Then, as they were ready to depart, ever punctually exact in the small courtesies, he placed himself at Miss Morrell's side and led the way to the vestibule, where a tall, shabby fellow was slouching before the box-office window, while young Barney could be plainly heard refusing to give him money without Mr. Thrall's order.
Hearing advancing footsteps, the man turned a pale, liquor-soddened face toward them, and, seeing the ladies, he let go of the window-ledge he had clung to, removed his hat with a trembling hand, advanced hesitatingly, and attempted to address Thrall, who said, savagely: "Step aside! I'll speak to you presently!" And, as the poor wreck drew back, they passed on to the open front doors.
And Claire Morrell raised mildly surprised eyes, and said: "Jim Roberts is still with you, then?"
And Thrall, with a shrug of his shoulders, answered, flippantly: "Like the poor!" and bowed them out.
CHAPTER XI
THE DOUBLE BIRTHDAY
With June a renewal of life seemed to have come to the old White house. A riotous maple massed its vivid green canopy over a side door, tender young vines with small, tenacious fingers felt their way over its southern wall, an old-time peony at the corner of the porch lifted its enormous, bitter-sweet blossoms of deepest pink. A length of white matting lay on the porch, two neatly painted butter-tubs (in lieu of majolica jars) held plants, a few chairs and a table kept them company, and every wind that blew the white curtains in or out of the upper windows brought forth a ripple of laughter or a snatch of song. For the old house had received the gift of tongues, and spoke, not only with the voice of age and disappointment and regret, but with that of youth and hope and joy; and Dick's yellow throat, like a small golden ewer, poured forth trill and gurgle all day long in happy answer to all the delightful sounds about him. And two little paths were creeping through the thick-growing grass—one, leading up to the tangle of orchard and an oft-mended old hammock, had been worn by the feet of the sisters; the other, leading down to a side lane, was shorter but broader, for Lena's feet were sturdy, her step heavy, and her "mash-man's" whistle called her often to the lane in the twilight. So, with love flitting about the kitchen door and youth and beauty dreaming dreams in its ancient chambers, no wonder the White house seemed rejuvenated.
Sybil was happy—happy as she had never been before. Nothing definite had yet been decided beyond the fact that she was to begin her work in September. Mr. Thrall might let her play a small part in New York, or he might send her with a travelling company and let her have something better to start with. Meantime, he had advised her to learn several small parts, and when she had done so, swiftly and willingly, he told her it would be good practice for her to study a number of important characters, since she might be called upon to play a Jessica or a Nerissa, if not the difficult Portia, a Celia, if not a Rosalind; and it would give her an immense advantage if she were already familiar with the lines, while, if she had not to play any of them, she would herself be the richer for her knowledge and her brain would be trained to the habit of quick study.
Then Mrs. Van Camp, flattered by the popular actor's deferential attitude toward herself and his warily moderate admiration for Sybil—well he knew that any rapturous praise of her beauty would act as a danger-signal to the ancient butterfly of fashion—had not only consented to her god-daughter's going upon the stage, but for a birthday gift had lined her hungry little purse with crisp bank-notes, of modest denomination, it is true, but with power to free her from the care of things bodily and temporal for all that coming summer, and had added a note to her "very dear Letitia" earnestly requesting her "not to make a fool of herself!"