A fortnight later the Sutherlands, accompanied by Mrs Beatty, were again in London, on their way to the Isle of Wight. It had been settled that Herbert should go to Ventnor for a month with his mother, so that Mary and he might sketch the scenery of the island together. He had resisted this arrangement at first on the ground that Mrs Herbert's presence would interfere with his enjoyment; but Mary, who had lost her own mother when an infant, had ideas of maternal affection which made Adrian's unfilial feeling shocking to her. She entreated him to come to Ventnor; and he yielded, tempted by the prospect of working beside her, and foreseeing that he could easily avoid his mother's company whenever it became irksome to him.
One day, whilst they were still in London at the hotel in Onslow Gardens, Mr Sutherland, seeing his daughter with her hat and cloak on, asked whither she was going.
"I am going to the Brailsfords', to see Madge," she replied.
"Now what do you want to go there for?" grumbled Mr. Sutherland. "I do not like your associating with that girl."
"Why, papa? Are you afraid that she will make me run away and go on the stage?"
"I didn't say anything of the kind. But she can't be a very right-minded young woman, or she wouldn't have done so herself. However, I have no objection to your calling on the family. They are very nice people—well connected; and Mr. Brailsford is a clever man. But don't go making a companion of Madge."
"I shall not have the opportunity, I am sorry to say. Poor Madge! Nobody has a good word for her."
Mr. Sutherland muttered a string t>f uncomplimentary epithets; but Mary went out without heeding him. At Kensington Palace Gardens she found Magdalen Brailsford alone.
"They are all out," said Magdalen when Mary had done kissing her. "They are visiting, or shopping, or doing something else equally intellectual.I am supposed to be in disgrace; so I am never asked to go with them. As I would not go if they begged me on their knees, I bear the punishment with fortitude."
"But what have you done, Madge? Won't you tell me? Aunt Jane said that her conscience would not permit her to pour such a story into my young ears; and then, of course, I refused to hear it from anybody but yourself, much to Aunt Jane's disgust; for she was burning to tell me. Except that you ran away and went on the stage, I know nothing.
"There is nothing else to know; for that is all that happened. "
"But how did it come about?"
"Will you promise not to tell?"
"I promise faithfully."
"You must keep your promise; for I have accomplices who are not suspected, and who will help me when I repeat the exploit, as I fully intend to do the very instant I see my way to success. Do you know where we lived before we came to this house?"
"No. You have lived here ever since I knew you."
"We had lodgings in Gower Street. Mary, did you ever ride in an omnibus?"
"No. But I should not be in the least ashamed to do so if I had occasion."
"How would you like to have to make five pounds worth of clothes last you for two years?"
"I should not like that."
"Lots of people have to do it. We had, when we lived in Gower Street. Father wrote for the papers; and we never had any money, and were always in debt. But we went to the theatres—with orders, of course—much oftener than we do now; and we either walked home or took our carriage, the omnibus. We were recklessly extravagant, and thought nothing of throwing away a shilling on flowers and paper fans to decorate the rooms. I am sure we spent a fortune on three-penny cretonne, to cover the furniture when its shabbiness became downright indecent. We were very fond of dwelling on the lavish way we would spend money if father ever came into the Brailsford property, which seemed the most unlikely thing in the world. But it happened, as unlikely things often do. All the rest of the family —I mean all of it that concerned us—were drowned in the Solent in a yacht accident; and we found ourselves suddenly very rich, and, as I suppose you have remarked—especially in Myra—very stingy. Poor father, whom we used to revile as a miser in Gower Street, is the only one of us who spends money as if he was above caring about it. But the worst of it is that we have got respectable, and taken to society—at least, society has taken to us;— and we have returned the compliment. I haven't, though. I can't stand these Kensington people with their dances and at-homes. It's not what I call living really. In Grower Street we used to know a set that had some brains. We gave ourselves airs even then; hut still on Sunday evenings we used to have plenty of people with us to supper whom you are not likely to meet here. One of them was a man named Tarleton, who made money as a theatrical agent and lost it as a manager alternately."
"And you fell in love with him, of course," said Mary.
