“So let my singing say to you,
‘Our hearts are pilgrims going home;
Love’s kingdom shall most surely come
To all who seek Love’s will to do.’”
“Daydreams.”—A. Gurney.
In the course of the next four months Ralph’s powers of letter-writing improved amazingly, and thanks to those love letters and to the bright merry life in the Hereford household Evereld’s engagement proved a happy one although she and her lover could only spend two Sundays together during the whole time. They knew each other so well already however that there was no risk of any misunderstanding between them, and the waiting-time was too short to be very irksome.
As for Bride O’Ryan she proved herself a friend worth having, threw herself into all Evereld’s interests with delightful eagerness, and teased her just enough to add a little salt to the entertainment.
The Lord Chancellor kept them for some time in suspense, and furnished Bride with endless food for merriment. “He is a very formidable guardian,” she protested, “and when once you get into his clutches it’s very hard indeed to get out again. I wonder you dared to appeal to him.”
“It was the only thing to be done,” said Evereld, “but I do wish he would be quick and give his consent.”
“I have always heard,” said Bride provokingly, “that when once things get into chancery they stay there for years and years. Remember how it was inBleak House.”
“Well at any rate Mrs. Hereford says the Lord Chancellor is most kindhearted,” said Evereld. “And I know he is fond of reading novels, so he ought to take an interest in the romances of real life. And particularly he ought to like Ralph, for they say he himself had dreadful struggles at the beginning of his career when he was a young barrister on circuit.”
However at length the consent was given and it was arranged that, as Macneillie’s company were not giving any performances in Holy Week, Ralph and Evereld should be married on Palm Sunday.
Evereld like a wise little woman was determined not to waste her substance in the purchase of a trousseau which would be an endless trouble in their wandering life.
“I have plenty of clothes already,” she protested. “All I shall need is a nice warm cloak in which I can walk to the theatre in the evening—a respectable dark sort of garment—and of course my wedding dress; I won’t be a frumpy bride in a travelling costume.”
“No, have a gown like the bride in Blair Leighton’s picture ‘Called to arms,’” said Ralph who had come up from Bristol to spend a Sunday at the Hereford’s directly they had returned to London. “It’s a thousand times prettier than any of the ugly modern fashions.”
Evereld did not know the picture but she promised to do her best to copy it, and with the help of a clever American maid of Mrs. Hereford’s, and Bridget’s ready assistance, and the advice of all the female members of the household, her skilful fingers succeeded in turning out a very good reproduction of the artist’s design at about a fifth of the cost of an ordinary wedding dress.
“Even had I not lost my money,” she said to Bride, “I don’t think I could have borne to spend much just on clothes when so many people are ruined and half starving from the failure of all these companies.”
That was the greatest shadow that was cast over the happiness of the two lovers. The appalling accounts of the trouble caused by Sir Matthew’s wrong doing, the knowledge that many of the victims had literally died from the shock, that many more had lost their reason, that thousands were reduced to dire poverty and distress could not but affect them.
Evereld was touched too by a very kindly but sad letter from Lady Mactavish. It contained one sentence which puzzled her not a little.
“What does Lady Mactavish mean by speaking of the help you gave Sir Matthew?” she enquired, a week before their wedding day, as she and Ralph sat together in the library where in December they had had that first “business interview.”
“What does she say about it?” asked Ralph.
“Here is her letter, it is a message to you;—‘Tell Ralph that I shall never cease to be grateful to him for the help he gave my husband. It saved his life.”
“Well,” said Ralph, “I suppose I am free to speak of it since she mentioned it to you. He came to me at Southampton, indeed I met him on my way back from Whinhaven,” and going through the whole story he made her understand exactly what had taken place. “To this day I don’t know whether I did right. But if the same thing were to happen again I should still probably help him. It was the dread of letting one’s private hatred and resentment bias one against helping a desperate man. As a matter of fact he has by no means escaped punishment by escaping from England. I don’t believe there is a corner of the earth where he will long remain unmolested. He will lead a miserable, hunted life far worse than the life Bruce Wylie leads in gaol, and with nothing really to look forward to. But I think he was in earnest when he said that night he would put an end to himself if they arrested him. And I have never regretted the little I did to shield him from discovery.”
“You wouldn’t have been yourself if you had acted differently,” said Evereld. “But it must have been hard work to decide.”
