He hastened from the room and went to the outer door; but on reaching it paused and fumbled.
“The door will not open,” he called. “It is fastened.”
“Turn the key,” said the guttural tones from within. “It is locked on the inside. It does not keep together else; it needs to be mended. You have only to turn the key.”
“The key?” said Claverhouse, stooping and fumbling, and finally clutching it, as though his hands had found it, and not his eyes. “Ah, Soulsby! you are late. Come in, come in.”
A rapid, nervous utterance responded, as a tall figure stepped into the passage.
“I am sorry — I am sorry; I had no idea — no idea at all that I was late. I hope — I hope it is of no matter.”
“No matter, no matter,” said Claverhouse, standing aside, and not heeding that his friend was at trouble in the discarding of his outer garment. “You are good to come. The play is written to the end. I wrote the last scene to-night. It is different from all the rest. You shall hear it in a moment. Come in.”
As the guest entered the lamp-lit sitting-room, he was a contrast to the figure he followed. Tall and well-moulded, with large, sensitive features, tended waves of glossy grey hair, and a manner marked by the nervousness of over-culture, he looked what he was, a type of the university don. He was the tutor of one of the colleges — a large — hearted pedant, to his finger — tips gently academic; with the tastes and talents rather of the scholar than the man. of letters; but an instinctive knowledge of the genius that lived unsought, amid the many grey walls that stood in the sanctity of genius dead. The bonds that bound him alone of men to the dramatist, were too subtle for disentwining. They were not less strong that they were subtle.
“I am afraid — I am afraid I have kept you waiting,” he said in his quick, hesitating manner, as he greeted Janet. “Pray — pray do not rise — pray do not. I had no idea — no idea I was behind the time.”
“You are very little behind the time,” said Janet, as she lifted the manuscript from the spread table, and placed it elsewhere. “And for Sigismund to take any one to task on exactness in time, is a case of the pot calling the kettle black. Sit down, Sigismund; and let William have his meal in peace.”
It was a habit of Janet’s to address Soulsby, though she had not known him till his youth was past, by his baptismal name. It was one of her few evincements of greatness of age; and Soulsby accepted it with the unnoticing courtesy, with which he accepted all that was unwonted in the genius’ home.
The three now seated themselves at the table. A dish was brought in by a bent old servant, and set before Janet; who dispensed it with perfect precision of movement; paying covert heed to the fancies of her son, and attending to Soulsby with pretty courtliness. The servant knew her duties well. She was ready to the moment with a supporting touch, if Janet’s hands showed signs of faltering; the extras of the meal were set with unobtrusive closeness under her master’s dim-sighted eyes; some wonted attentions, with which Janet and her son dispensed, were paid to the guest; and all was done with a silent evenness of movement, which covered the actions. It was clear to which member of the household her devotion was given. She watched her master through every unoccupied moment; lingered over the supplying of his needs; and observed the extent of his justice to her culinary skill, with eyes that were almost jealous. He had spoken truth when he disclaimed desire for food; but when he was brought to settle to a meal, other things, as Julia knew with rejoicing, had their turn of being forgotten.
When he had finished, he threw himself back in his seat, pushed his hands through his hair, and looked at her with a smile.
“That was good, Julia,” he said.
Julia’s face illumined, and relapsed at once into its usual neutral alertness.
“Ah, Julia,” went on Claverhouse, who always had a word with his old dependent once in the day; “you are a clever housewoman. You will make a good wife some time.”
Julia’s face assumed the conscious smile of sixty-three years of unwooed maidenhood. The jest was an old friend; and as such she loved and welcomed it.
“Ah, Julia!” continued Claverhouse, “you are coy, I am afraid; you are coy. Where did you learn those naughty proud airs? It is time you grew out of them. Is it not, Soulsby?”
Soulsby looked up in some uneasiness. Supper in the playwright’s household was an old experience; but it was a case where custom had wrought little. He had sat, as was his wont, in apparent discomfiture — though no eyes saw it but Julia’s, — fidgeting with his nervous hands; and glancing from his hostess to her son, as if reluctant to thrust his voice on the silence. He was grateful that the talkative spirit had come on his friend; but this appeal to himself was not of a kind he would have chosen.
“Ah — yes — yes, yes,” he replied; “yes, very possibly.”
“You talk too much nonsense, Sigismund,” said Janet, in her deep tones. “Let us move from the table, so that Julia may clear it.”
“Ah, my little mother? Yes, you are right; you are right. You are always right to me,” said Claverhouse, perceiving that Janet’s jealousy was touched.
“How about the reading of the play, my son? “said the mother. “It is growing late; and William will be leaving us.”
“Ah!” said Claverhouse, with a world of remembrance and emotion. “Late, is it? It is of no matter. Take some seat, Soulsby — no, no; not there, not there. There — where I can see your face. Sit here, little mother — here; so that the ear that is not deaf is turned to me. Quiet, Julia; or go, go. Now, Soulsby, find what you think.”
He sat in a low chair, with the manuscript set on his knees, and his eyes nearly touching its pages. The friend sat opposite, his fine frame in repose, the grey waves of his hair glossy in the firelight, his large, shapely hands twining and untwining at his breast.
Claverhouse plunged at once into the play. The harshness of his voice and his eruptive utterance at first gave colour to what he read: but as the drama unfolded, Soulsby leant forward in his seat, ceasing his nervous movements, and rivetting his eyes on his face; and Janet almost crouched in her chair, her strange eyes gazing before her, and gathering tears or fire as the deep tones fell. The reader’s voice, under the veil of its own qualities, became the voice of each character. At one time he sprang to his feet, and read for minutes standing. His tones swelled, sank, and carried trembling or tears. At the end he neither raised his eyes nor moved his limbs. He sat unseeing and silent, living yet in his self-created world. Neither Soulsby nor Janet broke the silence. The hours had passed; but neither had heeded them. The silence lingered, and seemed to be deepening, when suddenly Claverhouse turned, and looked at Janet.
The aged woman was exhausted. She was lying back in her chair, with features and limbs relaxed. Crouching thus, with her eyes closed, and energy and motion gone, she looked what she was — a fragile, aged creature. The playwright rose; and stooping over her, raised her to her feet with an easiness which showed the service familiar; his face betraying some depth of feeling, but his voice abrupt and harshly toned.
“Let me have that lamp, Soulsby. Push that chair aside, and open the door. My mother is worn out. I will be down in a moment.”
The strange-looking couple passed from the room, and mounted the staircase; the son walking close to the mother, slackening his pace to hers, and keeping the hand not hampered with the lamp on her arm, in readiness to tighten its grasp. The scene was a daily one on the steep little staircase. He was as mindful of Janet’s years in the matter of bodily danger, as forgetful of them in the dealings of their daily life. He feared to trust her on the stairs of the narrow old dwelling; and never forgot to help her to her door at night, or to wait in the morning to support or carry her down. He knew nothing of her many unattended journeys to the door of his working-chamber; for Janet loved the tender service, and shrank from robbing of their value the many times of its fulfilment. She had spoken no word on the matter to Julia; but the faithful old servant watched and was wise, rejoicing in the trust she had earned; and when her master’s eyes were safe, paid no heed to the disobedience, but otherwise guarded the forbidden ground from unaided steps.