"Bosh! Fell in love with old Tommy Tarleton! This is not a romance, but a prosaic Gower Street narrative. I never thought about him after we came here until a month ago, when I saw that he was taking a company to Windsor. I always wanted to go on the stage, because nowadays a woman must be either an actress or nothing. So I wrote to him for an engagement, and sent him my photograph."
"Oh, Madge!"
"Why not? His company was playing opera boufTe; and I knew he wanted good looks as much as talent. You don't suppose I sent it as a love token. He wrote back that he had no part open that I could take, but that if I wished to accustom myself to the stage and would find my own dresses, he would let me walk on every night in the chorus, and perhaps find me a small part to understudy."
"Very kind, indeed. And what did you say to his noble offer?"
"I accepted it, and was very glad to get it. It was better than sitting here quarreling with the girls, and going over the same weary argument with father about disgracing the family. I managed it easily enough, after all. There is a woman who keeps a lodging house in Church Street here, who is a sister of the landlady at Gower Street, and knows all about us. She has a second sister whose daughter is a ballet girl, and who is used to theatres. I ran away to Church Street—five minutes' walk; told Polly what I had done; and made her send for Mrs Wilkins, the other sister, whom I carried off to Windsor as chaperon that evening. But the company turned out to be a third-rate one; and I wasn't comfortable with them: they were rather rowdy. However, I did not stay long. I was recognized on the very first night by someone—I don't know whom—who told Colonel Beatty. He wrote to my father; and I was captured on the third day. You can imagine the scene when the poor old governor walked suddenly into our lodging. He tried to be shocked and stern, and of course only succeeded in being furious. I was stubborn—I can be very mulish when I like; but I was getting tired of walking on in the chorus at night and spending the day with Mrs Wilkins; so I consented to go back with him. He took my purse, which I was foolish enough to leave within his reach whilst I was putting on my bonnet, and so left me without a farthing, helplessly dependent on him. He would not give it me back; and to revenge myself I became very uncivil to him; and then he forbade me to speak. I took him at his word, and made him still madder by taking no notice of the homilies on duty and respectability which he poured forth as we drove to the train."
"Yes: I can quite imagine that. And so you came home and returned to the ways of well conducted girls."
"Not at all. You have only heard the prologue to my real adventure. When we got to the railway station, father, who intended to preach at me during the whole journey, bribed the guard to prevent people from coming into our compartment. The train started, and I had just been requested to attend to something very that must be said to me, when there was an uproar on the platform, and a man burst headlong into the carriage, sat down, folded his arms, and stared majestically at father, who began to abuse him furiously for intruding on us. They quarreled all the way up to London. When they had exhausted the subject of our carriage being private, the man objected to the window being shut—I think because I had done so just before, though perhaps it was more from love of contradiction. Then father objected to his grinding his teeth. Then I interfered and was bidden to hold my tongue. Up jumped the man and asked father what he meant by speaking so to me. He even said—you will not repeat this, please, Mary."
"No. Why? What did he say?"
"He said—it sounded ridiculous—that he would not permit a young and beautiful woman to be tyrannized over."
"Oh! Was he very handsome?"
"N—no. He was not conventionally handsome; but there was something about him that I cannot very well describe. It was a sort of latent power. However, it does not matter, as I suppose I shall never see him again."
"I think I can understand what you mean," said Mary thoughtfully. "There are some men who are considered quite ugly, but who are more remarkable than pretty people. You often see that in artists."
"This man was not in the least like your Adrian, though, Mary. No two people could be more different."
"I know. I was thinking of a very different person."
"Father speaks of him as though he were a monster; but that is perfect nonsense."
"Well, what was the upshot of this interference?"
"Oh, I thought they would have come to blows at first. Father would fight duels every day if they were still in fashion. But the man made an admirable speech which shewed me that his opinions were exactly the same as mine; and father could say nothing in reply. Then they accused each other of being insane, and kept exchanging insults until we came to Paddington, where the guard wanted to give the man to the police for getting into the train after it had started. At last we all got out; and then I committed my capital crime—it really was a dreadful thing to do. But ever since father had taken my purse and made a prisoner of me, I had been thinking of how I could give him the slip and come home just how and when I pleased. Besides, I was quite resolved to apply to a London agent for a regular engagement in some theatre. So when father got into a passion about my box not being found instantly, and went off to look for it, leaving me by myself, the idea of escaping and going to the agent at once occurred to me. I made up my mind and unmade it twenty times in every second. I should not have hesitated a moment if I had had my purse but as it was, I had only my ring;, so that I should have had to stop the cab at the nearest pawnbrokers and I was ashamed to go into such a place—although we sometimes used to send Mrs. Wilkina there, without letting father know, in the Gower Street days. Then the porter came up and said that the cab was waiting and I knew he would expect something then and there from me if I went off by myself. What do you think I did? I went straight up the the man who had travelled with us—he was standing close by, watching me, I think— and asked him to buy my ring."
