“When ye sit by the fire yourselves to warm,
Take care that your tongues do your neighbours no
harm.”
Old Chimney-piece Motto.
|Christmas had passed and they were engaged for a fortnight at
Mardentown, one of the large manufacturing places. It was on a frosty
clear morning early in the new year that Myra set out from her rather
comfortless lodgings to call on Evereld. There was no rehearsal that
day and she happened to know that both Macneillie and Ralph were out, so
that the coast would be clear for her operations.
“I shall be doing a kindness to her as well as to Ivy and Mr.
Vane-Ffoulkes,” she reflected. “She is so very innocent, it is high time
she understood a little more of the ways of the world.”
Evereld was sitting by the fire in a cheerful-looking room into which
the wintry sun shone brightly; flowers were on the table, Christmas
cards daintily arranged were on the mantelpiece; there was a homelike
air about the place which Myra at once noted, and she looked with a
pang at the little garment at which the young wife was working when she
entered.
“My husband told me Mr. Macneillie was at the theatre so I came in to
have a chat with you,” she said kissing her affectionately. “You are
looking pale this morning, dear, this wandering life is getting too hard
for you.”
“Oh, I am very well,” said Evereld brightly, “and as to the travelling I
shall not have much more of that for at the beginning of February I have
promised to go and stay with Mrs. Hereford in London. They all say it is
right, so I mustn’t grumble, but I do so hate leaving Ralph.”
“He can come to you for the Sundays,” said Myra. “Where has he gone to
this morning?”
“He and Mr. Mowbray have hired bicycles and have gone over to Brookfield
Castle. They will have a beautiful ride for it is so still and the roads
will be nice and dry. Ivy wanted to go too, but she couldn’t manage to
get a bicycle, they were all engaged.”
“Well it sounds unkind,” said Myra. “But I am not sorry that she was
forced to stay behind. Ivy is getting too careless of appearances.”
“Do you really disapprove of bicycling for women?” asked Evereld.
“One has hardly had time to get used to it, but it seems such capital
exercise, and no one could look more graceful in cycling than Ivy does.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that, dear,” said Myra colouring a little. “I really
hardly know how to explain things to you, for you seem so young and
confiding, and so ready to trust everyone. But you see Ivy rather runs
after your husband. Of course she always was a born flirt, I don’t think
she can help it. But people are beginning to notice it and to talk, they
are indeed.”
“I wonder any one can be so foolish as to think such things,” said
Evereld with a little air of matronly dignity which became her very
well. “Every one belonging to the company must surely understand that
Ivy is so much with us because she is being actually persecuted by that
provoking Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes.”
“Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes is not so bad as people make out, he may be vain and
conceited I quite admit, but he really is in love with Ivy and she is
very foolish to run away from him on every possible occasion. It would
be a capital marriage for her. Why, if the present heir were to die, Mr.
Vane-Ffoulkes comes into the title, Ivy forgets that.”
“She positively dislikes him,” said Evereld. “You surely wouldn’t wish
her to marry such a man as that just for his position?”
“No, but I think she might be a little more civil to him and at least
give him a hearing. And quite apart from that I really think, dear, you
are ill-advised in having her so much here.”
Evereld’s clear blue eyes looked questioningly and in a puzzled fashion
at her visitor.
“But we like her and she likes us. Why shouldn’t she come?”
“Because it would be much wiser for her not to come,” said Myra. “I know
her past, and you do not. If you are wise you will not have Ivy for your
intimate friend.”
A troubled look began to steal over Evereld’s face, she was not well,
and was very ill-fitted just then to take a calm dispassionate view of
anything. Myra’s words and hints agitated her all the more because she
only half understood them. Vaguely she felt that a shadow was creeping
over her cloudless sky. She shivered a little and drew closer to the
fire.
“Please tell me just what you mean,” she said rather piteously. “I know
of nothing against Ivy, and she has been Ralph’s friend for a long time,
so naturally I like her.”
“Naturally!” exclaimed Myra, whose jealous nature found it hard to
credit such a statement. “That only shows how innocent you are, how
little you understand the world. Why to my certain knowledge that girl
is in love with your husband.”
Evereld’s eyes dilated, she stared at the speaker for a moment in mute
consternation. Then suddenly she began to laugh but not quite naturally,
her tears were at no great distance.
“How ridiculous!” she said. “I wonder you can say such a thing to
me. Ivy! who has been quite foolishly fond of me! Oh, indeed you are
mistaken!”
“The mistake is yours!” said Myra, “Ivy is a very coaxing little thing
and would of course find it most convenient to have your friendship.
