“So young Denmead is to play Orlando at Stratford next month, I see,” he observed one morning before rehearsal. “That boy will do well if I’m not mistaken. There was a touch of genius about him even when I knew him as a half-starved novice in Scotland.”
“Did you know him then?” said Christine for the first time volunteering an unnecessary remark to Dudley. “He used to tell me when I was acting with him in Edinburgh what straits he had been reduced to during the spring.”
“Yes, we had a rough time, but he was always a plucky, goodnatured fellow ready to take the fortune of war. I’m glad he has fallen on his feet. Macneillie has been the making of him.”
“They say Macneillie’s health has broken down,” said another actor strolling up. “He has gone to Scotland to recruit.”
“He has been roaming about the world too long,” remarked a third. “I wonder he doesn’t give up his travelling company and settle in town. It would be better for him in every way.”
“Well he’s doing very good work,” said Dudley. “As a matter of fact his company and Lorimer’s are the only training schools we have for the stage. How can the rising generation learn otherwise in these days of long runs?”
The arrival of Barry Sterne checked the conversation at this moment and Christine turned away sick at heart, to get through her work as well as she could to the tune of those haunting words—“His health has broken down!”
Was it true? Or had some lying paragraph in a newspaper set afloat a false report?
Her whole nature seemed to rise up in rebellion against the miserable ignorance of his movements to which she was doomed. It tortured her to think that dozens of people who were wholly indifferent to him knew all, while she was racked with anxiety and fear on his behalf.
She went home feeling wretched beyond expression; even Charlie’s eager greeting could not bring a smile to her face or ease her pain.