"Well. Madge: really—:"
"It was an impulse I don't know what put it into my head but the desperate necessity paying the porter hurried me into obeying it. I said I had no money and asked him for a little in exchange for the ring. The man looked at me in the most terrifying way; and just as I was expecting him to seize me and deliver me up to father, he plunged his hand into his pocket and gave me a handful of money. He would not count it, nor touch the ring. I was insisting on his taking either the ring or the money, when he suddenly shouted at me that father was coming, and bundled me me into the cab before I had collected my wits. Then he startled the driver with another shout; and away went the cab. I managed to give the ring to the porter for him. I drove to the agents in Bond Street, and on my way counted the money: two sovereigns, three half-sovereigns, thirteen and sixpence in silver, and seven pennies."
"Four pounds, four, and a penny," said Mary.
"He must have been mad. But there was something chivalrous about it, especially for a nineteenth century incident at Paddington."
"I think it was sheer natural nobility of heart, Mary. Father enrages me by saying that he was a thief, and made fifty pounds profit out of my innocence. As if his refusing the ring was not an absolute proof to the contrary. He got our address from father afterwards, and promised to send us his; but he has never done so."
"I wonder why. He certainly ought to. Your ring is worth a great deal more than four pounds."
"He might not wish to give it up to my father, as it was mine. If he wishes to keep it he is welcome. I am sure he deserves it. Mind: he refused it after giving me the money."
"If you had a nose like mine, and wore a pince-nez, I doubt whether you would have found him so generous. I believe he fell in love with you."
"Nonsense. Who ever knew a man to sacrifice all his money—all he had in the world, perhaps—for the sake of love? I know what men are too well. Besides, he was quite rude to me once in the carriage."
"Well, since he has the ring, and intends to keep it, he has the best of the bargain. Go on with your own adventures. What did the agents say?"
"They all took half-crowns from me, and put my name on their books. They are to write to me if they can procure me an engagement; but I saw enough to convince me that there is not much chance. They are all very agreeable—that is, they thought themselves so—except one grumpy old man, who asked me what I expected when I could neither walk nor speak. That, and my sensations on the stage at Windsor, convinced me that I need some instruction; and I have set Mrs Simpson, the woman in Church Street, to find somebody who can teach me. However, to finish my story, when I saw that there was nothing more to be done that day or the next either, I told the cabman to drive me home, where I found father nearly in hysterics. As soon as the family recovered from their amazement at seeing me, we began to scold and abuse one another. They were so spiteful that father at last took my part; and poor mother vainly tried to keep the peace. At last they retreated, one by one crying, and left me alone with father. I fancy we gave them as good as they brought; for no allusion has been made to my escapade since.
Mary looked at her friend for a while. Then she said, "Madge: you are quite mad. There is not a doubt of it: that episode of the ring settles the question finally. I suppose you regard this bedlamite adventure as the most simple and natural thing in the world."
"When I have my mind made up to do something, it seems the most natural thing in the world to go and do it. I hope you are not going to lecture me for adopting a profession, after all your rhapsodies about high art and so forth."
"But opera bouffe is not high art, Madge. If you had appeared in one of Shakespeare's characters, I should sympathize with you."
"Yes, make a fool of myself as a lady amateur! I have no more ambition to play Shakespeare than you have to paint Transfigurations. Now, don't begin to argue about Art. I have had enough of argument lately to last me for life."
"And you mean to persist?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Of course, if you have talent—"
"Which you don't believe, although you can see nothing ridiculous in your own dreams of being another Claude Lorraine. You are just like Myra, with her pet formula of, 'Well, Madge, the idea of you being able to act!' Why should I not be able to act as well as anybody else? I intend to try, at any rate."