She is clever and managing, and always contrives to get her own way, and
then of course she is a born actress. I have no doubt she was delighted
to vow an eternal friendship with you. It’s just what would suit her
best.”
Evereld’s heart sank, she seemed to be suddenly plunged into an entirely
new region, where doubt and suspicion and jealousy and evil intention
made the whole atmosphere dark and oppressive. Not since her
difficulties at Glion had she felt so miserable and so utterly
perplexed.
“You see, dear,” said Myra, “I knew them both in the days of the Scotch
tour, and from the first understood how things were. I daresay your
husband hasn’t told you about it, men forget these things, but there is
no doubt whatever that Ivy was in love with him. I saw it then clearly
enough, and I see it now. Be persuaded by me, and for your own sake and
for her good don’t have her much with you. I am older than you, and
I know the harm that a fascinating little witch like Ivy can work. Of
course I say all this to you in confidence, but I thought it was only
kind to give you a hint. You have not been to the theatre just lately.”
“No, I am rather tired of this play,” said Evereld. “I am glad we are to
have a Shaksperian week at Bath.”
“Yes, ‘legitimate’ is rather refreshing, isn’t it?” said Myra. “But the
dresses are a bother. I have to devise something new for Portia in the
casket scene, for the old one was ruined the last time I wore it. There
were six of us dressing in one room, and there was hardly space to turn
round; the train is all over grease-paint. The men are lucky in having
their costumes provided by the management. Well, good bye, dear, take
care of yourself. And be sure to let me know if there is anything I can
do for you.”
Evereld thanked her rather faintly and was not sorry to find herself
alone once more. She felt giddy as she tried to recall exactly what Myra
had said and hinted. Could it possibly be true? And if so what was
she to do? That there was a vein of silliness in Ivy she had long ago
discovered; now and then she said things which jarred a little on her,
but the more she had seen of her the more she had learnt to like her,
and her perfectly open and rational friendship for Ralph had always
seemed to her most natural. Was it true that all the time Ivy had been
acting? Myra’s arguments returned to her with a force which she vainly
tried to struggle against. Had she been able to go out in the sunshine
for a brisk walk probably she would have taken a more quiet view of the
state of affairs, but she was not well enough for that, and the more she
brooded over it all the more miserable she became.
Just when her visions were at the darkest the bell rang and the little
servant ushered in Ivy herself.
“What luck to find you alone,” said the girl brightly, “I was afraid Mr.
Macneillie would perhaps be in. I’m in the worst of tempers, for on this
perfect day there wasn’t a lady’s bicycle to be had, and there are those
two lucky men enjoying themselves while I am left in this smoky town.”
“I was sorry to hear you had been disappointed,” said Evereld, going on
with her work. But somehow as she said the words she knew that she was
not so sorry as she had at first been. Things had changed since Myra’s
visit. She even fancied a difference in Ivy. Was there something more
than cleverness in that winsome face? Was there a certain craftiness in
those ever-changing eyes? She began to think there was, and being a bad
hand at concealing her thoughts, her manner became constrained and she
was extremely unresponsive to the flood of bright talk which Ivy poured
out.
“Something is worrying you,” said the girl at last growing conscious
of the curious difference in her friend’s manner. “‘Don’t worry! Try
Sunlight!’ as the soap advertisement tells you. Come out with me for
a turn before dinner. Walking is the sovereign remedy for all ills. We
used to try it in Scotland when we were half starving.”
Evereld hated herself for it, but she was so overwrought and miserable
that even the use of that word “we” grated upon her. She declined the
invitation, and her manner grew more and more cold and repellent.
Ivy was puzzled and hurt.
“Have you been alone all the morning?” she said, wondering if perhaps
that accounted for her friend’s manner.
“No, I have had a call from Mrs. Brinton,” said Evereld colouring a
little.
“Of all perplexing people she is the most perplexing,” said Ivy. “One
day I like her, the next she is perfectly detestable. What did she talk
about?”
Evereld faltered a little.
“Oh, of various things,” she said blushing. “She is getting ready a new
dress for the Casket scene.”
“By the bye,” said Ivy springing up, “that reminds me that I must ask
her for the pattern of a sleeve I want for Jessica. I know she has it.”
And with friendly farewells which Evereld could not find it in her heart
to respond to at all cordially she took her departure.
No sooner was she out of the house than Evereld’s conscience began to
prick her. She had felt very unkindly towards Ivy, and the wistful look
of surprise and bewilderment which she had seen on the girl’s face as
she uttered her cold farewells kept returning to her. What if Ivy went
now to see Myra and learnt that they had been talking her over? What if
after all this story of Myra’s was quite mistaken, or possibly one of
those half truths that are almost worse and more damaging than utter
falsehoods?