“I hope I may never again have such a decision to make,” said Ralph. “And all the time there was the maddening remembrance of what he had made you suffer. What a strange, complex character he had: there was a sort of greatness about him all the time. I suppose that was how he deceived people in such an extraordinary way,—he managed to deceive himself. Even now a sort of panic seizes me lest he should somehow interfere between us. I shall never feel at rest about you till we are safely married.”
“Next Sunday,” she whispered. “Where shall you be all this week?”
“At Manchester,” he replied “and as ill luck will have it there is a matinée of the new play and an evening performance of ‘Much Ado’ next Saturday. However there will be plenty of time to sleep in the train, and I will meet you somewhere for the early service.”
“Let it be at the Abbey then, that seems specially to belong to us. Bride and I often go there and we can meet you just by the Baptistry at the west end.”
“What time is the wedding to be? I have not even learnt that yet,” he said laughing.
“Mrs. Hereford arranged that it should be at two, that will leave us plenty of time to catch our train, and I have not told anyone where we mean to go. That is our secret.”
“Yes, we will keep that dark,” said Ralph. “Otherwise it may be creeping into the papers. Did you see there was a paragraph about Sir Matthew Mactavish’s late ward in yesterday’s ‘Veracity’?”
“Yes. We couldn’t help laughing over it, but I hope Janet and Minnie won’t see it. Oh, Ralph! what a nightmare the past is to look back on! and how happy and safe I am with you!”.
Now that all was arranged, she seemed perfectly at rest, able even to enjoy all the manifold little plans and the cheerful bustle that heralded the wedding-day. But Ralph down at Manchester spent a feverishly anxious week, and found it difficult indeed to concentrate his mind on his work. Most managers would have lost all patience with him, but Macneillie with the genial breadth of mind and the rare patience that characterised him took it all very quietly, and perhaps in his secret soul rather enjoyed the sight of such unusual and unsullied enthusiasm.
By the time Saturday arrived, Ralph had become very “ill to live with.” He wandered about the house imagining that he was busy packing but contriving to forget half his possessions. He could hardly stir without singing or whistling, and he would have neglected to put in an appearance at “Treasury” if Macneillie himself had not reminded him.
“You are like your namesake Sir Ralph the Rover,” said the manager, who had been answering his correspondence as well as he could to a running accompaniment of Ralph’s voice.
“He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing—”
“We won’t finish the quotation. But my dear fellow you will be quite played out to-morrow if you go on at this rate.”
“How about the train?” said Ralph. “That’s the thing that bothers me. Shall we ever get through to-night in time to catch the mail?”
“For pity’s sake don’t begin to fuss about that already!” said Macneillie with a comical expression about the corners of his mouth. “It’s a mercy that marrying and giving in marriage are not every-day occurrences or a manager’s life would not be worth living.”
“I’ll promise never to do it again, Governor,” said Ralph with mock penitence.
“Well well,” said Macneillie with a patient shrug of the shoulders, “it all comes in the day’s work. You will understand now how to render Claudio’s words ‘Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.’”
Ralph thought it extremely obnoxious of the Manchester folk to have petitioned for a performance of “Much ado about Nothing” on this particular day, and though he acted Claudio very well it was always to him an uncongenial character. Macneillie’s Benedick was however considered one of his best parts and though perhaps he enjoyed playing it as little just then as Ralph enjoyed going through the wedding scene on the eve of his own marriage, he was the last man to let his private feelings interfere with his work either as actor or as manager.
The play was carefully rendered, and after a most uncomfortable rush and scramble, Ralph, thanks chiefly to the help of his many friends in the company, found himself at the station just as the Scotch mail steamed up to the platform. Whether Macneillie would arrive in time seemed doubtful, however as the guard’s whistle sounded he emerged from the booking office, and with his usual imperturbably grave face sprang in while the train moved off.
Ivy Grant and Myra Brinton had packed up a most tempting little supper for the two and had taken care to see that it was not forgotten in the hurry of the last moment; and Macneillie, who always retained the power of enjoying a holiday under any circumstances, proved a very genial companion until the advent of another passenger at Crewe, when they relapsed into silence and settled down to sleep.
The night was stormy; torrents of rain washed the windows, and the wind howled and moaned as the train sped on through the darkness. Ralph tried in vain to follow the example of his two companions who, quite oblivious of their surroundings slept composedly through all the din. He was far too much excited to lose consciousness even for a minute. The carriage lamp was shaded and, in the dim light, visions of Evereld kept rising before him.
