“God! do not let my loved one die,
But rather wait until the time
That I am grown in purity
Enough to enter thy pure clime.”
Lowell.
When Ivy from time to time opened her eyes in that dreadful interval of waiting for the ambulance which seemed to her almost age-long, she saw a curious succession of faces. First there had been the cheerful doctor, and Evereld with her brave blue eyes and firm little mouth. Then those two faces had mysteriously disappeared, and the wrinkled and careworn features of the wardrobe woman had greeted her instead, and Helen Orme dressed as Nerissa bent over her and asked her if she suffered much.
After that Myra Brinton had stooped and kissed her, to her great astonishment, and all the foolish little quarrels of the past died out under the influence of that great uniter of human beings—pain. Ralph came too with kindly inquiries, and she roused herself to ask again after Evereld.
“You are sure the doctor told the truth?” she asked doubtfully. “Was she really not badly burnt?”
“No, not badly,” said Ralph. “Only one hand blistered and her wrist scorched.”
The summons came just at that minute for Myra and Helen Orme, and he seized the opportunity to escape, fearful lest she should ask further questions. He stood at the wings with his friend George Mowbray who was playing Antonio, watching in a dreamy way the ill-arranged dress which had been hastily contrived for Ivy’s understudy.
He would have missed the cue for his entrance had not George Mowbray pushed him forward, and it seemed to him that it was not his own voice but the voice of somebody else that uttered Bassanio’s speeches, while all the time he himself was away with Evereld, though his body mechanically went through the business of his part. Macneillie watched him with some anxiety, but before the play ended, the arrival of the ambulance and the necessity of seeing Ivy safely transferred to it drove all else from the manager’s mind. He refused to allow anyone but himself to take her to the hospital, feeling that she was under his charge, and troubled to remember that the poor child had not a relation in the world who could now befriend her.
“Do your best to get well quickly, my dear,” he said in his kindly voice when he took leave of her. “And don’t fret as to the future. You shall come back to the company whenever you like.”
Returning to the theatre he found the scene struck and all the house in darkness save for the light by the stage door.
“Is Mr. Denmead still in his dressing-room?” he inquired.
“No sir,” said the door-keeper. “He has been gone some time and Mr. and Mrs. Brinton with him.”
Macneillie ran upstairs to speak a word to Ivy’s understudy as to the dresses needed later in the week, then he walked slowly back to Kingsmead Terrace, but although he rang repeatedly no one came to answer the door.
He was just meditating a burglarious entrance by the kitchen window when at last he heard footsteps approaching and the latch was raised.
Myra Brinton softly opened to him; her face was pale and anxious.
“Oh, is it you!” she exclaimed. “I hoped it was the nurse. Tom has gone to try and get hold of one. Evereld’s child is born and the doctor seems terribly anxious about her.”
Macneillie was a true Scotsman and seldom said much when he was moved. He stalked on into the sitting room and began to pace to and fro in silence.
Evereld had grown almost like a daughter to him and the thought of her peril and of Ralph’s frightful anxiety brought a choking sensation to his throat.
“What of the child?” he asked presently.
“It is a boy,” said Myra. “Of course extremely small; they gave him to me in the next room and I have done what I could for him, the maidservant is seeing to him now, and the others are in with Evereld. Hark! there is someone coming downstairs.”
Macneillie went out into the passage and encountered Ralph who looked as if years had passed over his head since they last met.
“They want another doctor,” he said snatching his hat from the stand.
“Give me the name and address and I will go,” said Macneillie.
“You have not had your supper,” objected Ralph. “And, as it is, we are turning the whole house upside down for you.”
“What matter!” said Macneillie. “Go back to Evereld, my boy, I will see to this for you.”
Ralph protested no further, indeed his one desire was to return to his wife, but catching sight of Myra, he paused to inquire after the child.
“Evereld keeps asking if it is all right,” he said. “And the doctor, who would say anything to quiet her, assures her it is all it ought to be. Do you think there is really a hope that it will live?”
“I know so little about such things,” said Myra, with a sick remembrance of the jealous feelings that had stirred within her on first learning of Evereld’s hopes. “He is the tiniest little fellow I ever saw, but there seems nothing amiss with him. Hark! there is a ring at the door bell. It must be the nurse at last. We will see what she says to him.”
Ralph, who had vaguely expected a sort of Mrs. Gamp, was relieved to see a comely middle-aged woman with a refined and sensible face, and that wonderful air of composure and capable quietness which makes a trained nurse so unlike an amateur.
She praised all that Myra had done and declared that with care the child would do well enough, and Ralph, looking for the first time at the little doll-like face of his son felt a sudden sense of hope and joy and relief which carried him through the dark hours of that night of anxiety and suspense.