Shame and regret and self-reproach began to struggle with the wretched
suspicions that had been sown in her heart by Myra’s words, and her long
repressed tears broke forth at last,--she sobbed as if her heart would
break.
“How miserably I have failed,” she thought to herself. “How ready I was
to think evil, and to jump to the very worst conclusions. It would be
likely enough that she should have cared for Ralph who was so kind to
her when she was a child--I should only love her all the more if she
had loved him. Why must I fancy at the first hint that there is sin in
her friendship for him now? I won’t believe it--I won’t--I won’t.”
She took up her work again and tried to sew, but her tears blinded her,
for she remembered how much harm might already have been done by her
angry resentment and her ready suspicions. Ever since the hope of
motherhood had come to her she had tried her very utmost to rule her
thoughts, to dwell only on what was beautiful and of good report, to
read only what was healthy and ennobling, to see beautiful scenery
whenever there was an opportunity, and in every way to try harder than
usual to live up to her ideal; she knew that in this way the character
of the next generation might be sensibly affected.
Well, she had failed just when failure was most bitter to her, and
being now thoroughly upset she had to struggle with all sorts of nervous
terrors and anxieties and forebodings, in which her only resource was to
repeat to herself the words of the Ewart motto “Avaunt Fear!” which had
stood her in good stead during her flight from Sir Matthew.
It was the sound of the servant’s step on the stairs and the ominous
rattle of the dinner things which finally checked her tears; she was not
going to be caught crying, and hastily beat a retreat into her bedroom.
“If they see me like this they will imagine Ralph is unkind to me!” she
thought, shocked at her own reflection in the looking-glass. “Oh dear,
how I wish he were at home! And yet I don’t, for if he were here just
now I know I couldn’t resist telling him everything, and that would
worry him; and he shall not be worried just now when he is so specially
busy studying ‘Hamlet.’”
Macneillie returning from the theatre soon after, could not but observe
at their _tête à tête_ dinner that his companion had been crying, but
like the sensible man he was he affected utter blindness and did the
lion’s share of the talking.
“Can you spare me a little time this afternoon,” he said as he rose from
the table. “I want to drive over to a village about three miles from
here, the day is so bright I don’t think you would take cold.”
Evereld gladly assented, and Macneillie, who as an old traveller was an
adept at making people comfortable with rugs and cushions, tucked her
comfortably into the best open carriage he had been able to secure and
was glad to see that the fresh air soon brought back the colour to her
face and the light to her eyes.
“You and I have both had a dull morning. I have been bored to death with
people incessantly wanting to speak to me, and you I suppose have been
bored by being too much alone.”
“No,” she said, “I have not been much alone; Mrs. Brinton came to me
first, and after she had gone Ivy came. They both of them vexed me
somehow, but I think it was my own fault.”
Macneillie meditated for a few minutes. He had not studied character
all these years for nothing, and Evereld’s transparent honesty and
straightforwardness made her easy reading. Myra he had known for a long
time both before her engagement and since her marriage; she was a much
more complex character, but he understood her thoroughly and had noted,
though she little guessed it, that she was jealous both of Evereld’s
happiness and of Ivy’s success in her profession: moreover he was not
without a shrewd suspicion that she was just a little bit in love with
Ralph herself.
“Life is never altogether easy when a great number of people are going
about the world together,” he said. “There are sure to be little rubs.
If you have ever seen anything of military life you will understand
that. The officers’ wives and families are pretty sure to have their
quarrels and little differences now and then, but in the main there is a
certain loyalty that binds them together. It is just the same with us.
I have known people not on speaking terms for weeks, but they generally
have a good-natured reconciliation before the end of the tour.”
“Yes,” said Evereld, “I can quite fancy that. And I know if I hadn’t
been horrid and suspicious things would have been different this
morning. Please don’t say anything about it to Ralph, I don’t want him
to know that I had been crying.”
Macneillie could not resist teasing her a little.
“What! I thought you were a model husband and wife, and had no secrets
from each other! And here you are pledging me to silence!”
She laughed at his comical expression, and felt much better for
laughing.
“We do tell each other everything as a rule, but this could only vex him
and make things uncomfortable all round, and just now he is studying so
very hard for his first attempt at Hamlet. I really believe he is more
Hamlet than himself; he seems to think of him all day long and even in
his sleep he has taken to muttering bits of his part. It’s quite uncanny
to hear him in the dead of night!”
She was quite her cheerful self again and nothing more was said as to
what had passed that morning. Macneillie however turned things over
in his mind and that evening at the theatre he reaped the harvest of a
quiet eye, and began to understand the precise state of affairs.