Evereld hoped she might do so, but she was utterly bewildered by the end of the reception, where she had been introduced to most of the company and to a number of residents and people of the neighbourhood. As to recognising Ralph’s fellow artists when she saw them again in the evening in stage attire, it was impossible. However they good-naturedly told her they were quite used to being cut, and she found Ivy Grant a very pleasant companion and had a good deal of talk with her between whiles.
Ivy had greatly improved since the days of the Scotch tour; trouble had developed her in an extraordinary way; she had grown more gentle and refined, and she still retained her old winsomeness and was a general favourite. Thanks to Ralph’s straightforwardness that morning at Forres, she had quickly awakened from her first dream of love, and was none the worse for it. In fact, it had perhaps done her good, she would not lightly lose her heart again, and her standard was certain to remain high. Moreover she knew that Ralph would always be her friend, and she felt curiously drawn to Evereld, who was quite ready to respond to her advances.
There was something very fascinating to Evereld in the novelty and variety of this new life; before many days had passed she began to feel quite as if she belonged to the company. She sympathised keenly with the desire to have good houses, listened with interest to all the discussions and arrangements, and soon found herself on friendly terms with almost every one.
“There is one man, though, that I can’t make out at all,” she remarked one evening. “He always seems to disappear in such an odd way. I mean Mr. Rawnleigh.” Macneillie and Ralph both laughed.
“You would be very clever indeed if you contrived to know anything about him,” said the Manager. “He chooses to keep himself wrapped in a mystery. There’s not a creature among us who can tell you anything about him. He’s the cleverest low comedian I have ever had; but his habits are peculiar. To my certain knowledge his whole personal wardrobe goes about the world tied up in a spotted handkerchief. He has no make-up box but just carries a stick of red rouge and powdered chalk screwed up in paper like tobacco in his pocket. He puts it on with his finger and rubs it in with a bit of brown paper. Nobody knows in any town where he lodges, but he is always punctual at rehearsal, and if in an emergency he happens to be needed, you can generally find him smoking peacefully in the nearest public-house. He has never been heard to speak an unnecessary word, and in ordinary life looks so like a death’s head that he goes by the name of ‘Old Mortality.’”
Evereld laughed at this curious description.
“He is the sort of man Charles Lamb might have written an essay about,” she said. “Now let me see if I have grasped the rest of them. The retired Naval Captain, Mr. Tempest, is the heavy man, isn’t he? Then there are those two young Oxonians—they are Juveniles. And Ralph’s friend, Mr. Mowbray, the briefless barrister, what is he?”
“He’s the Responsible man,” said Macneillie.
“Mr. Brinton, I know, is the old man. And Mr. Thornton, what do you call him?”
“Oh, he is the Utility man. Come you would stand a pretty good examination.”