For all night long Evereld lay between life and death. The younger doctor who had been called in despaired of saving her, and Ralph knew it, though no one actually put the thought into words. He knew it by the man’s face, and by the sound of effort in the voice of his first friend, cheery Doctor Grey. Evereld was dying from exhaustion, and from the terrible shock she had undergone.
Still like a true Denmead he clung to hope, and held his fear at arm’s length; every word of encouragement that fell from Dr. Grey’s lips helping him to keep up.
Her age was in her favour, her patience, her great firmness and courage all would stand her in good stead; so said the old doctor; and Ralph hoped against hope until at last about sunrise a change set in. Even the younger doctor grew sanguine. Evereld’s hold upon life was evidently growing firmer. She looked up at Ralph and smiled.
“What day is it?” she asked, for pain knows no time limits and she had no notion whether hours or days had gone by.
“It is Tuesday morning,” he said stooping down to kiss her, a rapturous sense of relief filling his heart.
She seemed to meditate for a few minutes, and obediently took the gruel the nurse brought her.
“Why!” she exclaimed presently. “It is your first night in Hamlet, and you will be tired out. Go and rest, darling.”
“The best rest is to see you growing better,” he said tenderly.
After another interval she asked about the child.
“Do you want to see him?” asked the young doctor, hailing as a good sign her return of interest.
“Not now, later on” she said quietly. “I will try to sleep first. I’m sure I could sleep if you would go and rest, Ralph.”
“Quite right, you are a wise little woman, Mrs. Denmead,” said Dr. Grey.
Ralph allowed himself to be taken off by the younger doctor, seeing that they thought it best he should go. They paused on the way down to visit the next room, where the good-natured landlady sat in a rocking-chair by the fire nursing the latest descendant of Sir Ralph Denmead the Crusader who, instead of being born in a stately castle, had first seen the light in Kingsmead Terrace at a lodging house specially reserved for what the landlady termed “Theat’icals.”
Ralph could only thank her for all her help, but he was blessed with the power of expression and the good soul felt fully rewarded for what she had gone through.
“Don’t you mention it, sir, it’s nothing but a pleasure,” she said. “Mrs. Brinton she was here till one o’clock, and a very pleasant spoken lady she is and handy with the child. And, says I to her, the finest grown man I ever see in my life, six foot two in his stocking feet, was not a morsel bigger than this baby to start with. A fine set up man he was as you could wish till he lost his leg along of frost bites and under-feeding in the Crimea.”
Ralph looked at the funny little bundle swathed in flannel and almost laughed at the thought of his possible development into a military hero of six foot two, losing a leg for his country’s glory! But the mention of military life made him think of Bridget, and he determined to telegraph to her at once.
Down in the sitting-room they found Macneillie solacing himself with Shakspere and a pipe, and delighted to hear the more favourable report.
“You have been up all night, Governor,” said Ralph regretfully, when the doctor had gone.
“Well, yes, I was afraid you might need me,” said Macneillie. “I had hardly dared to hope for this good news. Come, sit down and eat, boy, you are nearly played out. I brewed some coffee for you, but I don’t know whether it is fit to drink now.”
Ralph obeyed, eating like a hungry school boy, and his face gradually assumed a less ghastly hue.
“What time is rehearsal?” he asked glancing at his watch. “Hullo! I forgot to wind it, and it has run down.”
“It’s now eight,” said Macneillie. “Rehearsal is at eleven, but you won’t be needed. I am going to play Hamlet.”
“No, Governor,” said Ralph emphatically. “I shall be all right after a little sleep, and it was almost the first thing Evereld thought of. Isn’t she a model actor’s wife?”
He knew well that to play Hamlet was almost more than Macneillie could endure, for long ago the Manager had told him that he had acted it every night before Christine Greville’s wedding, and that it had become so bound up with all the mental misery he had gone through at that time that he had never dared to attempt it again.
“Ah, she remembered it,” said Macneillie with a smile. “That was very like Evereld. I would put off the performance if possible, but it is promised for three nights and it will be very difficult to manage anything else, specially as Ivy Grant ishors de combat, too, and her understudy such a novice. No, we will give the play; I have spent most of the night in company with the Danish prince and this evening he and I will patch up our ancient quarrel.”
But Ralph was not to be borne down by these arguments, and at last Macneillie agreed to a compromise. The play had already been rehearsed for some time. Ralph should be excused from attendance that morning, and if all were well should play the part as arranged.
“Now no more of this argle-bargle as we say in Scotland. To bed with you, or we shall have you breaking down this evening,” said Macneillie. “What? a letter you must write?”
“Only to Mrs. Hereford, who you know had promised to house Evereld during her illness.”
