“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 her _cavalière servente_ was 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.”