"The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but, I think, now 'tis not to be found."Love's Labour's Lost.
"The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but, I think, now 'tis not to be found."
Love's Labour's Lost.
"A merrier man,Within the limits of becoming mirth,I never spent an hour's talk withal."Act II.
"A merrier man,Within the limits of becoming mirth,I never spent an hour's talk withal."Act II.
While Waveney was doing her very best to make a favourable impression on the Misses Harford, an interview of a far different character was taking place at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace.
Mollie, who was conscientious and strictly truthful, having been taught from childhood to abhor the very whitest of white lies, was trying laboriously to carry out a certain programme drawn up by Waveney. She was not to cry or to think of anything disagreeable, and she was only to look at the clock twice in an hour, and there was no need for her either to be always standing on the balcony and straining her eyes after every passer-by. It was sheer waste of time, and it would be far better to finish one of her pretty menu-cards; and Mollie, who was docile and tractable, had agreed to this.
"It shall have a spray of golden brown chrysanthemums," she said, quite cheerfully; and when Waveney left the house she arranged her painting-table and selected the flowers from Corporal Mark's nosegay.
But, alas!
"The best-laid schemes of mice and menGang aft agley."
"The best-laid schemes of mice and menGang aft agley."
Scarcely had Mollie wetted her brush before Ann the heavy-footed came up with an inflamed face and red eyes.
"The pain was horrible," as she expressed it, "and was not to be borne. Would Miss Mollie spare her for half an hour, and she would get Mr. Grainger's young man to pull the tooth out?"
"Oh yes, Ann, certainly," returned Mollie, who was tender-hearted. But when Ann had withdrawn with a snorting sob, she mused with some perplexity over all the ills to which maids-of-all-work were liable.
Ann had looked so strong when they had engaged her, and yet she was always complaining of something. She was addicted to heavy colds in her head, and to a swollen face, sometimes diversified by an earache. She was a good-tempered, willing creature, but her infirmities were great, and more than once Waveney had advised Mollie to send her away.
"But she is so honest," Mollie would plead, "and she is so devoted to Mrs. Muggins," and so Ann had been suffered to remain. Noel took her off to the life. He would tie up his face with a wisp of flannel and sit hugging the cat for ten minutes at a time.
"Was it a poorty leddy, then, and did she want the poor little chickabiddies?" Ann would choke with suppressed laughter when she came in to lay the table. "Ain't it natural, Miss Mollie? and it is just what I did say to Mrs. Muggins."
Mollie was studying the chrysanthemum pensively when Annie put her head in again.
"The fire must not get low, Miss Mollie, because of the cake."
Then Mollie jumped up in dismay.
Ann was going out, and leaving that precious cake—Noel's birthday cake—and it was such a nice one! She had made it herself, and it had beautiful pink-and-white icing on the top. That her cake should be spoilt was a thought not to be endured for a moment. She knew what Ann's fires were—black, smoky concerns. As Mollie rushed into the kitchen the front door bell rang, and Ann, with her hat on, admitted a visitor.
"A gentleman, Miss Mollie, and I have shown him up in the studio." But Mollie, whose face was in the oven, did not hear this; her whole attention was absorbed by her cake—menu cards were forgotten. She stirred the fire, put on coals, and then sat down on the rug to watch the oven.
Meanwhile, the visitor walked briskly into the studio. He was a small, dark man, and his dress was somewhat Bohemian; he had a brown velveteen coat, and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, and he had bright, clear eyes, that saw everything worth seeing, and a good deal that ordinary folk failed to see—not that people always found this out. He had plenty of time for observation, and when he had grown a little weary of his solitude, he made a tour of the room. He stood for some time by Mollie's painting table. The menu cards struck him as very pretty and graceful in their design.
"My good little Samaritan is artistic, I see," he said to himself; "but there was no need for her to put on her best frock because a stranger called. But vanity and women are synonymous terms." And after this atrocious sentiment—which all women would utterly repudiate—he looked curiously at a framed picture standing on the floor.
"'Canute and his Courtiers.' Yes, I see; rather stale, that sort of thing. 'Canute' decidedly wooden, ambitious, but amateurish—wants force and expression." And then he shook his head. "Hulloa, what have we here?" and he stepped up to the easel.
It was a roughly executed sketch in crayon and was evidently a boy's work; but in spite of considerable crudeness, it was not without spirit.
