“We must all do our simple best, Mrs. Jelf,” he replied, lifting up his eyes. “I happen to know something of the poor fellow who lies upstairs, and, for the sake of old times, you understand, and for the sake of the poor young lady——”
“And she such a sweet young thing!” said Mrs. Jelf, beginning to cry again.
“I will do my best for her. I am now going to the town, and I think, Mrs. Jelf, it would be as well, if any one inquires for Miss Marlowe, if you told them that she is not well enough to see anybody. And if there should be any letters, perhaps you will give them to me; I will keep them until poor Miss Marlowe is strong enough to see them. At such times as these, in moments of such deep sorrow as this, Mrs. Jelf, the human heart must not be harassed by contact with the outer world.”
“No, indeed, sir,” assented Mrs. Jelf, quite touched by such sympathetic consideration. “I won’t let any one see her, and she shan’t be worried by anything. I’ll keep people from her, and I’ll give you any letters.”
“Thank you, I think it will be better,” said Spenser Churchill. “Perhaps you might tell Miss Marlowe that a friend—you need not mention my name; you might say the doctor—has gone to the theatre and will make all arrangements. All she has to do is to try and remain quiet. Rest, rest, my dear Mrs. Jelf, is the great soother for the—er—tortured breast,” and leaving this sublime piece of sentiment to do its work in honest Mrs. Jelf’s mind, he went off to Barton.
Ill news travels apace, and the tidings of Jeffrey’s sudden death had reached the theatre even before Spenser Churchill arrived there.
His manner with the manager was simply perfection.
“I came on at once, my dear sir,” he said, “because I felt that you should be the first to know of this—er—dreadful calamity. I am fully sensible of the responsible position you occupy, and that your relations as a manager with the public entitle you to every consideration. Of course, Miss Marlowe will not act for some time—if ever she acts again.”
“Of course, of course!” said the manager, rather blankly. “Poor Jeffrey! An admirable man, sir; admirable! Might have been a great actor himself, but contented himself with presenting an ornament to the stage in his adopted daughter. A great genius Miss Marlowe, Mr. Churchill! Splendid! magnificent! A wonderful career before her! Of course, she can’t be expected to act at present, certainly not; but in time—ahem!—in time.”
“We shall see,” said Spenser Churchill. “In time, perhaps; but I cannot say. I am not authorized to speak for Miss Marlowe; but this I will say, that if she should resume her professional career, you—you will have the first claim upon her!” and he shook the manager’s hand in so emphatic and impressive a manner that the manager was quite touched.