"You need not be angry with me, Madge. I don't doubt your cleverness; but an actress's life must be a very queer one. And I never said I could paint better than Claude. If you knew how wretched my own productions seem to me, you—"
"Yes, yes: I know all that stuff of Adrian's by heart. If you don't like your own pictures, you may depend upon it no one else will. I am going to be an actress because I think I can act. You are going to be a painter because you think you can't paint. So there's an end of that. Would you mind coming over to Polly's with me?"
"Who is Polly?"
"Our old landlady's sister—my accomplice—the woman who keeps the lodging house in Church Street, Mrs Simpson."
"You don't mean to run away again?"
"No. At least not yet. But she has a lodger who teaches elocution; and as he is very poor, Mrs. Wilkins—Polly's other sister and my late chaperon— thinks he would give me some cheap lessons. And I must have them very cheap, or else go without; for father will hardly trust me with a shilling now. He has never even given me back my purse I have only the remainder of the man's money, and ten pounds that I had laid up."
"And are you going toke a lesson today?"
"No, no. I only want to see the man and ask his terms. If I try to go alone, I shall be watched and suspected. With you I shall be safe: they regard you as a monument of good sense and propriety. If we meet any of the girls, and they ask where we are going, do not mention Church Street."
"But how can w< evade them if they ask us?"
"We won't evade them. We will tell them a lie."
"I certainly will not, Madge.
"I certainly will. If people interfere with my liberty, and ask have no business to ask, I will meet force with fraud, and fool them to the top of their bent, as your friend Shakespeare says. You need not look shocked. You, who are mistress of your house, and rule your father with a rod of iron, are no judge of my position. Put on your hat, and come along. We can walk there in five minutes."
"I will go with but I shall not be a party to any deception.
Madge made a face, but got her bonnet without further words. They went out together, and traversed the passage from Kensington Palace Gardens to Church Street, where Magdalen led the way to a shabby house, with a card inscribed Furnished Apartments in the window.
"Is Mrs Simpson in her room?" said Magdalen, entering unceremoniously as soon as the door was opened.
"Yes, ma'am," said the servant, whose rule it was to address women in bonnets as ma'am, and women in hats as Miss. "She 'ave moved to the second floor since you was here last. The parlors is let."
"I will go up," said Magdalen. "Come on, Mary." And she ran upstairs, followed more slowly by Mary, who thought the house close and ill kept, and gathered her cloak about her to prevent it touching the banisters. When they reached the second floor, they knocked at the door; but no one answered. Above them was a landing, accessible by a narrow uncarpeted stair. They could hear a shrill voice in conversation with a deep one on the third floor, Whilst they waited, the shrill voice rose higher and higher; and the deep voice began to growl ominously.
"A happy pair," whispered Mary. "We had better go downstairs and get the servant to find Mrs Simpson."
"No: wait a little. That is Polly's voice, I am sure. Hark!"
The door above was opened violently and a powerful voice resounded, saying, "Begone, you Jezebel."
"The man!" exclaimed Madge.
Mr Jack!" exclaimed Mary. And they looked wonderingly at one another, and listened.
"How dare you offer me sich language, sir? Do you know whose 'ouse this is?"
"I tell you once for all that I am neither able nor willing to pay you one farthing. Hold your tongue until I have finished." This command was emphasized by a stamp that shook the floor. "I have eaten nothing today; and I cannot afford to starve. Here is my shirt. Here is my waistcoat. Take them— come! take them, or I'll stuff them down your throat —and give them to your servant to pawn: she has pawned the shirt before; and let her get me something to eat with the money. Do you hear?"
"I will not have my servant go to the pawnshop for you and get my house a bad name."
"Then go and pawn them yourself. And do not come to this room again with your threats and complaints unless you wish to be strangled.*
"I'd like to see you lay a finger on me a married woman. Do you call yourself a gentleman—"
Here there was a low growl, a sound of hasty footprints, an inarticulate remonstrance, a checked scream, and then a burst of sobbing and then the words, "You're as hard as a stone, Mr Jack. My poor little Rosie. Ohoo!"
"Stop that noise, you crocodile. What is the matter with you now?"
"My Rosie."
"What is the matter with your Rosie? You are sniveling to have her back because she is happier in the country than stifling in this den with you, you ungovernable old hag."