A young lady was stepping down from an omnibus, and a queer little man in a peaked hat, and a huge moustache, was handing her out. He was grinning from ear to ear, and in his other hand was a sixpence.
"Your eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie," was written under the picture.
The visitor seemed puzzled; then a light dawned. Finally he threw back his head and laughed aloud. "We have a humourist here," he said to himself; and to restore his gravity, he began walking up and down the room; but every time he passed the easel he laughed again. "This is clearly not my little Samaritan," he said to himself. He had brought in a beautiful bouquet, and had laid it down on the round table. Every few minutes he took it up and looked at the door.
The household was certainly a peculiar one. An extraordinary young female, with her face tied up in flannel, had shown him upstairs after telling him that Miss Ward was in. He had been waiting nearly twenty minutes. Should he ring the bell? But there was no bell—not a semblance of one. Then he thought he would leave the flowers and the sixpence, with his card. Yes, perhaps that would be best. And then he hesitated. It was very absurd, but he rather wanted to see the little girl again; there was something so bright and piquant about her. Perhaps she was keeping out of the way on purpose. Perhaps Monsieur Blackie—and here he laughed afresh—was not to her taste. No sooner did this idea come into his head than, with manlike perversity, he determined to persevere.
He walked downstairs and into the dining-room. Here fresh amusement awaited him in the inscription, "Noel Ward, his Study."
"My friend the humourist again," he said softly; and then he pricked up his ears, for in some back premises he could distinctly hear a very clear, sweet girlish voice. He stole into the passage to listen.
And this is what he heard:—
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Here's to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant queenAnd here's to the housewife that's thrifty,Let the toast pass;Drink to the lass—I'll warrant she prove an excuse for the glass."
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Here's to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant queenAnd here's to the housewife that's thrifty,Let the toast pass;Drink to the lass—I'll warrant she prove an excuse for the glass."
"School for Scandal," muttered the stranger. "A very good song and very well sung. I should like to clap. Let me see: that is what they used to do in the Arabian Nights entertainment—clap hands, enter beautiful Circassian slave, with a golden dish full of jewelled fruits. I will knock instead at the mysterious portal."
"Oh, is that you, Ann!" exclaimed a voice, cheerfully. "However did you get in? Fetch me some coals, please. And oh, I forgot your poor tooth. Was it very bad?"
"Pardon me," observed the young man, hurriedly. Then, at the strange voice, Mollie turned round.
Once, many years ago in a foreign gallery, Ingram had stood for a long time before a little picture that had captivated his fancy; it was the work of an English artist, and a very promising one, and was entitled "Cinderella." A little workhouse drudge was sitting on a stool in the chimney corner of a dark underground kitchen; a black, cindery fire was casting a dull glow; a thin tabby cat was trying to warm itself. The torn, draggled frock and grimy hands of the little maid-of-all-work were admirably rendered, but under the tangled locks a pair of innocent child's eyes looked wistfully out. A story book, with the page opened at Cinderella, lay on the lap.
Ingram thought of this picture as Mollie turned her head and looked at him, and, man of the world as he was, for the moment words failed him.
He was standing in a dull little kitchen—a mere slip of a place—looking out on a long straggling garden, very narrow, and chiefly remarkable for gooseberry-and-currant bushes; and sitting on the rug in front of the fire, like a blissful salamander, was a girl with the most beautiful face that he had ever seen.
Then poor Mollie, blushing like a whole garden full of roses in her embarrassment, scrambled awkwardly to her feet.
"Oh, dear! I thought it was our Ann. Will you tell me your name, please? Father is out, and we do not expect him home until eight."
"My business was with your sister," returned Ingram, regaining his self-possession as he saw the girl's nervousness. "Your servant let me in exactly five-and-twenty minutes ago, and as I thought the household was asleep I was endeavouring to discover a bell; and then I heard singing,—
"'Let the toast pass;Drink to the lass,'
"'Let the toast pass;Drink to the lass,'
Awfully good song that."
"Oh, dear," faltered Mollie—she would have liked to sink through the floor at that moment, to avoid that bright, quizzical glance; "that was father's song, not mine. Oh, I know now who you are. You are the gentleman whose pocket was picked yesterday."
"Exactly. Monsieur Blackie, at your service;" and then Mollie turned cold with dismay. Ann had let him in, and he had been in the studio, and Noel's absurd sketch was on the easel. He had recognised himself. And Mollie's confusion and misery were so great that in another minute she would have disgraced herself for ever by bursting into tears; only Ingram, fearing he had taken too great a liberty, hastened to explain matters.
