Who then may follow Thee till sight needs not to prove,
And faith will be dissolved in knowledge of Thy love.”
G. J. Romanes.
It was in July, while Macneillie was spending his summer holiday at Callander, that his mother’s sudden death made him more than ever alone in the world. They had passed together a particularly happy fortnight, and though he could see that she was gradually getting more infirm she had never known a day’s illness, and her loss came as a terrible shock to him.
Ralph and Evereld were able to come down to the funeral, for the London season was just over and he was glad to have them with him for ten days before he started once more on tour. He was thinking of selling the house and furniture, but Ralph who knew what pains he had spent in building it, and how sad the dispersal of all his old home belongings must be, persuaded him to leave things much as they were and content himself with letting it as a furnished house for the summer months.
For a time the presence of the Denmeads cheered him a good deal. He enjoyed hearing every detail of their life in London, and he insisted on taking them to the Pass of Leny that he might show Evereld the exact spot where he had first come across her husband. Each morning, too, they used to tramp up the road leading to the well and Ralph would read aloud from “Marius the Epicurean,” while Evereld made a sketch which Macneillie had long desired:—the rough moorland road in the foreground leading to the crest of the hill; on either side a stretch of purple heather; the hint of a valley down below where Callander lay hidden and, in the distance, a range of blue Scottish mountains which he said would make him breathe “caller” air only to look at.
“I shall take it with me wherever I go,” he said. “There is no reason why wayfaring men shouldn’t have a few possessions of their own. Besides I have foresworn the travelling clock. It is no good to me since you have gone, for I can never remember to wind it, so there is one thing less to pack.”
“It was here in this identical place that you coached me that summer after I was ill,” said Ralph. “I connect it with Florizel, and Claudio, and Fabian, and with that Scotch play Miss Greville was acting in at Edinburgh.”
“Yes, and taking him altogether he was a very amenable pupil,” said Macneillie smiling at Evereld. “I wish I could say as much for his successor.”
But unfortunately a second Ralph Denmead proved hard to find. And Macneillie had a very discouraging time of it all through August and September. The weather was unusually hot and even in the watering-places that they visited the audiences were seldom good. Then came a spell of very wet weather, but the houses were still poor, and it seemed that no one cared for Shakspere, that old English Comedy ceased to attract and that the restless spirits of modern people required something much more highly seasoned.