She was a little girl once more, in a black frock, and with soft, bright hair falling about her shoulders.
“Are you not hungry?” she said to him confidentially as they stood together, strangers and yet somehow already friends, in a drearily grand London drawing-room.
Again she was sitting beside him on the stairs, a fairylike little figure in white, eating ice pudding supplied to them by the goodnatured Geraghty. “I somehow think your father and mine will be talking together to-night?” she said, her sweet blue eyes looking as though they could see right into that spirit world of which she spoke.
On thundered the train, and yet another vision rose before Ralph. He was in Westminster Abbey and there before him he suddenly saw a face which took his heart by storm—the face of his old playfellow grown into gentle gracious womanhood. Then the same face, but with wistful love-lit eyes was lifted up to his outside the house in Queen Anne’s Gate kindling hope in his heart and filling him with a glow of happiness which had carried him through the pain of the parting. These same love-lit eyes and a yet more wonderful response of soul to soul rose in vision before him as he recalled a certain summer afternoon by the sea shore. What did it matter to him that the cold spring wind raged round the carriage piercing every crevice, or that the hail-stones rattled angrily against the glass! He was far away from it all, seeing blue waves and the mellow brown side of a boat and Evereld’s blushing face. The memory of that August day lasted him all the rest of the way to London; then in the chilly dawn they made their way to the nearest hotel, where the order of things was reversed for Ralph at last fell sound asleep on a sofa in the reading room and it was Macneillie who was wakeful and saw visions of the past—visions that he dared not dwell upon because with them there came the maddening recollection that he was close to Christine, that it would be the easiest thing in the world, yet the most fatal, to go that afternoon and call upon her. What was she doing? How did she struggle on in the difficult life on which she had embarked? All the craving to know, all the longing to serve her must be crushed down in his heart. Alone she must dree her weird. Alone he must bear the anguish of her pain and his own bitter loss.
Almost involuntarily, those hard views of God from which years ago he had been rescued by Thomas Erskine’s book “The Spiritual Order,” returned now to him, flooding his mind with rebellious thoughts.
Why did all this misery come to him? Why were the mistakes and sins of others visited upon him? Why were the ways of God so unequal? Other men prospered. Other men had the desire of their hearts granted. Why was he for ever to be thwarted? For years he knew that he had made strenuous efforts to live uprightly, yet there seemed nothing before him but sorrow; while over yonder there was a mere boy of one and twenty about to gain after the briefest of struggles the woman he loved.
The Tempter had however defeated his own object by introducing the thought of Ralph Denmead. Macneillie’s heart was too large for jealousy to harbour in it. Jealousy can only rest long and comfortably in narrow, and cramped hearts where self love and petty absorption in trifles has contracted the space.
As he glanced across the room he saw that the sunlight was streaming full upon the sleeper, he got up and lowered the blind pausing for a minute by the sofa to look at his companion. Ralph was sound asleep, and his untroubled, boyish face was worth looking at if only for its peace. To Macneillie it suggested many thoughts. He remembered his first impression of Ralph, lying in the last stage of misery on the banks of the Leny, and he delighted to think that partly by his aid the lad had battled through his difficulties and had got his foot firmly planted on the ladder of success.
There is nothing so strange in life as the manner in which a kindly deed re-acts in a thousand subtle ways on the doer. And now, as had been the case before, Macneillie was lured back to life by the one he had helped long ago. The hard thoughts passed, he stood there in the bright spring morning strong once more in the belief that the eternal patience of the All-Father schools each son in the best possible way.
Sitting down to the writing-table he filled up a couple of hours with answering the letters of the previous day, then when the time came, set off with Ralph to the Abbey and finding the way to the Baptistry unbarred waited there beside the busts of Maurice and Kingsley, lifted a degree nearer to that Light and Love of which their epitaphs spoke by the struggle he had just passed through.
They were joined here by Mrs. Hereford, Bride, and Evereld, and Macneillie thought he had never seen anything more winning than Evereld’s eager welcome of her lover. He felt very much in harmony with their happiness as they all went together into the choir, and indeed throughout the day the depression which had overwhelmed him since he had received the bad news at Brighton was banished by the unalloyed bliss of the two who were just stepping into their goodly heritage of mutual love and companionship.