"You see, Miss Ward, I was anxious to pay my debts, and thank your sister. If I remember rightly, I told her that I should call."
"Oh, yes; at least, Waveney was not sure that you would, and she had to go out."
"I should like to have seen her. Perhaps another time you will allow me——" Ingram reddened and hesitated.
"She may not be long. She has gone to Berkeley Square on business. Ah," as the bell rang, "that is Ann, so please will you go upstairs."
Mollie was not quite equal to the situation; she wanted to get rid of Monsieur Blackie, but he did not seem inclined to go; and Ingram took a mean advantage of her inexperience.
"I have left my hat upstairs," he said, hypocritically, "and there are some flowers which I brought for your sister, and I think they ought to be put in water." This appealed at once to Mollie.
"Oh, certainly," she said; and as she limped down the passage before him, a pained look came in Ingram's eyes.
"Oh, what a grievous pity," he thought, "that lovely face to be allied with such a cruel infirmity."
"Oh, what flowers!" exclaimed Mollie, burying her face in them; and then she glanced at the card shyly. "Moritz Ingram." What a nice name! Yes, he was rather nice, too. In spite of his droll looks, she liked his voice; but, all the same, if he would only go! He ought to go—and Ingram evidently shared this opinion, for he was hunting sedulously for his hat; and as his efforts were unavailing, Mollie was obliged to go to his help.
"I brought it upstairs," he kept saying. "'Manners makye man,' and I was always remarkable for my good manners. Why, even your sister took me for a Frenchman." And at this Mollie broke into a merry laugh, and Ingram's eyes twinkled sympathetically.
The next minute the door-bell rang again, and Mollie, who had just discovered the hat underneath the sofa—though how it got there, no one knew—was just going to dart to the door, when a cracked voice called out, "Cat's meat!" and the faint mewing of Mrs. Muggins was clearly audible in the distance and then Noel strolled in. He looked at Ingram in unfeigned amazement; then, being an acute lad, he grinned.
"Noel, this is Mr. Ingram, the gentleman Waveney saw in the omnibus yesterday."
"I recognised myself," returned Ingram, with an airy wave of the hand towards the picture, "though perhaps it is not a speaking likeness—a sort of cross between Mephistophiles and Daniel Quilp, with perhaps asoupçonof the Artful Dodger. I prefer to sit for my own portrait, don't you know."
Then Noel grinned again, rather sheepishly. For once he was reaping the just reward of his impudence.
"You are a humourist, my young friend," continued Ingram, blandly. "I am an Idealist. All my life—and I am exactly thirty seven—I have been seeking 'the impossible she.' That does not mean" (interrupting himself, as though he feared to be misunderstood) "any individual woman. Oh dear, no; originality is my favourite fetish."
Mollie looked bewildered, but she was rather impressed by this fine flow of words, but Noel's eyes brightened. "Was this not a man and a brother?"
"Women don't understand that sort of thing," he observed, confidentially; "they never laugh at the right jokes unless you label them;" and here Noel threw up his head and cocked his chin. "That is why I have taken to drawing—a picture pleases the poor things, and the funnier you make it, the more they like it."
"Indeed!" remarked Ingram, mildly. And then he looked at the handsome lad with unfeigned approval. "It is for your sister's benefit that you do these clever sketches? I am an artist myself—an embryo artist, I ought to say, for I have never sold a picture—but I recognise a brother in the art."
Then Noel, who detected irony in the smooth voice, looked a little sulky.
"It is not clever a bit," he growled; "it is beastly rot. I did it to get a rise out of Waveney—Waveney is the other one, you know."
"Did you say Waveney? I never recollect hearing the name before."
"No. It is a queer sort of name. Father had a great-aunt Waveney. When I want something short and handy, don't you know, I call her Storm-and-stress."
"Upon my word, Miss Ward, your brother is perfectly dangerous. If I stay here any longer I shall take the infection. I told you my special and particular fetish was originality. I seem to have met it here. Thank you"—as Mollie meekly handed him his hat—"I have trespassed on your kind hospitality far too long already. With your kind permission I will call again, in the hope of seeing your sister."
"What could I say?" asked Mollie, anxiously, when she related the account of the afternoon. The sisters were safely shut up in their own room—a large front room over the studio. Mr. Ward slept in the little room behind. "I could not say, 'No, please do not come, I amsureWaveney does not want to see you!'"
