“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.”