It was a thoroughly unconventional wedding with merely the merry Irish family in the house, with Bride and the two little Hereford girls for bridesmaids, and Macneillie and an old school fellow who had returned from Canada just in time to be Ralph’s best man, as the only outsiders.
Of course, when at two o’clock they drove to the church, it was crowded with spectators, for the marriage of the heiress who had been defrauded of her fortune by Sir Matthew Mactavish had found its inevitable way into the hands of the paragraph-mongers. But then, as Macneillie remarked, a marriage ought to take place before a congregation, and it would have been a thousand pities if this particular marriage had been smuggled through in secret at some chilly hour of the morning in an empty church.
“As it was,” he added, “some idle London folk had the chance of singing ‘All people that on earth do dwell’ to the old hundredth, and that’s a chance that doesn’t often come to us in these degenerate days of flabby modern hymns. All the women, moreover, will go away persuaded in their own minds that the conventional wedding dress of modern days is ugly and that the old-world dress of Mrs. Ralph Denmead is far more artistic.”
There was one thing, however, which baffled the Press. It described the service with gusto, and gave the most elaborate details as to the dresses, but it could not discover where the Bride and Bride-groom intended to spend the honeymoon. It was reduced at length to the desperate expedient of a good round lie, and said that they leften routefor the continent.
Ralph and Evereld, who had kept this detail entirely to themselves, laughed contentedly as they read this fable in their snug little sitting-room at Stratford-on-Avon.
“We knew a trick worth two of that,” said Ralph. “Fancy rushing off to the Continent for a week! It never seemed to occur to anyone that Stratford was the ideal place for an actor’s honeymoon. We are not going to leave our Mecca entirely to the Yankees.”
Evereld hoped she thought enough of Shakspere as they wandered about the quaint old place and enjoyed the bright spring weather in the lovely country around.
“It was a delightful thought of yours to come here,” she said, “one likes to have a beautiful background for the happiest time of one’s life. But after all, darling, it’s very much in the background, we should really be as happy in the black country.”
“Of course,” said Ralph laughing. “And there’ll be plenty of the black country to come by and bye. You have no idea what dreary towns we have sometimes to go to. Are you not afraid when you look forward to that sort of thing?”
“Not a bit,” she said with a radiant face. “Don’t I know now what the song means when it speaks of ‘The desert being a paradise’? That used to seem such nonsense in the old days! But with you Ralph———”
She was interrupted. They had been walking beside the pollarded willows by the river, Evereld’s hands were full of the early spring flowers, cowslips and primroses and delicate white anemones which they had gathered in the country. She looked up, for a daintily dressed little lady suddenly stood before her, having deserted a camp-stool and easel though she still retained palette and brushes in one hand.
“Miss Ewart!” she exclaimed with a faint touch of American intonation which instantly recalled Evereld to Glion. “I am so delighted to meet you again, and in this spot of all others, this sacred shrine which you lucky English people possess, though we would give millions of dollars if we could but transplant it right over the ocean!”
“How glad I am to see you!” said Evereld warmly. “I shall never forget your kindness last September. May I introduce my husband to you? Mr. Denmead, Miss Upton.”
“Ah,” said Miss Upton shaking hands with him, “I congratulate Mr. Denmead very warmly. And to think that the third volume which you were to have sent me in America should greet me here by the banks of the Avon! It is delightful!”
“You have not gone back as soon as you expected,” said Evereld.
“Well, no. You see the storm at Glion somehow cleared the atmosphere and many things were altered by it sooner or later,” said Miss Upton her bright eyes twinkling with fun. “In fact, thanks to you, another romance began there, and next year when Mr. Lewisham has taken his degree at Oxford, why he’ll be coming over the ocean to New York, and we have an idea of following the good example which you and Mr. Denmead have set us.
“How glad I am!” said Evereld. “That is charming. Some day we all four ought to meet at Glion, for it is hard that I should have any disagreeable associations left with that lovely little place. You ought to see it Ralph.”
“Why not plan a meeting here on one of Shakspere’s birthday’s? We may possibly be here for some of the performances in the Memorial theatre.”
“Yes, that’s a better idea still,” agreed both Evereld and the American girl.
And after walking back to the town together they parted on the best of terms.
That evening a note and a little packet were brought to Evereld. They were from Miss Upton.