“I will see to it,” said Macneillie. “And you want this telegram to go to that nice old Irish body, the soldier’s widow? Well, leave them to me, and get along with you, do. Follow the excellent example of that son of yours, and spend your time in sleeping.”
Ralph took the advice very literally and for the next eight hours slept profoundly. He was roused at last to a consciousness that someone was standing beside his bed, and looking up sleepily was vaguely astonished to see Bridget’s well-known face. Was he a boy again in Sir Matthew’s house? And was Bridget as usual coming in to rouse him that he might not incur his guardian’s wrath by being late for breakfast? His heavy eyelids drooped again, when he was suddenly startled back to full recollection by the sound of a wailing baby in the room below.
“Why, that must be the boy,” he reflected. “And I am a family man,—and Sir Matthew has gone to Jericho! What news, Bridget?” he exclaimed anxiously. “How is my wife?”
“She is doing nicely, sir, God bless her sweet soul! Your dinner is ready, Mr. Ralph, and after that, why you can be coming in to see mistress. She has had two good sleeps, thank God.”
Bridget was in her element with the sole care of the little doll-like baby.
“It’s exactly like you, sir, bless it,” she remarked when Ralph paused on his way to the theatre to take another look at his small son.
“Well, really, Bridget! You can’t expect me to take that for a compliment,” he said laughing. “He has no eyes to speak of—just a couple of slits—and as for his face, it seems to be all nose, with just a little margin of pink puckers.”
“Ah, it’s always the outsiders that can see the likeness,” said Bridget.
“Look here upon this picture, and on this,” quoted Ralph merrily. “You will send me off to play Hamlet in a very humble and chastened mood, Bridget. I never thought I was quite so ugly.”
As a matter of fact the great strain he had passed through, and the present relief, quite blunted the feeling of intense nervousness which usually overwhelmed him when for the first time he played an important character. All his fellow actors too were in sympathy with him, and it did his heart good to hear what they said as to Evereld’s prompt courage and her plucky rescue of Ivy Grant. The news from the hospital was also cheering. Ivy was going on as well as could be expected, and although her burns were severe, she was likely to be able to resume her work in two or three months’ time, and thanks to Evereld she was not at all disfigured.
Ralph’s long and patient study of his part bore excellent fruit. He gave a really striking representation of Hamlet’s lovable and strangely complex character; and Macneillie watched his pupil with satisfaction, feeling to-night more than he had ever done before that Ralph had in him the makings of a really great actor.
“If only that brave little wife of his is spared,” he thought to himself, “his future is assured. But he is the sort of man who might be altogether paralysed by a great sorrow. I should fancy it was the early loss of his wife which turned the Vicar of Whinhaven into a recluse, and according to Ralph it was certainly a great trouble and disappointment which finally killed the poor man. What develops one kind of nature ruins another.”
In the course of the next few days there was a great deal of anxiety both on account of Evereld and of the child. In the midst of it there suddenly appeared upon the scenes the one person who was most capable of cheering and helping them all.
Mrs. Hereford, with her sweet bright face, the youthfulness and vivacity of which contrasted so curiously with her prematurely grey hair, took them all by surprise and was quietly announced one afternoon at the house in Kingsmead Terrace.
“How good of you to come!” cried Ralph, feeling as if the mere sight of her had lifted a load from his mind.
“And how is Evereld?” she asked. “They told me at the door she was better, but I wasn’t sure how much the little servant knew.”
“She is better to-day,” said Ralph with a sigh. “But all last night we were terribly anxious again, I think it was worrying over the child’s illness.”
“He is very delicate I am afraid,” said Mrs. Hereford.
“Yes, but they are hopeful about him now. Yesterday they thought him dying, and I had to rush out for a clergyman to get him christened.”
“And to go off to your work in the evening I suppose not knowing how things would be when you came back.”
“Yes,” said Ralph. “That was the worst part of all. It was my third appearance as Hamlet, and I all but broke down.”
“I well remember what an agony it used to be to sing in public when Dermot or Molly were dangerously ill,” said Mrs. Hereford. “And talking of Dermot reminds me of what I came to propose this afternoon. He is much stronger but the doctor doesn’t care for him to be in London just yet. I think of taking a house here till the Easter recess, and when Evereld can be moved we think it would be a capital plan if she came to us here instead of in town. I am not going to be defrauded of my visitor by this provoking catastrophe. I have been looking this afternoon at a furnished house which is to let in Lansdowne Crescent, and if all goes well I don’t see why in a fortnight or three weeks’ time Evereld and her baby should not come to us there. I suppose you will have to move on elsewhere with the company?”
“Yes,” said Ralph, “I must leave next Monday, but luckily we shall only be at Bristol so I can run over pretty often.”
“And we shall always be delighted to have you for your Sundays later on,” said Mrs. Hereford, “don’t you think it would be better for Evereld to come to us? She will be rather lonely here.”
