He had not the heart to go back to Oxford, but sought for some form of employment, where excitement and feverish activity could give forgetfulness.
His knowledge of languages, a tuneful voice, and his natural charm secured for him successive jobs in travelling companies in Europe, where in gilt and motley he sung in choruses in grand and comic opera, till fate drove him back to England, and to a small part in a travelling company of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operas. It was all hopeless, and he felt that he had only to wait till a merciful death ended the life which had become distasteful to him.
Chapter IX.
A Ghost from the Past
Coming from the theatre after a matinee, along the Strand, Roy was making his way to an obscure restaurant where food was comparatively cheap, when he nearly collided with two men hastening round the corner. The wind was bitter, and rain was falling, so that all the men had coats closely buttoned and collars turned up.
Roy muttered an apology, and would have passed on, but one of the two seeing his face in the light, suddenly drew back, and exclaimed “By God, Reckavile, by all that’s unholy. I did not know that you were in England again. How are you, old thing?” and he held out his hand. A wild fantasy whirled before Roy’s mind, and for a moment he was without sense or speech, then he said coldly.
“I am afraid you have made a mistake, sir; my name is not Reckavile.”
The other scrutinised him closely.
“No, by Jove, you’re not. I am sorry, but look, Raymond, what a likeness!”
Roy’s anger was rising, he was not a waxwork to be inspected, and he turned to go his way, but the first speaker caught his coat.
“No, sir, you must not go like that, I have been rude enough to address you by mistake, but I will make amends if I may. Will you come to my Club, if you will do us the honour, and let me apologise in suitable manner for having taken you for one of the worst blackguards, but the most charming of men.”