“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 is hors 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.”