“Oh, it would be the best thing in the world for her to be with you,” said Ralph. “But it will be disarranging all your plans I am afraid,—and putting you to so much trouble.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Evereld and I shall both be widowed during the week, that is the only drawback; but husbands must work. And in any case I should have had to take Dermot somewhere, for he is the last boy to take care of himself and will do the most mad things if he hasn’t a sister to look after him. I tell him it is becoming such a tax that I shall really have to take to matchmaking and select him a nice capable wife who would see that he wore his great-coat in an east wind, and didn’t always sit in a direct draught. Ah, here is Mr. Macneillie, we must tell him of our plans.”
Macneillie rang for tea, and then they discussed the future arrangements of which he cordially approved.
“And how about the poor little thing who was burnt? Is she getting on well?” asked Mrs. Hereford.
“I have just been to see her,” said Macneillie. “Miss Orme and I took her some flowers. She is suffering a great deal still poor child, but they say she is wonderfully patient.”
“I don’t seem to remember her. Was she with you at Southbourne?”
“No, she has only been with us a year,” said Macneillie. “And was getting on remarkably well. I hope she will be fit to act by Easter. She had a very narrow escape, and owed her life to Mrs. Denmead’s presence of mind and courage! They will be greater friends than ever after this.”
“I should like to go and see her,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Or is she hardly up to visitors yet?”
“Oh, she would like to see you,” said Ralph, “for she has heard so much about you.”
“I am not going to ask to see Evereld to-day, for I am quite sure she ought to be kept absolutely quiet,” said Mrs. Hereford. “You must tell her how much I look forward to having her later on. Suppose we walk round to the hospital now. There will just be time before my return train.”
Her cheery sensible talk did more for Ralph than anything else could have done; he poured out all his anxieties to her, and found in her motherly wisdom and her hopeful words exactly what he needed to tide him over the difficulties which overwhelmed him.
“What is it about her?” he thought to himself, as he paced up and down outside the hospital while she paid her visit to Ivy. “She seems to me just like a gleam of sunshine on a dark day, or a fresh breeze in the summer. I have met plenty of Irish women who were friendly and pleasant and delightful to talk to, but it isn’t a mere matter of charm with her,—she seems to have a heart wide enough to take in every one that is in trouble.”
Doreen Hereford did not find it difficult to make room in her heart for one so helpless and forlorn as Ivy. The merest glance at the wistful face in the hospital ward was sufficient. And Ivy responded to her at once and felt all the comfort of her presence. For Doreen never patronised people, she mothered them; and between these two forms of helpfulness there lies a world of difference.
“Tell me a little more about that poor child,” she said to Ralph as they walked to the station. “You have known her for a long time, have you not.”
“Yes, her grandfather used to give me elocution lessons, she has been on the stage since she was ten and has had rather a hard apprenticeship. Evereld has taken a great fancy to her and she needs friends, poor girl, for she is quite alone in the world. The old Professor died just after our Scotch company broke up.”
“I have been wondering what she will do when she leaves the hospital,” said Mrs. Hereford. “Would Evereld like it if I asked her to stay with us too? Or wouldn’t that work well?”
“I am sure she would like it,” said Ralph. “But will you have room for them all?”
“Oh yes,” she said laughing. “It’s a big house, and besides we Irish people know how to stow away large numbers. I want somehow to see more of little Miss Grant, there is something very winning about her. Talk it over by and bye with Evereld and see what she thinks.”
“The comfort which poor human beings want in such a world as this is not the comfort of ease, but the comfort of strength.”
C. Kingsley.
Evereld thought the whole plan a most delightful one, and if anything could have consoled her for the parting with Ralph on Monday it would have been the prospect of spending the time of her convalescence with Bride O’Ryan and Mrs. Hereford, and of knowing that Ivy was not to be left out in the cold but was to enjoy just the same hospitality and care.
On the Sunday she was allowed to see Myra Brinton for the first time. Perhaps the events of the week had done more for Myra than for anyone else; she had been so horrified to discover what mischief her sentimental fancy for Ralph, her jealousy of Evereld and her quarrel with Ivy had wrought, that she had taken herself thoroughly in hand, and had learnt a lesson she would never forget. As for the baby, it played no small part in her education, and Bridget was always delighted that she should come in and make much of it.
“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” said Evereld looking up at her gratefully. “They have all told me how good and helpful you were last Monday, when no one had time to think much of Baby Dick.”
“Is he to be called Dick?” said Myra willing to turn the conversation from herself.
“Yes, after my brother who died. Have you seen Ivy yet?”