"God forgive you for that word—ohoo! She ain't in the country."
"Then where the devil is she; and what did you mean by telling me she was there?"
"She's in the 'ospittle. For the Lord's sake don't let it get out on me, Mr Jack, or I should have my house empty. The poor little darling took the scarlet fever; and—and—"
"And you deserve to be hanged for letting her catch it. Why didn't you take proper care of her?"
"How could I help it, Mr. Jack? I'm sure if I could have took it myself instead—"
"I wish to Heaven you had, and the unfortunate child and everybody else might have been well rid of you."
"Oh, don't say that, Mr Jack. I may have spoke hasty to you; but its very hard to be owed money, and not be able to get the things for my blessed angel to be sent to the country in, and she going to be discharged on Friday. You needn't look at me like that, Mr Jack. I wouldn't deceive you of all people."
"You would deceive your guardian angel—if you had one—for a shilling. Give me back those things. Here is a ring which you can pawn instead. It is worth something considerable, I suppose. Take what money you require for the child, and bring me the rest. But mind! Not one farthing of it shall you have for yourself, nor should you if I owed you ten years' rent. I would not pawn it to save you from starvation. And get me some dinner, and some music paper—the same you used to get me, twenty-four staves to the page. Off with you. What are you gaping at?"
"Why, wherever did you get this ring, Mr. Jack?"
"That's nothing to you. Take it away; and make haste with my dinner."
"But did you buy it? Or was it—" The voice abruptly broke into a smothered remonstrance; and the landlady appeared on the landing, apparently pushed out by the shoulders. Then the lodger's door slammed.
"Polly," cried Magdalen impatiently. "Polly."
"Lor', Miss Madge!"
"Come down here. We have waited ten minutes for you."
Mrs. Simpson came down, and brought her two visitors into her sitting-room on the second floor. "Won't you sit down Miss?" she said to Mary. "Don't pull that chair from the wall, Miss Madge, its leg is broke. Oh, dear! I'm greatly worrited, what with one thing and another."
"We have been listening to a battle between you and the and the lodger upstairs" said Magdalen, "and you seemed to be getting the worst of it."
"No one knows what I've gone through with that man." said Mrs. Simpson, wiping her eyes. "He walked into the room a fortnight ago when I was out, without asking leave. Knocks at the door at one o'clock in the day and asks the girl if the garret is let to anyone. 'No sir,' says she. So he goes up and plants himself as if he owned the house. To be sure, she knew him of old; but that was all the more reason for keeping him out; for he never had a half-penny. The first thing he sent her to do was to pawn his watch. And the things I have to put up with from him! He thinks no more of calling me every name he can lay his tongue to, and putting me out of my own room than if he was a prince, and me his kitchen maid. He is as strong as a bull, and cares for nothing nor nobody but himself."
"What is he?" said Magdalen. "His name is Jack, isn't it?"
"Yes; and a fit name it is for him. He came here first, to my sorrow, last December, and took the garret for half-a-crown a week. He had a portmanteau then and some little money; and he was quiet enough for almost a month. But he kept very much to himself except for letting poor little Rosie play about his room, and teaching her little songs. You can't think what a queer child she is, Miss Sutherland. I'm sure you'd say so if you saw Mr. Jack, the only lodger she took any fancy to. At last he sent the servant to pawn his things; and I, like a fool, was loath to see him losing his clothes, and offered to let the rent run if he could pay at the end of the month. Then it came out that he was in the music profession, and akshally expected to get pupils while he was living in a garret. I did a deal for him, although he was nothing to me. I got him a stationer's daughter from High Street to teach. After six lessons, if you'll believe it, Miss, and she as pleased as anything with the way she was getting along, he told the stationer that it was waste of money to have the girl taught, because she had no qualification but vanity. So he lost her; and now she has lessons at four guineas a dozen from a lady that gets all the credit for what he taught her. Then Simpson's brother-in-law got him a place in a chapel in the Edgeware Road to play the harmonium and train the choir. But they couldn't stand him. He treated them as if they were dogs; and the three richest old ladies in the congregation, who had led the singing for forty-five years, walked out the second night, and said they wouldn't enter the chapel till he was gone. When the minister rebuked him, he up and said that if he was a God and they sang to him like that, he'd scatter 'em with lightning. That's his notion of manners. So he had to leave; but a few of the choir liked him and got him occasionally to play the piano at a glee club on the first floor of B public house. he got five shillings once a fortnight or so for that; and not another halfpenny had he to live on except pawning his clothes bit by bit. You may imagine all the rent 1 got. At last he managed someway to get took on as tutor by a gentleman at Windsor. I had to release his clothes out of my own money before he could go. I was five pound out of pocket by him, between rent and other things."