“Just one line in great haste,” the letter ran, “we are off to Woodstock to-night, being as they call us true Yankee rushers. You told me you were not going to set up house yet awhile, but wherever you are I know you will drink afternoon tea as you did in Switzerland. Stir your tea with these Stratford Memorial spoons and drink to our next merry meeting in the birthplace of the Swan of Avon. With all good wishes
“Yours cordially,
“Minnie K. Upton.
“I hope my romance will have as satisfactory an end to its third Volume as yours.”
“What a jolly sort of girl she seems,” said Ralph as Evereld read him the note, “but that postscript is all wrong, darling. We are not at the end of things, we are only just at the beginning.”
“Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers.”
Tennyson.
On Easter Monday, Ralph and Evereld joined the company at Liverpool. It was not without misgivings that the little bride found herself suddenly launched into a life of which she knew so little, and as they drove through the busy streets from the station she had time to conjure up many fears. They were all however fears lest she should fall short in some way, prove an indifferent housekeeper, be unable to make friends with Ralph’s friends, or find herself in other people’s way. But all anxiety was lost sight of when they reached the little house in Seymour Street and found Macneillie with his genial voice and fatherly manner waiting to receive them. He was a man who, from his kindly considerateness and from a certain easy friendliness of tone, quickly made new comers feel at home with him.
Perhaps he intuitively guessed that Evereld’s position would not be without its difficulties, and he did his very utmost to smooth the way for her. He at once allowed her to feel that she could be of use.
“I am glad you caught the early train from Stratford,” he said as they sat down to a two o’clock dinner. “No, you must take the head of the table for the future. I shall claim the privilege of an old man and sit at the side. As for Ralph he is a very decent carver and we will leave the work to him. The Brintons were in here just before you came, talking over the reception which we give this afternoon.”
“A reception?” said Evereld shyly.
“Yes, in the Foyer. You have just come in the nick of time. I was wanting help. Let me see, you were introduced to the Brintons I think at Southbourne.”
“Yes, and to Mr. Carrington, and Miss Eva Carton.”
“They have both left us. Well, you will soon get to know us all.”
Evereld hoped she might do so, but she was utterly bewildered by the end of the reception, where she had been introduced to most of the company and to a number of residents and people of the neighbourhood. As to recognising Ralph’s fellow artists when she saw them again in the evening in stage attire, it was impossible. However they good-naturedly told her they were quite used to being cut, and she found Ivy Grant a very pleasant companion and had a good deal of talk with her between whiles.
Ivy had greatly improved since the days of the Scotch tour; trouble had developed her in an extraordinary way; she had grown more gentle and refined, and she still retained her old winsomeness and was a general favourite. Thanks to Ralph’s straightforwardness that morning at Forres, she had quickly awakened from her first dream of love, and was none the worse for it. In fact, it had perhaps done her good, she would not lightly lose her heart again, and her standard was certain to remain high. Moreover she knew that Ralph would always be her friend, and she felt curiously drawn to Evereld, who was quite ready to respond to her advances.
There was something very fascinating to Evereld in the novelty and variety of this new life; before many days had passed she began to feel quite as if she belonged to the company. She sympathised keenly with the desire to have good houses, listened with interest to all the discussions and arrangements, and soon found herself on friendly terms with almost every one.
“There is one man, though, that I can’t make out at all,” she remarked one evening. “He always seems to disappear in such an odd way. I mean Mr. Rawnleigh.” Macneillie and Ralph both laughed.
“You would be very clever indeed if you contrived to know anything about him,” said the Manager. “He chooses to keep himself wrapped in a mystery. There’s not a creature among us who can tell you anything about him. He’s the cleverest low comedian I have ever had; but his habits are peculiar. To my certain knowledge his whole personal wardrobe goes about the world tied up in a spotted handkerchief. He has no make-up box but just carries a stick of red rouge and powdered chalk screwed up in paper like tobacco in his pocket. He puts it on with his finger and rubs it in with a bit of brown paper. Nobody knows in any town where he lodges, but he is always punctual at rehearsal, and if in an emergency he happens to be needed, you can generally find him smoking peacefully in the nearest public-house. He has never been heard to speak an unnecessary word, and in ordinary life looks so like a death’s head that he goes by the name of ‘Old Mortality.’”
Evereld laughed at this curious description.