“Oh, several times,” said Myra. “I wanted just to tell you that everything is quite right between us again. I was very wrong, Evereld, to tell you what I did at Mardentown. It was all a mistake and I little thought what it would lead to. If poor Ivy had not been in a hurry to be out of my way before I came back to the dressing-room, I do believe the accident would never have happened. My horrible gossip might have been the death of both of you. I can never forget that.”
“Don’t let us ever talk of it again,” said Evereld. “We shall all three be closer friends for the rest of our lives just because this has happened. That’s the only thing that matters now. And Myra, I wanted to ask you to be Dick’s Godmother. You had all the trouble of him at first, and so he seems rightly to belong to you. Mr. Macneillie has promised to be one of the Godfathers.”
This was the finishing touch to the reconciliation and a very happy thought on the part of the little mother. Nothing could have pleased Myra more, and she left Bath a much happier and a much better woman.
Evereld made herself as happy as she could with her baby and with old Bridget as companions, but her convalescence was tedious, and she was unspeakably glad when at length the day arrived for her removal to the Hereford’s house in Lansdowne Crescent.
The beautiful view of the Somersetshire hills and of the grey city in the valley below, which she gained from her window, the cheerful sense of family life going on all about her, the companionship of Bride O’Ryan, and the comfort of having Mrs. Hereford always at hand to advise her about Dick and to share all her anxieties, seemed exactly what she needed.
Her voice recovered its tone, her cheeks regained their fresh bright colour, and she became once more just a girl again, ready to enjoy life in her own quiet fashion.
“I could almost fancy we were back at school,” said Bride cheerfully.
“When, as at present I’m in the shade with the light behind me,” quoted Evereld merrily. “My hands are about the worst part of me now, they are so horribly white, otherwise you must own that I am quite presentable. How strange it seems though to think of the life at Southbourne. It was so happy while it lasted, but the thought of going back to it is dreadful.”
“Instead you spend half the day in playing with Dick,” said Bride teasingly. “The amount of time you waste on that child is appalling.”
“I’m not going to be one of those horrid modern mothers who never have time to see their own babies,” said Evereld. “It would have been wrong to have had him at all if I didn’t mean to be his best friend from the very beginning right through his life.”
“Do you mean him to be an actor?” asked Bride, looking at the funny little face nestled close to Evereld and wondering what it would develop into.
“I should like it if he has all that is needed to make one,” said Evereld, “but who can prophesy whether he has any special gift, or whether he has patience for all the drudgery it involves?”
“Tell me what you really think of the life, now that you have had some experience of it,” said Bride. “Quite candidly, don’t you find it very monotonous?”
“No, I have found it very interesting,” said Evereld. “I can fancy though that it must be trying to do nothing but one play for many hundreds of nights. In a company like ours you see we get plenty of variety.”
“And you don’t mind the moving about week by week?”
“Oh, sometimes it is tiresome, but there are many advantages. Mr. Macneillie knows a host of interesting people, all over the country, and they are generally very hospitable to us; besides I like getting to know fresh places, and as a rule the journeys are not very long or tiring. Sometimes I used to get a little bored by the incessant talk about things connected with the stage. But that would be just the same in any other profession. Don’t you remember how at the chateau we used to get so weary of the talk between Mr. Magnay and his two artist friends? They say it is exactly the same among authors, when two or three of them are together they can’t help talking shop. And as to clergymen, why they are proverbial! I suppose Kingsley was the only one who ever did entirely banish ‘clerical shop’ from his home talk.”
“Well, I think you are very wonderful people to be able to travel about for so long without losing your tempers or quarrelling like the Kilkenny cats,” said Bride. “There’s nothing on earth so trying to the temper as going about with people. I suppose that’s why they always make an unfortunate married couple travel on the continent. They learn in that way what sort of life is in store for them.”
Evereld laughed. “You know we do now and then quarrel a little, but as a rule we are all very friendly. There is only one thing I cannot stand, and I hope we shall never have such an infliction again.”
“What is that?” said Bride smiling at her friend’s vehemence.
“A wealthy amateur who thinks he can act but can’t,” said Evereld. “Oh, if you knew what we have endured all the autumn from an empty-headed fellow, who thought himself a genius!”
“What did he do?” said Bride.
“What did he not do! He was insufferably rude to Mr. Macneillie, he hated Ralph because he wanted the Juvenile Lead himself, he treated all the other men as though they were beneath contempt, he persecuted all the ladies of the company with tiresome attentions, and he was always dragging into the conversation the names of titled people of his acquaintance, or dropping coroneted envelopes in a casual way. Somehow he contrived to set us all at sixes and sevens, and there was joy throughout the company when at last something offended him and he suddenly brought his engagement to an end.”
Bride laughed heartily as she heard of the stratagem by which the Manager had contrived to bring about this much desired event.
“Who would ever think that Mr. Macneillie had so much fun in him as you describe,” she said. “His face is grave almost to sternness.”