"Did he ever pay you?" said Mary.
"Oh, yes, Miss. He certainly sent me the money. I am far from saying that he is not honorable when he has the means."
"It is a funny coincidence," said Mary. "It was to us that Mr Jack came as tutor. He taught Charlie."
"To you!" said Magdalen, surprised and by no means pleased. "Then you know him?"
- Yes. He left us about a fortnight ago."
"Just so," said Mrs. Simpson, "and was glad enough to come straight back here without a penny in his pocket. And here he is like to be until some other situation drops into his lap. If I may ask, Miss, why did he leave you?"
"Oh. for no particular reason," said Mary uneasily. "That is, my brother had left Windsor; and we did not require Mr Jack anymore."
"So he was the tutor of whom Mrs Beatty told mother." said Magdalen significantly.
"Yes."
"I hope he was pleasanter in your house, Miss, than he is in mine. However, that's not my business. I have no wish to intrude. Except the letter he wrote me with the money, not a civil word have I ever had from him."
"A lady whom I know," said Mary, "employed him, whilst he was with us, to correct some songs which she wrote. Perhaps I could induce her to give him some more. I should like to get him something to do. But I am afraid she was offended by the way he altered her composition last time."
"Well, Polly," said Magdalen, "we are forgetting my business. Where is the professor that Mrs Wilkins told me of? I wish Mr Jack gave lessons in elocution. I should like to have him for a master."
"Why, Miss Madge, to tell you the honest truth, it is Mr Jack. But wait till I show you something. He's given me a ring to pawn; and it's the very moral of your own that you used to wear in Gower Street."
"It is mine, Polly. I owe Mr Jack four guineas; and I must pay him today. Don't stare: I will tell you all about it afterwards. I have to thank him too, for getting me out of a great scrape. Mary: do you wish to see him?"
"Well, I would rather not, " said Mary slowly: "at least, I think it would be better not. But after all it can do no harm; and I suppose it would not be right for you to see him alone."
"Oh, never mind that," said Magdalen suspiciously. "I can have Polly with me."
"If you had rather not have me present, I will go."
"Oh, I don't care. Only you seemed to make some difficulty about it yourself."
"There can be no real difficulty, now that I come to consider it. Yet—I hardly know what I ought to do."
"You had better make up your mind," said Magdalen impatiently.
"Well, Madge, I have made up my mind," said Mary, perching her spectacles and looking composedly at her friend. "I will stay."
"Very well." Said Madge, not with a very good grace: "I suppose we must not go to Mr. Jack, so he had better come to us. Polly go and tell him that two ladies wish to see him."
"You had better say on business." added Mary.
"And don't mention our names I want to see whether he will know me again." said Magdalen. Mary looked hard at her.
"D'ye really mean it, Miss Madge?"
"Good gracious, yes!" replied Magdalen angrily.
The landlady, after lingering a moment in doubt and wonder went out. Silence ensued. Magdalen's color brightened; and she moved her chair to a place whence she could see herself in the mirror. Mary closed her lips, and sat motionless and rather pale. Not a word passed between them until the door opened abruptly and Jack, with his coat buttoned up to his chin, made a short step into the room. Recognizing Mary, he stopped and frowned.
"How do you do, Mr Jack?* she said, bowing steadily to him. He bowed slightly, and looked around the room. Seeing Magdalen, he was amazed. She bowed too, and he gave her a scared nod.
"Won't you sit down, Mr Jack?" said the landlady, assuming the manner in which she was used to receive company.
"Have you pawned that ring yet?" he said, turning suddenly to her.
"No," she retorted, scandalized.
"Then give it back to me." She did so; and he looked at Magdalen, saying, "You have come just in time."
"I came to thank you."
"You need not thank me. I was sorry afterwards for having helped a young woman to run away from her father. If I were not the most hotheaded fool in England, I should have stopped you. I hope no harm came of it."
