“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.