“Yes, but when it does light up he hardly looks like the same man,” said Evereld. “I don’t think he would ever have stood the wear and tear of his life if it hadn’t been for his strong vein of humour.”
And with that she fell to musing on the strange fact which most people discover sooner or later, that it is not the prosperous and happy people who as a rule are blessed with this divine gift of a sense of the humourous, but the people whose lives are clouded with care and anxiety, or those who have to go about the world with an aching heart, or to bear the consequences of another’s sin. To such as these often enough, by some mysterious law of compensation, there comes a power, not only of feeling the pathos of life more acutely, but of perceiving in everything—even in matters connected with their own sorrows—the subtle touches of humour which keep life healthy and pure.
She noticed it very much in Dermot O’Ryan, who young as he was had passed through a hard apprenticeship of ill health, misfortune, political imprisonment, and misunderstanding that to one of his temperament was excessively hard to bear.
He was the only one of the O’Ryans who had any literary tastes, and now being cut off by his recent illness from active political life he was busy with a Memoir of his father, a well-known man in the Fenian rising of ‘65, who had died from the effects of his subsequent imprisonment.
Dermot was a thorough Kelt, and Evereld thought his sweet-tempered, philosophic patience, made him a most delightful companion. They had liked each other at Southbourne, and had become firm friends during Evereld’s stay at Auvergne, so that they quickly fell into very easy terms of intimacy. They were sitting together in the large sunny drawing-room and Bride was reading a page of the Memoir upon which Dermot wanted a special criticism, when Mrs. Hereford returned from the hospital bringing Ivy with her. Dermot looked up rather curiously to see the girl of whom he had heard so much, but instead of a beautiful and striking face which he could either have admired or criticised, he saw a little childish creature, with startled blue-grey eyes and a wistful face which was not exactly pretty but was somehow more fascinating than if it had possessed more regular features.
At sight of Evereld, Ivy forgot everything and ran across the room to greet her; she was so small and graceful and light that it seemed almost as if, like the birds, she had special air cells in her bones, for her movements had in them something altogether unusual so that merely to watch her limbs was keen delight.
She had, too, an eager quick way of talking, and by the time she had been introduced to Dermot he felt that the scrap of a hand put into his had carried away his heart.
“I have heard of you from Mrs. Denmead,” she said. “You were one of the imprisoned patriots.”
“Oh, most of us have a turn at that sort of thing,” he said smiling. “It’s part of an Irishman’s training.” Bride made some remark about the manuscript, and the talk became general, Ivy entering this new world with a sense of keen interest, and quite in the humour to study Irish history with Dermot as schoolmaster.
During her illness she had had more leisure to think than had ever before been the case. For five weeks there had been nothing to do, but to keep quiet and to recover as steadily as might be. At first she had suffered too much to make any use of the time, but later on, when she was convalescent, there were long hours when she learnt more of the real truth of things than she had hitherto grasped. The mere physical pain seemed afterwards to fit her to understand what had hitherto been a riddle to her, and the strong feeling for Evereld which grew and deepened in her heart did wonders for her. All her nature seemed to have become more tender and sweet; and whereas in time past she would have flirted violently with Dermot and played with him as a cat plays with a mouse, she seemed now to have laid aside all her silly little affectations and coquetries, and to be capable of realising that love is not a game, or a pastime, or a selfish having, but rather the entrance to all that is most sacred, the mutual sacrifice of self, the nearest approach of humanity to the life divine.
Dermot made no secret of his admiration for the little actress, it was quite patent to all observers, but his devotion was so unlike anything she had hitherto come across in life that Ivy herself was never startled by it. She quietly drifted into love with him, waking into an altogether new world as she did so, a world far removed from the reach of men like Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes with their compliments, and their presents, and their so-called love, which she knew all the time to be nothing but thinly-veiled selfishness.
At last one day, when Ivy was out driving with Mrs. Hereford, Dermot seized the opportunity of a confidential talk with Evereld as she sat at work by the fire.
“I want you to give me your advice,” he began, throwing down his pen and drawing a little nearer to her. “Do you think there is any hope at all for me with Miss Grant? I am sure you know without any telling that I fell in love with her the moment she came here. Do you think there is any hope for me?”
“That depends,” said Evereld thoughtfully.
“Depends on what?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, you see Ivy really cares for her profession and is just beginning to succeed in it. I don’t think she would consent to retire.”
“I could never allow my wife to remain on the stage,” said Dermot his face clouding.
“Then I don’t think you have any business to go to the theatre,” said Evereld. “Every woman you see on the stage is somebody’s wife or somebody’s daughter.”