“He is the sort of man Charles Lamb might have written an essay about,” she said. “Now let me see if I have grasped the rest of them. The retired Naval Captain, Mr. Tempest, is the heavy man, isn’t he? Then there are those two young Oxonians—they are Juveniles. And Ralph’s friend, Mr. Mowbray, the briefless barrister, what is he?”
“He’s the Responsible man,” said Macneillie.
“Mr. Brinton, I know, is the old man. And Mr. Thornton, what do you call him?”
“Oh, he is the Utility man. Come you would stand a pretty good examination.”
Those spring days were very happy both to Ralph and Evereld, while Macneillie who had been anxious as to the little bride’s comfort and well-being, began to feel entirely at rest on that score.
It cheered him not a little to have her bright face and thoughtful housewifely ways making a home out of each temporary resting place. Her great charm was her ready sympathy and a certain restfulness and quietness of temperament very soothing to highly-strung artistic natures. When the two men returned from the theatre, it was delightful to find her comfortably ensconced with her needlework, ready to take keen interest in hearing about everything, and always giving a pleasant welcome to any visitor they might bring back with them. There was nothing fussy about Evereld: she was the ideal wife for a man of Ralph’s eager Keltic temperament.
During July the company dispersed and Ralph and Evereld went to stay with the Magnays in London. It was not until the re-assembling in August that the discomforts of the new life began to become a little more apparent. Perhaps it was the intense heat of the weather, perhaps the contrast between the lodgings in a particularly dirty manufacturing town and the Magnays’ ideal home with all its art treasures, and its dainty half foreign arrangement. Certainly Evereld’s heart sank a little when she began to unpack.
Their bedroom faced the west and the burning sunshine seemed to steep the little room in drowsy almost tropical heat. She felt sick and miserable. Opening the dressing-table drawer she found that her predecessor had left behind some most uninviting hair-curlers, and some greasepaint. Of course to throw these away and re-line the drawer was easy enough; but by the time she had done it and had arranged all their worldly goods and chattels she felt tired out and was glad to lie down, though she did not dare to scrutinise the blankets and could only try to find consolation in the remembrance that the sheets at least were quite immaculate, and the pillow her own. She was roused from a doze by Ralph’s entrance.
“Come and get a little air, darling,” he suggested. “This room is like an oven. Oh! we have got such a fellow in Thornton’s place! the most conceited puppy I ever set eyes on. What induced Macneillie to give him a trial I can’t think, he is quite a novice and though rolling in gold, he has never thought of offering a premium. I never saw a fellow with so much side on. He ought to be kicked!”
“Who is he?” said Evereld laughing, as she put on her hat and prepared to go out.
“He’s the younger son of an earl, I believe, and rejoices in the name of Bertie Vane-Ffoulkes. He patronises the manager as if he were doing him a great favour by joining his company, and he is already plaguing poor Ivy with attentions that she would far rather be without.”
They went to the public garden hoping to find a seat in the shade where they could watch the tennis, and here they came across Ivy and Miss Helen Orme, who usually shared lodgings. In attendance on them walked a rather handsome young man with a pink and white complexion and an air of complacent self-esteem. Ivy catching sight of them hastened forward with joyful alacrity though hercavalière serventewas in the middle of one of his most telling anecdotes.
“How delightful to meet you again!” she exclaimed taking both Evereld’s hands in hers. “I have been longing to see you. Now, if that obnoxious Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes will but take himself off there are so many things I want to say to you.”
The Honorable Bertie, however, never thought himself in the way, he begged Ralph to introduce him to Mrs. Denmead and kindly patronised them all for the next hour, chatting in what he flattered himself was a very pleasant and genial manner about himself, the new costumes he had specially ordered from Abiram’s for his first appearance on the stage, the great success of the private theatricals at his father’s place in Southshire when he had acted with dear Lady Dunlop Tyars, and various anecdotes of high life which he felt sure would interest “these theatrical people.”
At last to their relief he sauntered hack to his hotel.
“I wonder whether he really acts well?” said Evereld musingly. “He seems to have a very high opinion of his own powers. I thought all the men’s costumes were provided by the management.”
“So they are,” said Ralph with a smile, “But nothing worn by just a common actor would do for him, I suppose. He must have the very best of everything specially made for him by Abiram, and strike envy into the hearts of all the rest of us.”
“We were so comfortable and friendly before he came,” said Ivy. “And now I am sure everything will be different. He’s an odious, conceited, empty-headed amateur, not in the least fit to be an actor. I wish he would go back to his private theatricals in the country with his Duchesses, and leave us in peace.”
