager of one of the Edinburgh theatres, and tried to obtain a temporary engagement for him, to fill up the summer months. To this there was for some days no response, and Ralph, who was beginning to chafe at the thought of his penniless condition, grew depressed, and with the sensitiveness of a convalescent feared that he was a burden to his kindly host. Macneillie was quick to discern what was passing in his mind.
“Pining for that hospital you were so anxious to find at Callander?” he said one afternoon when he had found Ralph unusually depressed.
The invalid smiled.
“Not exactly. But I’m wishing I needn’t spoil your holiday.”.
“Have you forgotten what I told you as we waited for the coach that day at Kilmahog?” said Macneillie, bracing himself up as though for some effort. “This house would never have been built if it had not been for you. I saw you hardly took in what I was saying, but it’s as true as that you and I sit here together smoking. I will try to tell you the whole story.”
“Years ago, when I was a young fellow playing juvenile lead in Castor’s travelling company, there joined us a little, forlorn girl of sixteen, fresh from school, and utterly innocent. She was very unhappy, and I, naturally enough, fell into the sort of position that you fell into with Ivy Grant. She badly wanted a protector, and I did what I could for her. Well, little by little, this sort of friendship drifted into love, and though our engagement was not made public and was never recognised by her parents, they did not exactly forbid it or in any way hinder our intercourse, being shrewd enough, I suppose, to see that had they done so, their daughter would only have become more resolute and determined. Things drifted on like this for ten years. For five of these years we were acting in the same theatre in London, and I was fairly satisfied to wait, and never once doubted her. But there came a time when she felt hampered in her profession for want of money, and just then came an offer of marriage from a man who, though old enough to be her father, was immensely rich. He had a title moreover, and as far as I know, he was not a bad fellow—had he not been of decent repute, I am sure she would not have married him. Still I had seen enough of him to know that they had not a taste in common, and the misery of it all unhinged me. She was to be married at the close of the season, and every night—twice on Saturdays—we had to act together. It all went on like some ghastly dream”—he pushed back his chair and began to pace the room as though the recollection were intolerable. “The play was invariably ‘Hamlet;’ I have never been able to face the thought of acting the part again. The only thing that carried me through was a sort of desperate resolve to keep up appearances for her sake. There had been, naturally enough, a certain amount of gossip about us, but few knew that we had been actually engaged, and in the very worst of the time there was a sort of odd sense of triumph, for I knew that I was acting behind the scenes with a perfection which I was never likely to touch before the curtain. It told on me, though. When the end of the season came I had been for eight nights without sleep, and after saying good-bye to her, and realising that there was no need to keep up any longer, all power of rational thought seemed suddenly to go from me. I had acted my part so well that she believed that I had become reconciled to the thought of her marriage, and I suppose she thought that I should take that position of friend, which she wished me to take. At any rate her last words were a request that I would be present at the little country church where the wedding was to take place.
“I left it uncertain whether I would go or not, and went home debating which would really be best for her, which would set her most at ease. Could I for the time efface myself so completely as to play the part of an old friend? If she had really cared for the man she was to marry, that would have been possible; I could have rejoiced in her happiness. But this, as things were, I thought out of the question. And then in the darkness of the night, as I lay wondering stupidly which would be the best for her, a wild notion that it would be best if I were dead suddenly took possession of me. I was too worn out to think anything at all about the right and wrong of the matter; it was just an overmastering idea that crowded out every other consideration. I even forgot my own mother,—that has always seemed to me the most incredible part of the whole business. When morning came, I made my preparations and walked out, with no notion at all as to place, but only a vague wish to be away from bricks and mortar. After a time I found myself in Richmond Park, and was making for a quiet glade I knew of, when there came a sound of footsteps hurrying after me, a small boy was speaking to me, telling me I had saved him once, and begging me to accept a silver knife. Here it is you see—I have carried it ever since.”
Ralph in amazement looked at his father’s old fruit knife; could such a trifling thing have played so great a part in the life of his friend?
“I only parted with yours the other day at Forres,” he said, “when everything that could be spared had to go to the pawnbroker.”
“Well, I’m glad it is gone,” said Macneillie. “This is the only souvenir needed. I have had presentations both before that time and since, but never one that touched me as yours did. Your emphatic assurance that fruit-knives were of no use to you, since you always ate peel and all, tickled my fancy and made me smile; that was the first step back to life. And then your boyish praise was so real that it pleased me, and your hero-worshipping face haunted me. It reminded me that I should be missed at any rate by some, and when I reached the glade I was glad that by a sudden impulse I had given you my knife in exchange. Being thus disarmed there was nothing to do but to lie down and rest, and what with the heat of the day and the long walk, I somehow fell asleep at last. When I woke my brain was perfectly clear again, but there was this little embossed knife to remind me of the narrow escape I had had. I remember that in the distance the deer were feeding peacefully, and within a few hundred yards of me rabbits were scampering to and fro. A great longing for home seized me as I lay there watching them, the sort of hunger that always comes over a Scotsman when he has been long away from the mountains. So I hurried back to town, packed my portmanteau, and took the night train to the north. There! that is all I have to tell you; and perhaps now you’ll understand that you are no ordinary stranger to me and to my mother, but that you belong to us.”
