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The man's face grew black. "Not till I'm dead," he said doggedly. "I don't want him set against me! He's all I've got! I'm going to keep him for a bit. It ought not to be so difficult for us to live. If only I could get down to the city for a few hours!" "Could not a friend there do some good for you?" Matravers asked. "Of course he could," Mr. Drage answered eagerly; "but I haven't got a friend.
Nothing short of a miracle could have made Matravers' luncheon party a complete success; yet, so far as Berenice was concerned, it could scarcely be looked upon in any other light. Her demeanour towards Adelaide Robinson and Fergusson was such as to give absolutely no opportunity for anything disagreeable! She frankly admitted both her inexperience and her ignorance.
Passing Bailey Gate, which is the station for Sturminster, the Poole road is reached in a few minutes; turning left and following this for a mile, the pedestrian may take a rough track uphill to the right that leads to Lytchett Matravers, an out-of-the-way village with a Perpendicular church and an unpretending inn.
Words are so cold, and I am a woman and I must love and be loved, or I shall die.... Ah!" She started round with a little scream. Her eyes, frightened and dilated, were fixed upon the door. On the threshold a little boy was standing in his night-shirt, looking at her with dark, inquiring eyes. "I want Mr. Matravers, if you please," he said deliberately. "Will you tell him?
I don't think she's dead, though, 'cos daddy wouldn't let me talk about her, only just lately, since he was ill. You see," he went on with an explanatory wave of the hand, "daddy's been a very bad man. He's better now leastways, he ain't so bad as he was; but I 'spect that's why mammy went away. Don't you?" "I daresay, Freddy," Matravers answered softly.
It's hard lines! damned hard lines! I wish I were dead twenty times a day! I am alone here from morning to night, and not a soul to speak to. If it wasn't for Freddy I should jolly soon end it!" "The little boy's mother?" Matravers ventured, with bowed head. "She left me years ago. I don't know that I blame her, particularly. Sit down, if you will, for a bit.
Leaning over the partition, and looking downwards, he had a good view of the man who sat there quite alone, his head resting upon his hand, his eyes fixed steadily upon a soiled and crumpled programme, which was spread out carefully before him. Matravers wondered whether there was not in the clumsy figure and awkward pose something vaguely familiar to him.
"I am not a business man," Matravers said slowly; "but if you cared to explain things to me, I would go into the city and see what I could do." The man raised himself on his elbow and gazed at his visitor open-mouthed. "You mean this!" he cried thickly. "Say it again, quick! You mean it!" "Certainly," Matravers answered. "I will do what I can."
He settled himself down at once to a careful appreciation of the performance. Matravers was not in any sense of the word a dramatic critic. He was a man of letters; amongst the elect he was reckoned a master in his art. He occupied a singular, in many respects a unique, position. But in matters dramatic, he confessed to an ignorance which was strictly actual and in no way assumed.
A little boy, who had wandered from his nurse in crossing the road, narrowly escaped being run over by a carriage and pair, only to find himself knocked down by the shaft of Matravers' hansom. There was a cry, and the driver pulled his horse on to her haunches, but apparently just a second too late.
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