She leant back in her corner of the third-class carriage, and thought what care he had taken of her, how much more gentle his manner was than the manner of any one else she knew, and how blissful it would be to act with him for six whole months. He did not talk to her very much, being still busy with his parts, but she was quite content with the mere pleasure of his presence and with the delightful novelty of her first long journey. The Company were to play “Macbeth,” “East Lynne,” “Guy Mannering,” “Rob Roy,” “The Man of the World,” “Jeannie Deans,” and several short plays such as “Cramond Brig,” a great favourite in Scotland. Ivy was not well pleased with her parts in “Macbeth,” being cast for Donal Bain, Fleance and Macduff’s boy. But she reflected that in the first part she would always come on with Ralph since he was to play Malcolm, as well as the part of second witch, while later on she should have the pleasure of being killed by him in his character of first murderer. Ralph seeing irrepressible mirth in her face asked what was amusing her.
“I have to call you ‘a shag-haired villain,’” she said, laughing till the tears ran down her face, “and you have to stab me in the fourth act.”
“We will have a private rehearsal then, beforehand,” said Ralph, smiling. “And you will find my red wig very awe-inspiring, I can tell you.”
Ivy looked pityingly at her fellow-travellers, wondering how they endured their humdrum lives, and full of radiant hopes for her own future.
The fogs of London had soon given place to bright sunshine, and it seemed to her that she had left behind all that was cheerless and was going forth into a glorious world of possibilities. It was certainly a red-letter day in her life’s calendar.
The arrival in Scotland, however, was not so cheerful. The cold which they had not greatly noticed in the railway carriage, seemed bitter indeed when they left the train at Dumfries.
It was nearly six o’clock and there was little light left. What there was, revealed snowy roads and slippery pavements. Ivy shivered and clung fast hold of Ralph’s hand as they made their way to the manager’s rooms, a red-headed porter, much resembling the shag-haired murderer in “Macbeth,” going on before them with a luggage truck. He paused at a high house in a particularly dingy street. The door was opened by a shrewd, hard-featured woman who, upon Ralph’s inquiry, told them that Mrs. Skoot was in, and ushered them upstairs to a room where the remains of dinner still lingered on the table, and a large, portly lady, with blonde hair and big cow-like eyes, sat with her feet in the fender reading a novel.
“So there you are, dear,” she said, greeting Ivy affectionately, but retaining a greasy thumb in the book to keep her place. “I’m glad you’ve come, for Mr. Skoot has just arranged to have an extra rehearsal to-night.”
“Is this Mr. Denmead?” she inquired, extending her hand graciously and taking a rapid survey of him from head to foot. “Have you found rooms yet?”
“No, I have not,” said Ralph, his low-toned voice and quiet manner contrasting most curiously with her loud accents. “I was going to ask you if there is any list of lodgings.”