“Poor fellow! perhaps he really means to work hard and improve,” said Evereld.
“You are always charitable,” said Ivy. “As for me I believe we shall never have a moment’s peace till Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes has gone.”
Her prophesy was curiously fulfilled, for it was wonderful how much trouble and annoyance the wealthy amateur contrived to cause.
Macneillie bore with him with considerable patience, being determined that in spite of his many peccadillos he should have a fair chance. He taught him as much as it is possible to teach a very conceited mortal, gave him many hints by which it is to be feared he profited little, and quietly ignored his rudeness, sometimes enjoying a good laugh over it afterwards when he described to Evereld what had taken place.
Evereld was one of those people who are always receiving confidences. It was partly her very quietness which made people open their hearts to her. They knew she would never talk and betray them, and there was something in her face which inspired those who knew her to come and pour out all their troubles, certain of meeting sympathy and that sort of womanly wisdom which is better than any amount of mere cleverness.
Even Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes himself was driven at last by the growing consciousness of his unpopularity to tell her of his difficulties.
“I don’t know how it is, Mrs. Denmead,” he said one day, when they chanced to be alone for a few minutes, “I am not gaining ground here. These stage people are very hard to get on with.”
“But they are your fellow artists,” said Evereld lifting her clear eyes to his, “why do you call them ‘these stage people’ as though they were a different sort of race?”
“Well you know,” said the Honorable Bertie, “of course you know it’s not quite—not exactly—the same thing. Your husband is of a good family, I am quite aware of that, but many of the others, why, you know, they are just nobodies.”
Evereld’s mouth twitched as she thought how Macneillie would have taken off this characteristic little speech.
“But art knows nothing of rank,” she said gently. “Who cares about the parentage of Raphael, or Dante, or David Garrick, or Paganini?”
The earl’s son looked somewhat blank.
“That’s all very well theoretically,” he said. “But in practice it’s abominable. I believe there’s a conspiracy against me. They are jealous of me and don’t mean to let me have a fair chance.”
“Oh, Mr. Macneillie is so just and fair to all, that could never be,” said Evereld warmly.
“The manager is the worst of them,” said the Honorable Bertie, deep gloom settling on his brow. “I hate his way at rehearsal of making a fool of one before all the rest of the company.”
“But you can’t have a rehearsal all to yourself,” said Evereld laughing. “You should hear what they say of other managers at rehearsal, who swear and rave and storm at the actors.”
“I shouldn’t mind that half as much,” said Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes. “It’s just that cool persistent patience, and that insufferable air of dignity he puts on that I can’t stand. What right has Macneillie to authority and dignity and all that sort of thing? Why I believe he’s only the son of a highland crofter.”
“I don’t think you’ll find your ancestors any good in art life,” said Evereld. “It is what you can do as an actor that matters, and as long as you feel yourself a different sort of flesh and blood how can you expect them to like you?”
The Honorable Bertie was not used to such straight talking but, to do him justice, he took it in very good part, and always spoke of Mrs. Ralph Denmead with respect, though he still cordially hated her husband. Ralph unfortunately occupied the exact position which he desired, he always coveted the Juvenile Lead, and Macneillie cruelly refused to give him anything but the smallest and most insignificant parts until he improved.
“How can I make anything out of such a character as this?” he grumbled, “Why I have only a dozen sentences in the whole play.”
“You can make it precisely what the author intended it to be,” said the Manager. “It is the greatest mistake in the world to judge a part by its length. You might make much of that character if only you would take the trouble. But it’s always the way, no heart is put into the work unless the part is a showy one; you go through it each night like a stick.”
There was yet another reason why Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes disliked Ralph. In the dulness and disappointment of his theatrical tour he solaced himself by falling in love with Ivy Grant: and Ivy would have nothing to say to him, refused his presents, and took refuge as much as possible with Ralph and Evereld, who quite understanding the state of the case did all they could for her.
The more she avoided him, however, the more irrepressible he became, until at last she quite dreaded meeting him, and had it not been for the friendship of the Denmeads and Helen Orme she would have fared ill.