"Why no, of course not. You did quite right, Mollie dear. Did not dad say he showed his gratitude in a very gentlemanly way. And as for Noel, he has been talking about him all the evening."
"Yes, Noel took a fancy to him; and Wave, I do think he must be nice; he says droll things in a soft, sleepy sort of voice, and I am afraid I was rather stupid and did not always understand; but his eyes looked kind and gentle. I wasnotafraid of him after the first few minutes."
"Poor little Moll. Well, it was rather embarrassing to have to interview a live stranger all alone, and in the kitchen too!"—for Mollie had drawn a highly colored and graphic description of her first meeting with Monsieur Blackie.
Waveney had laughed mercilessly at first.
"Mollie Ward enacting the part of Cinderella or Cinder Maiden—enter the Black Prince with the glass slipper. Mollie, dear, I grieve to say it, but your feet are not as pretty as mine;" and Waveney, who was excited with her eventful day, kicked off her shoes, and began dancing in the moonlight, her tiny feet scarcely touching the floor.
And behold the spirit of mischief was in her; for, as Mollie sat on the bed and watched her with admiring eyes, she suddenly broke into a song; and this is what she sang:
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,Here's to the widow of fifty,Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass."
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,Here's to the widow of fifty,Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass."
"Within 'tis all divinely fair,No care can enter my retreat;'Tis but a castle in the air,But you and I are in it, sweet."Helen Marion Burnside.
"Within 'tis all divinely fair,No care can enter my retreat;'Tis but a castle in the air,But you and I are in it, sweet."Helen Marion Burnside.
It is necessary to retrace our steps a little; for it was not until much later that Waveney executed herpas-de-seulin the moonlight. Miss Harford had kept her word, and Waveney was deposited at Sloane Street Station punctually at seven; and before the quarter had struck she was walking quickly up Cleveland Terrace. Mollie, whose state of mind by this time baffled description, was on the balcony watching for her, and had the door opened before Waveney was at the gate; a few hurried questions and answers had been interchanged, and then they had heard their father's latch-key in the door.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why is father so dreadfully early, this evening?" exclaimed Mollie, in a lamentable voice.
"Never mind," returned Waveney, philosophically. "We must just wait until bed-time; and then won't we make a night of it, Moll?"
"But father will hear us, and rap on the wall," observed Mollie, fretfully, "and tell us to go to sleep like good children."
"Oh, no, he won't, if we curl ourselves on the window-seat; it is a big room, and our voices won't reach him. Mollie dear, remember, nothing is to be said to father to-night; he is far too tired for fresh worries. To-morrow I will take him for a prowl, and talk to him severely. No;" as Mollie looked at her wistfully. "I must have him all to myself; I can manage him more easily so. Run down to him now, dear, while I take off my hat, and then I will join you."
Mollie did as she was told; and, thanks to Waveney's management, they had another merry evening. Monsieur Blackie was the leading topic. Waveney was quite touched when Mollie handed her the bouquet with a little speech; but Noel entirely spoilt it by croaking out in an absurd voice, "Your much and eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie."
"Hold your tongue, you young rascal," returned Mr. Ward, in high good-humour. "Mr. Ingram is a gentleman, and shows that he knows what good manners are."
"Manners make man," observed Mollie, slyly; and then Noel exploded again.
"He was the coolest hand I ever knew," he replied. "If he were his Grace the Duke of Wellington, he could not have lorded it better. 'You are a humourist, my young friend.' I should like to have given him one for his impudence! And then the cheek of telling 'the wobbly one' that he would call again."
Mr. Ward frowned.
"Noel, I will not have you call Mollie by that name. A jest is a jest, but it must not be carried too far."
"Pegtop, then," returned Noel, unabashed by this rebuke, for behind his father's back he winked at Mollie. "But he was not a bad sort of chap. He would be rather useful on an east-windy, dismal sort of a day—he would make you feel cheerful. I like a fellow who can take a joke without turning rusty over it"—and from Noel this was high praise.
Mollie thought the evening dreadfully long, and she fidgeted so much, and looked at the clock so often, that her father called her drowsy-head, and begged her to go to bed; but this made her redden with confusion. And then, when they were safe in their room, Waveney chose to be ridiculous and cut capers. But as soon as her little song was finished she produced an old shepherd's plaid rug, which was known in family annals as "the Lamb," and they both crept under it, and tucked up their feet on the window-seat, and felt cosy.