“If one realised that, the disgusting things which amuse some audiences would fail for want of support,” said Dermot musingly. “Not that I imagine for a moment that Miss Grant would ever accept an engagement of which she really disapproved. Doreen would agree with her as to sticking to her profession, and perhaps she is right.”
“Having got on so well while she is young,” said Evereld, “for she won’t be eighteen till May, there seems every prospect of her soon getting to a really good position. And there is a sort of fascination about her—she is always popular.”
“You mean that I shall have a host of rivals.”
“Possibly, but you are early in the field and indeed I think you stand a very good chance.”
“Do you think it would be wrong if I spoke to her now? Would it spoil the rest of this time for her?”
“Well that would depend on the answer she gave you,” said Evereld laughing. “But indeed I think Ivy is just the sort of girl who would be happier if engaged while she is quite young. You see she is much in the position I was in—quite alone in the world with no relations and but few friends.”
So Dermot, who detested waiting and was never at a loss for words, seized an early opportunity of urging his suit, and Max Hereford, coming down from town on the following Saturday, was greeted by his wife with the news that the two were just engaged.
“I told you what the result would be when you hospitably invited that little actress,” he said laughing. “There never was such a matchmaker as you are, mavourneen. I knew something had happened the moment I caught sight of your face.”
“They are so happy,” she said smiling, “and Ivy is so gentle and sweet; Dermot will be exactly the right sort of husband for her I do believe. And she will make him just the capable, brisk, bright little wife that such a dreamy philosopher needs.”
“But I do hope they are not going to marry upon Dermot’s penwork,” said Max Hereford. “He is making a good income now, but of course one can’t tell when he may be laid up, for I fear he will never be strong.”
“Oh, they are quite content to wait for five or six years,” said Mrs. Hereford. “And I am thankful to say Dermot’s Eastern ideas as to wives are being overcome by Ivy’s practical good sense. She won’t hear of giving up her work, and in a talk I had with her the other day she spoke so sensibly of professional life, which she knows pretty thoroughly, that I am sure she is right about it. She has the makings of a very fine character in her, and I shall not be surprised if Dermot’s marriage proves as great a success as Michael’s has done.”
“We shall now not be happy until Mollie and Bride are arranged for,” said Max Hereford teasingly, “and then there are our own children coming on, so you have your work cut out for you, dear. By and bye there will be match-making for the nieces and nephews, and after that no doubt a few grandchildren coming on. So you will be able to keep your hand in.”
“And isn’t it the least I can be doing then, since my own married life has been so happy?” she said laughing. Ivy, who had not yet seen Mr. Hereford, stood rather in awe of him and looked up apprehensively when her future brother-in-law came into the drawing-room where she was helping Dermot with some proofs. However his greeting was so kindly and his congratulations to Dermot sounded so genuine that her fears were soon set at rest; she felt that the family had fully adopted her and that she was no longer one of the waifs of the world.
“The grace of God, the light and life that flow from His indwelling, can lift the very weariest and hardest-driven soul into a dignity of endurance, a radiance of faith, a simplicity of love, far above all that this world can give or take away.” Dean Paget.
But perhaps no one so thoroughly rejoiced in the news of the engagement as Myra Brinton. It was Ivy herself who first told her, when she and Evereld with Bridget and Dick in attendance rejoined the company at Worcester. Ralph had of course heard all about it the first Sunday he had visited them at Bath, but he had kept his own counsel, for Ivy preferred telling her own news herself both to Macneillie and to her friends in the company.
Nothing could so completely have restored peace and harmony between Myra and Ivy, all the past mistakes and disagreements faded into oblivion, and the two became once more excellent friends.
As for little Dick he soon became the darling of the whole company. Thanks to Bridget’s good management he throve wonderfully, spent most of his time in sleeping, seldom cried, and behaved with discretion on journeys, to the immense satisfaction of his mother, who proudly reflected that not even the most crabbed old bachelor in the company could ever complain that Dick was in the way.
Like a true Denmead he was thoroughly well-bred and had a way of accommodating himself to all surroundings; but Evereld saw he would run an excellent chance of being spoilt as soon as he grew a little older, for everyone made much of him and he received votive offerings in such profusion that it became difficult to pack them. Even the low comedy man broke his rule of silence so far as to inquire occasionally after his health, and at Christmas presented him with a magnificent red and blue clown who shook his head to solemn music.
As to Macneillie, though he had always professed total indifference to children, he was completely subjugated by the wiles of his Godson. Either from insight into character, or from some consideration of the strong hands and arms which held him so delightfully, Dick preferred the manager to anyone else in the world; his father’s long slender hands and taper fingers were not to be compared for a moment with the comfort of the highlander’s firm and comfortable grasp. And Macneillie found it impossible to resist the subtle flattery of this small worshipper who was always ready to laugh and shout with glee at the mere sight of him. In his darkest hours the little elf would often cajole him into a temporary forgetfulness, seeming indeed to take a special delight in beguiling him into a romp, whenever his clouded brow betokened that his own great trouble and the bitter thought of Christine’s lonely and difficult life were weighing him down.