It was naturally impossible for the Honorable Bertie to confide to Evereld how cordially he detested her husband; he turned instead to Myra Brinton, who being at that time in a somewhat uncomfortable frame of mind was far from proving a wise counsellor. Though in the main a really good woman, Myra had a somewhat curious code of honour, and she was not without a considerable share of that worst of failings, jealousy. If any one had told her in Scotland that she should ever live to become jealous of little Ivy Grant, she would not have believed it possible. But latterly Ivy had several times crossed her path. She was making rapid strides in the profession, and was invariably popular with her audience. This however was less trying to Myra than the perception that a real friendship was springing up between Ivy and young Mrs. Denmead, who, it might have been expected would have more naturally turned to her. She did not realise that to the young bride there seemed a vast chasm of years between them, that a woman of seven and twenty seemed far removed from her ways of looking at everything, and that Evereld dreaded her criticism and turned to Ivy as the more companionable of the two.
Deep down in her heart, moreover, poor Myra could not help contrasting her own lot with that of Ralph Denmead’s wife. The little bride was so unfeignedly happy and had such good cause for perfect trust and confidence in her husband that Myra sometimes felt bitterly towards her. Not that Tom Brinton was a bad fellow, there was much about him that was likeable; but the lover of her dreams had ceased to exist, she had settled down into married life that was perhaps as happy as the average but that nevertheless left much to be desired. Her husband would never have dreamt of ill-treating her, indeed in his way he was fond of her still. But it has been well said that unless we are deliberately kind to everyone, we shall often be unconsciously cruel, and it was for lack of this kindly tenderness that Myra’s life was becoming more and more difficult. She used to watch Ralph’s unfailing care and thoughtful considerateness for Evereld with an envy that ate into her very heart. She was jealous moreover with a jealousy that only a woman can understand of the hope of motherhood which began to dawn for Evereld. It seemed to her that everything a woman covets was given to this young wife, who had known so little of the hardness of life, the fierce struggle for success, which had made her own lot so different. And as time went on a sort of morbid sentimentality crept into her admiration for Ralph, and she found herself beginning to hate the sight of Evereld in a way which would have horrified her had she made time to think out the whole state of things. It was at this time that Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes turned to her for advice. He could not by any possibility have chosen a worse confidante.
“Why is little Miss Grant always running after the Denmeads?” he complained. “I can never get two words with her. If it’s not the wife she is with, then it’s the husband. I can’t think what she sees in that boy, but whenever he’s in the theatre she’s always talking to him.”
“Yes, she is very unguarded,” said Myra with a sigh. “Of course he has known her since she was a child, and he was very good in helping her on when we were in Theophilus Skoot’s company. But she ought to be more careful, for there is no doubt that she was very much in love with him in the old days. You would be doing a good deed if you separated them a little.” She had not in the least intended to say anything of this sort, the words seemed put into her mouth, and somehow when once they were said she vehemently assured herself that she fully believed them. Not only so but she determined to act up to her belief.
“I never saw any one so fascinating,” said the Honorable Bertie, who was very badly hit indeed. “She’s a regular little witch. I assure you, Mrs. Brinton, I would marry her to-morrow if I were only lucky enough to have the chance. But she hasn’t a word to throw at me, and if she is not with the Denmeads, why she will stick like a leech to Miss Orme, and how is a man to make love to a girl when that’s the way she treats him? I wonder whether she still cares for that fellow Denmead? If so, couldn’t you give his wife a hint, then perhaps she would not have so much to do with her and I might possibly stand a chance of getting a hearing.”
“Well,” said Myra, rather startled by this suggestion. “I could do that if you like, but of course, it would lead to a quarrel between them.”
“Oh, never mind what it leads to,” said Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes. “It will at least give me a fair chance with her. Isn’t it hard, Mrs. Brinton, that when a fellow doesn’t care a straw the girls are all dying for love of him, and when at last he does care why the fates ordain that he shall fall in love with a girl who—well—who doesn’t care a straw for him.”
Myra could have found it in her heart to laugh at this lame ending, and at the sudden reversal of fortune which had so greatly depressed the earl’s son, but after all there was something genuine about the poor fellow that touched her: for the time Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes really was very much in love with Ivy. It was the sort of passion that might possibly exist for about six months, it might even prove to be a “hardy annual,” but it was certainly not a passion of the perennial sort.
She promised that she would do her best for him.
“If he is an empty-headed fellow,” she reflected, “he is at least rich and well-connected. It would be a remarkably good marriage for Ivy Grant, and I will do what I can to further it.”