“It is good of you to have told me,” said Ralph, “to have trusted me with so much. But I, too, have a confession to make. That day, when we were in St. James’ Park, Evereld and I knew who was talking with you as you walked up and down, and once when you stopped close to the water we could not help hearing what you both said. I think it was partly that which made us look on you as our special hero.”
Macneillie paced the room silently, seeing with all the vividness of a powerful imagination that scene in the far past: the broad sunny path, the calm expanse of water, with its little wooded island, the white sails of the toy boat, the two children watching its progress, and beyond the trees on the further side of the park the great gloomy pile of Queen Anne’s Mansions looming up against the sky. Again he seemed to stand in his misery beside the iron railing looking down into a face which was deliberately hardening itself against him, yet was still the face that haunted his dreams with its strange inexplicable fascination.
Since her marriage he had never seen Christine; at first he had purposely avoided her, and after his return from America had still deemed it prudent to refuse a London engagement, and to enter on that career as manager of a travelling company which had now for some years absorbed his thoughts and his energies. He wondered often whether their paths would ever again cross, and with a certain sturdy Scottish resolution he held on his way, neither seeking nor avoiding a meeting.
He was still talking to Ralph on this summer afternoon, when his mother came into the room with the letters of the second post.
“Ha, here is one from Edinburgh,” exclaimed Macneillie. “Now we shall hear your fate. Well, it’s not much of an offer but better than nothing. Middle of June to the end of July, that will fit in well enough. To be walking gentleman after the parts you have been playing will be uninteresting, but you will at any rate be secure of your salary, and will be acting with better people. Here is the list of plays; let us see who the stars are.”
Glancing down the paper he gave a perceptible start.
“That’s an odd coincidence after what we were just talking about,” he said, handing the list to his companion; and Ralph saw that in the first week of July, Christine Greville was to appear asEllen Douglas. He hardly knew whether he were glad or sorry. Naturally his affection for Macneillie tended to make him a somewhat severe judge of the woman who, after a ten years’ betrothal, had forsaken her lover and married for money; but nevertheless he wanted to meet her, and Macneillie was not ill pleased at the chance of thus learning indirectly how Christine prospered in the life she had chosen.
Somehow the news seemed to cheer them both. Macneillie stood gazing out of the window, lost in thought.
The rain had ceased, and though the sky was still in part overclouded there were little rifts of blue, and in the west a bright gleam which swept across the hills facing the window in a long level line of golden brightness. Above, were the dark mountain tops, below, in deep shade, the woods; and the points of the trees stood out sharply defined along the broad intervening strip of sunlit grass. He could not have explained his own feelings, but it seemed to him that some unexpected gleam of brightness had come, too, into his overclouded life.
During the days that followed something of the old hero-worship began to reassert itself in Ralph’s heart as he learnt to understand more of his friend’s character. To the genius and fervour and romance of the Kelt, Macneillie united a singularly strong and virile nature, and although he had shaken off some of the trammels of the school of theology to which his mother still belonged, he was emphatically one whose life was ruled by faith. This was indeed generally recognised, although he was not given to many words; but the world agreed in describing him by that unsatisfactory phrase, “a religious man,” and many in the profession could testify that his religion was of that pure and undefiled kind which is known not so much by words or outward observances, as by the living of a good, manly life.
There was, to Ralph’s mind, something very touching in the relations between the actor and his mother. His care in avoiding all topics that could pain her, his solicitude for her comfort, and the pleasure he took in the restful home-life, which could only be his at long intervals, formed but one side of the picture. There was the ineffable pride of the old lady in her only son, her delight in his success being only modified by the unconquerable scruples which she still felt as to the stage, scruples which were, however, difficult to maintain in all their fulness when she was every day confronted by so admirable a representative of the actor’s profession.
As soon as it was practicable, Macneillie made the convalescent spend a great part of each day out of doors, at first in the garden or in the wood at the back of the house, and later on, when walking became possible, on the hill-side near the wishing-well, where far away from houses and with a glorious panorama of lake and mountain they rested for hours on the heather.
It was at these times that Ralph received some of those lessons in his art which were later on of the greatest service to him.
By the middle of June he had shaken off the last effects of the influenza, but although he was thankful to have secured an engagement, he left Callander very reluctantly, only comforting himself with the reflection that at the beginning of August he should once more be with Macneillie, and able perhaps to do a little in return for all the kindness that had been shown to him.
His Good Samaritan started him on his way with sound advice, and all things needful for a fresh beginning, and the weeks in Edinburgh passed pleasantly enough.