"I am sorry to have caused you any uneasiness," said Magdalen, coloring. "The young woman drove straight home after transacting some business that she wished to conceal from her father. That was all."
"So much the better. If I had known you were at home, I should have sent you your ring."
"My father expected you to write."
"I told him I would; but I thought better of it. I had nothing to tell him."
"You must allow me to repay you the sum you so kindly lent me that day, Mr. Jack," said Magdalen in a lower voice, confusing herself by an unskilled effort to express gratitude by her tone and manner.
"It will be welcome, he replied moodily. Magdalen slowly took out a new purse. "Give it to Mrs. Simpson," he added, turning away. The movement brought him face to face with Mary, before whom his brow gathered portentously. She bore his gaze steadily, but could not trust herself to speak.
"I have some further business, Mr Jack," said Magdalen.
"I beg your pardon," said he, turning again towards her.
" Mrs. Simpson told me—"
"Ah!" said he, interrupting her, and casting a threatening look at the landlady. "It was she who told you where I was located, was it?"
"Well, I don't see the harm if I did," said Mrs. Simpson. "If you look on it as a liberty on my part to recommend you, Mr. Jack, I can easily stop doing it."
"Recommend me! What does she mean, Miss Brailsford— you are Miss Brailsford, are you not?"
"Yes, I was about to say that Mrs Simpson told me that you gave—that is—I should perhaps explain first that I intend to go on the stage."
"What do you want to go on the stage for?"
"The same as anybody else, I suppose," said Mrs Simpson indignantly.
"I wish to make it my profession," said Magdalen.
"Do you mean make your living by it?"
"I hope so."
"Humph!"
"Do you think I should have any chance of success?"
"I suppose, if you have intelligence and perseverance, and can drudge and be compliant, and make stepping stones of your friends—but there! I know nothing about success. What have I got to do with it? Do you think, as your father did, that I am a theatrical agent?"
"Well I must say, Mr. Jack," exclaimed the landlady, "that those who try to befriend you get very little encouragement. I am right sorry, so I am, that I brought Miss Madge to ask you for lessons."
"Lessons!" said Jack. "Oh! I did not understand. Lessons in what? Music?"
"No," said Magdalen. "I wanted lessons in elocution and so forth. At least, I was told the other day that I did not know how to speak."
"Neither do you. That is true enough," said Jack thoughtfully. "Well, I don't profess to prepare people for the stage; but I can teach you to speak, if you have anything to say or any feeling for what better people put into your mouth."
"You are not very sanguine as to the result, I fear."
"The result, as far as it goes, is certain, if you practice. If not, I shall give you up. After all, there is no reason why you should not do something better than be a fine lady. Your appearance is good: all the rest can be acquired—except a genius for tomfoolery, which you must take your chance of. The public want actresses, because they think all actresses bad. They don't want music or poetry because they know that both are good. So actors and actresses thrive, as I hope you will; and poets and composers starve, as I do. When do you wish to begin?"
It was soon arranged that Magdalen should take lessons in Mrs Simpson's sitting room, and in her presence, every second weekday, and that she should pay Mr Jack for them at the rate of three guineas a dozen. The first was to take place on the next day but one. Then the two ladies rose to go. But Magdalen first drew Mrs Simpson aside to pay her the money which Jack had lent her; so that he was left near the door with Mary, who had only spoken once since he entered the room.
"Mr. Jack," she said, in an undertone: "I fear I have intruded on you. But I assure you I did not know who it was that we were coming to see."
"Else you would not have come."
"Only because I should have expected to be unwelcome."
"It does not matter. I am glad to see you, though I have no reason to be. How is Mr Adrian?"
"Mr Herbert "
"I beg his pardon. Mr Herbert, of course.
"He is quite well, thank you."
Jack rubbed hands stealthily, and looked at Mary as though the recollection of Adrian tickled his sense of humor. As she tried to look coldly at him, he said, with a shade of pity in his tone, "Ah, Miss Sutherland, it one thing to be very fond of music: it is quite another to be able to compose."
"Is it?" said Mary, puzzled.
He shook his head. "You don't see the relevance of that," said he. "Well, never mind."
