“I have some further business, Mr Jack,” said Magdalen.
“I beg your pardon,” said he, turning again towards her.
“ Mrs. Simpson told me—”
“Ah!” said he, interrupting her, and casting a threatening look at the landlady. “It was she who told you where I was located, was it?”
“Well, I don’t see the harm if I did,” said Mrs. Simpson. “If you look on it as a liberty on my part to recommend you, Mr. Jack, I can easily stop doing it.”
“Recommend me! What does she mean, Miss Brailsford — you are Miss Brailsford, are you not?”
“Yes, I was about to say that Mrs Simpson told me that you gave — that is — I should perhaps explain first that I intend to go on the stage.”
“What do you want to go on the stage for?”
“The same as anybody else, I suppose,” said Mrs Simpson indignantly.
“I wish to make it my profession,” said Magdalen.
“Do you mean make your living by it?”
“I hope so.”
“Humph!”
“Do you think I should have any chance of success?”
“I suppose, if you have intelligence and perseverance, and can drudge and be compliant, and make stepping stones of your friends — but there! I know nothing about success. What have I got to do with it? Do you think, as your father did, that I am a theatrical agent?”
“Well I must say, Mr. Jack,” exclaimed the landlady, “that those who try to befriend you get very little encouragement. I am right sorry, so I am, that I brought Miss Madge to ask you for lessons.”
“Lessons!” said Jack. “Oh! I did not understand. Lessons in what? Music?”
“No,” said Magdalen. “I wanted lessons in elocution and so forth. At least, I was told the other day that I did not know how to speak.”
“Neither do you. That is true enough,” said Jack thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t profess to prepare people for the stage; but I can teach you to speak, if you have anything to say or any feeling for what better people put into your mouth.”
“You are not very sanguine as to the result, I fear.”
“The result, as far as it goes, is certain, if you practice. If not, I shall give you up. After all, there is no reason why you should not do something better than be a fine lady. Your appearance is good: all the rest can be acquired — except a genius for tomfoolery, which you must take your chance of. The public want actresses, because they think all actresses bad. They don’t want music or poetry because they know that both are good. So actors and actresses thrive, as I hope you will; and poets and composers starve, as I do. When do you wish to begin?”
It was soon arranged that Magdalen should take lessons in Mrs Simpson’s sitting room, and in her presence, every second weekday, and that she should pay Mr Jack for them at the rate of three guineas a dozen. The first was to take place on the next day but one. Then the two ladies rose to go. But Magdalen first drew Mrs Simpson aside to pay her the money which Jack had lent her; so that he was left near the door with Mary, who had only spoken once since he entered the room.
“Mr. Jack,” she said, in an undertone: “I fear I have intruded on you. But I assure you I did not know who it was that we were coming to see.”
“Else you would not have come.”
“Only because I should have expected to be unwelcome.”
“It does not matter. I am glad to see you, though I have no reason to be. How is Mr Adrian?”
“Mr Herbert”
“I beg his pardon. Mr Herbert, of course.
“He is quite well, thank you.”
Jack rubbed hands stealthily, and looked at Mary as though the recollection of Adrian tickled his sense of humor. As she tried to look coldly at him, he said, with a shade of pity in his tone, “Ah, Miss Sutherland, it one thing to be very fond of music: it is quite another to be able to compose.”
“Is it?” said Mary, puzzled.
He shook his head. “You don’t see the relevance of that,” said he. “Well, never mind.”
She looked at him uneasily, and hesitated. Then she said slowly, “Mr. Jack: some people at Windsor, friends of mine, have been asking about you. I think, if you could come down once a week, I could get a music class together for you.”
“No doubt,” he said. his angry look returning. “They will take lessons because you ask them to be charitable to your discarded tutor. Why did you discard him if you think him fit to teach your friends?”
“Not at all. The project was mentioned last season, before I knew you. It is simply that we wish to take lessons. If you do not get the class somebody else will. It is very difficult to avoid offending you, Mr Jack.”
“Indeed! Why does the world torment me, if it expects to find me gracious to it? And who are the worthy people that are burning to soar in the realms of song?”
“Well, to begin with. I should l—”
“You! I would not give you lessons though your life depended on it. No, by Heaven! At least,” he continued, more placably, as she recoiled, evidently hurt, “you shall have no lessons from me for money. I will teach you, if you wish to learn; but you shall not try to make amends for your old caprice of beggaring me, by a new caprice to patronize me.”
“Then of course I cannot take any lessons.”
“I thought not. You will confer favors on your poor music maker; but you will not stoop to accept them from him. Your humble dog, Miss Sutherland.” He made her a bow.
“You quite mistake me,” said Mary, unable to control her vexation. “Will you take the class or not?”
“Where will the class be?”
“I could arrange to have it at our house if—”
“Never. I have crossed its threshold for the last time. So long as it is not there, I do not care where it is. Not less than one journey a week, and not less than a guinea clear profit for each journey. Those are my lowest terms: I will take as much more as I can get, but nothing less. Perhaps you are thinking better of getting the class for me.”
“I never break my word, Mr Jack.”
“Ha! Don’t you! I do. A fortnight ago I swore never to speak to you again. The same day I swore never to part with your friend’s ring except to herself. Well, here I am speaking to you for no better reason than that you met me and offered to put some money in my way. And you stopped me in the act of pawning her ring, which I was going to do because I thought I would rather have a beefsteak. But you are adamant. You never change your mind. You have a soul above fate and necessity! Ha! ha!”
“Magdalen,” said Mary, turning to her friend, who had waiting for the end of the conversation: “I think we had better go.” Mary was crimson with suppressed resentment; and Magdalen, not displeased to see it, advanced to bid Jack farewell in her most attractive manner. He immediately put off his bantering air, and ceremoniously accompanied them downstairs to the door, where Magdalen, going out first, gave him her hand. Mary hesitated; and he wrinkled his brow as he looked at her.
“I will tell Miss Cairns to write to you about the class,” she said. He listened to her with an attention which she thought derisive. Flushing with displeasure, she added, “And as Miss Cairns has done