On the whole the years which followed the birth of Ralph’s child were as happy as any Macneillie had known since Christine’s marriage, and as tranquil as his life was ever likely to be. Ralph and Evereld were like a son and daughter to him, and both were able to do much to help him in the busy and harassing days which fall to the lot of most managers.
Still there was no denying that his private troubles had more or less shattered his health; he worked on bravely, as had always been his custom, but now and then an intolerable sense of weariness crept over him and he would wonder how much longer he could keep going.
At last, soon after Dick had celebrated his second birthday, the manager suddenly broke down.
There was nothing which could definitely account for his failure; he had indeed been very busy with preparations for the Shaksperian Performances at Stratford-on-Avon, which were that year to be given by his company during the birthday week. But hard work seldom does people any harm. It was rather that he had for years been bearing a load which overtaxed his strength and at last, from sheer exhaustion, nature gave way.
His old enemy, utter sleeplessness, returned to torment him, and there was nothing for it but to obey the doctor’s orders and go to Scotland for rest and change.
“You are looking sorely fagged, Hugh,” was his mother’s comment when on the evening of his arrival at Callander they sat together by the fireside. It was some months since she had seen him and she was quick to note that he was hollow-cheeked and that his face, as she expressed it, “looked all eyes.”
“Scottish air will soon cure me,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “I shall sleep to-night.”
“Ah lad,” she said with a sigh, “and what reason is there that you should not be always breathing your native air? If you had but chosen the calling I would have had you choose, how different all might have been.”
“Yes, we might now have been sitting in the most comfortable Manse,” said Macneillie, a gleam of humour lighting up his grave face. “Instead of a lean and hard-worked actor, roaming from place to place, I might have been a portly minister revered by half the neighbourhood.”
“I believe you are tired of your wandering life after all,” she said, scrutinizing his careworn face with her keen eyes.
“Deadly tired,” he admitted with a sigh. “But what has that to do with it? Are not half the manses in the land filled with weary men who would give anything for a change in the dull routine of the work they are called to do? It is the same with all of us, Mother. However much we love our profession there must be hard times now and again, and somehow we have got to live through them like men.”
She did not reply, but silently knitted away at one of his socks, thinking to herself how different his life would have been had she had the ordering of it. He should have come to great honour, should have been a noted preacher filling a high position in Edinburgh, he should have married well, and about her in her old age troops of grandchildren should have played. As it was, his life had she felt been wrecked by the luckless taste for dramatic art which had puzzled her so much from his childhood upwards. She laid all his misfortunes to that strange and unaccountable passion for acting which she was wholly unable to comprehend. It was this which had brought him into contact with Christine Greville, this which had debarred him from marriage, this which had for years prevented him from settling down, and forced him to lead the life of a wanderer.
“Hugh,” she said, “is it even now too late? Could you not give up acting and do something more worthy of your powers?”
He started as though someone had struck him a blow.
“Give up my profession?” he said in amazement. “Why no, mother, I could never do that. I am tired out and in a grumbling mood but you must not take me too literally. My vocation has saved me again and again from making utter shipwreck. Depend upon it no other work is as you would say ‘more worthy’ of me.”
She urged it no more; but the old sore feeling that his mother could not understand his point of view, that she still in her heart desired him to take up work for which he was wholly unfitted, came back to mar the entire peace of Macneillie’s holiday.
On the Saturday before Holy Week he could no longer resist the restless craving for change which took possession of him as his strength gradually returned. And taking leave of his mother he left Callander and travelled down to Stratford, intending there to await the arrival of his company later on.
It was a mild bright afternoon in mid April when he reached the quiet little town. It seemed to sleep tranquilly in the golden sunshine, scarcely a breath of air stirred the trees, the beautiful spire of the stately old church rose into the bluest of skies, and the green fields flecked with daisies seemed to be just the right setting for a picture so fair and peaceful. The pastoral character of the scenery somehow suited Macneillie’s mood better even than the rugged mountains of his own land. Surely in this quiet loveliness, rich in associations with the great Master he could gain the rest and the ease he so grievously needed!
He would spend his days on the river, would not allow any business anxieties or arrangements for the following week to invade his repose; Shakspere and Shakspere’s country should hearten him for the future—the quiet of Holy Week should lift him up out of the depression which sought to drag him back into its dreary torture chambers.
So he thought to himself on the evening of his arrival; forgetting that “through the shadow of an agony cometh redemption”;—never dreaming that in this most tranquil place he was to be confronted with the worst ordeal of his whole life.