She looked at him uneasily, and hesitated. Then she said slowly, "Mr. Jack: some people at Windsor, friends of mine, have been asking about you. I think, if you could come down once a week, I could get a music class together for you."
"No doubt," he said. his angry look returning. "They will take lessons because you ask them to be charitable to your discarded tutor. Why did you discard him if you think him fit to teach your friends?"
"Not at all. The project was mentioned last season, before I knew you. It is simply that we wish to take lessons. If you do not get the class somebody else will. It is very difficult to avoid offending you, Mr Jack."
"Indeed! Why does the world torment me, if it expects to find me gracious to it? And who are the worthy people that are burning to soar in the realms of song?"
"Well, to begin with. I should l— "
"You! I would not give you lessons though your life depended on it. No, by Heaven! At least," he continued, more placably, as she recoiled, evidently hurt, "you shall have no lessons from me for money. I will teach you, if you wish to learn; but you shall not try to make amends for your old caprice of beggaring me, by a new caprice to patronize me."
"Then of course I cannot take any lessons."
"I thought not. You will confer favors on your poor music maker; but you will not stoop to accept them from him. Your humble dog, Miss Sutherland." He made her a bow.
"You quite mistake me," said Mary, unable to control her vexation. "Will you take the class or not?"
"Where will the class be?"
"I could arrange to have it at our house if—"
"Never. I have crossed its threshold for the last time. So long as it is not there, I do not care where it is. Not less than one journey a week, and not less than a guinea clear profit for each journey. Those are my lowest terms: I will take as much more as I can get, but nothing less. Perhaps you are thinking better of getting the class for me."
"I never break my word, Mr Jack."
"Ha! Don't you! I do. A fortnight ago I swore never to speak to you again. The same day I swore never to part with your friend's ring except to herself. Well, here I am speaking to you for no better reason than that you met me and offered to put some money in my way. And you stopped me in the act of pawning her ring, which I was going to do because I thought I would rather have a beefsteak. But you are adamant. You never change your mind. You have a soul above fate and necessity! Ha! ha!"
"Magdalen," said Mary, turning to her friend, who had waiting for the end of the conversation: "I think we had better go." Mary was crimson with suppressed resentment; and Magdalen, not displeased to see it, advanced to bid Jack farewell in her most attractive manner. He immediately put off his bantering air, and ceremoniously accompanied them downstairs to the door, where Magdalen, going out first, gave him her hand. Mary hesitated; and he wrinkled his brow as he looked at her.
"I will tell Miss Cairns to write to you about the class," she said. He listened to her with an attention which she thought derisive. Flushing with displeasure, she added, "And as Miss Cairns has done nothing to incur your anger, I beg, Mr Jack that you will remember that she is a lady, and will expect to be treated with common civility."
"Oho!" said Jack, delighted. "Have I been rude? Have I?"
"You have been excessively rude, Mr. Jack." She went out quickly, sending the words with an angry glance over her shoulder. He shut the door, and went upstairs to Mrs Simpson's room, braying like a donkey.
"Well, Jezebel," he cried. "Well, Polly. Well, Mrs. Quickly. How are you?"
"I never was so ashamed in my life, Mr Jack. There were those young ladies only too anxious to do what they could for you, and you like a bear. No wonder you can't get on, when you won't control yourself and have behavior."
"I am a bear, am I? You had better recollect that I am a hungry bear, and that if my dinner does not come up, you will get a hug that will break every bone in your stays. Don't forget the music paper. You have plenty of money now. Four pounds four and a penny, eh?"
"You've no call to fear: none of it will be stolen. Miss Madge thought you hadn't counted it. Little did she know you."
"She knew me better than you, you sordid hag. I counted my money that morning—four pounds nine and sevenpence. I gave the railway clerk ten shillings; he gave me five back—that left four pounds four and sevenpence. I arrived here with sixpence in my pocket; and from that I knew that I gave her four, four, and a penny. That reminds me that you sat there and let Miss Sutherland go away without making me ask her to send on my portmanteau, now that I have money to pay the carriage. You're very stupid."
"How could I tell whether you wanted me to mention it or not? I was thinking of it all the time; but—"
"You were thinking of it all the time!" cried Jack, in a frenzy. "And you never mentioned it! Here go for my dinner. You would drive the most patient man living out of his senses."