And if an artist could have drawn the picture, it would have made his fortune, for the rough old plaid set off Mollie's exquisite face and glorious golden brown hair to perfection, while Waveney's looked fair and infantine in the moonlight.
Waveney was the talker now, and Mollie was the listener, but every now and then there were little interjections of surprise and admiration. At the description of "Fairy Magnificent" Mollie drew in her breath and said "Oh!" Miss Harford's ugliness rather shocked her; she said "It was a great pity, and Waveney had never been used to live with ugly people"—which was perfectly true.
She thought Queen Elizabeth's Wraith a rather far-fetched description. She could not endure Queen Bess; she was such an unladylike person, and boxed gentlemen's ears. And if Miss Althea were like her——But here Waveney interposed.
"Don't be a little goose, Moll. She is like Queen Elizabeth, and you would say the same yourself if you saw her; but she is so nice and gentle that I am sure I shall soon love her. Well, let me go on. I want to tell you about the Red House." Then Mollie sighed with satisfaction, and composed herself to listen.
Mollie, with all her sweetness and goodness, was a little Sybarite at heart. She loved pretty things, fine house, gems, beautiful dresses. Mr. Ward had been almost shocked when he had taken her one day to Bond Street to look at the shops. It was impossible to get her away from the jewellers'; the diamond tiaras and necklets riveted her. "Who buys them, dad?" she had asked, in quite a loud voice; "dukes and earls, and those sort of people?"
"Yes, of course," returned Mr. Ward, a little impatiently, "and the Prince of Wales, I daresay;" for he was rather provoked at the attention the child was exciting. Two gentlemen who were passing, and had overheard Mollie's remark, smiled at each other.
"What a beautiful child!" observed one; he was a tall, old man, with a fine, benevolent face.
"You are right, Duke," returned the other, with a supercilious laugh. "Some little rustic come to town for the first time."
"Come, Mollie," observed her father, rather crossly, "we must not take up the pavement in this way or the Bobby will be telling us to move on;" and then Mollie had limped on until another shop-window attracted her.
Mr. Ward had felt a little perplexed by Mollie's unsatiable appetite for pretty things, and on their return home he unbosomed himself to Waveney.
"All girls like shops," he said, seriously, "and I knew Mollie would be pleased, but I never expected her to glue her face to the glass for half an hour at a time. She made herself quite conspicuous, and several people laughed at her."
"Mollie must be better behaved next time," returned Waveney, smiling. "Father, dear, I don't think it matters really. Mollie is young, and she leads such a quiet life, and sees so few things, that when she goes out she just loses her head. I think," she continued, calmly, "that she does care for pretty things more than most people,—she would love to be rich, and dress grandly, and have pictures and jewels and beautiful things. When we were tiny children she always would make me read the story of Cinderella; nothing else pleased her."
"Don't you care for pretty things, too, Waveney?" asked her father, a little sadly.
"Oh, yes, dad! All girls care a little, I think; but I am not always longing for them like Mollie. She makes up stories to amuse herself. Some one is to leave us a fortune, and we are all to be rich suddenly. She has actually imagined a house and fitted it up bit by bit; and just for the fun of the thing I have helped her—it is our play-house, you know. But Mollie thinks it quite real. If you say to her, 'Let us go down to Kitlands,' her eyes brighten, and she looks quite happy."
"You are foolish children," observed Mr. Ward, fondly. "Who would have thought that my sweet Moll had been such a little worldling at heart!"
"No, dad, you must not say that. Worldly people are selfish, and Mollie has not a selfish thought. It is just a pretty, childish fancy. I sometimes believe in Kitlands myself, we have talked about it so often. On windy nights I have seen the oaks tossing their branches in the park, and the deer huddling under them, and the west room where we always sit of an evening, with the bay window. And how the red firelight streams out on the terrace? And there is a delicious couch by the fire with a lovely Japanese screen behind it, and——" But here Mr. Ward put his hand over the girl's mouth.
"Do you think I am going to be entertained by a description of your baby-house?" he said, in mock wrath. "Tell Mollie she ought to be grown up by this time." But when he was left alone, he said to himself, "Now, why in the world should they have hit on that name Kitlands? Don't I recollect that sunny evening when I walked up the terrace, and the red light streamed from the west room!" He sighed, then roused himself. "Bless their dear, innocent hearts. Now if only their mother could have heard all that!"
Mollie was perfectly ravished with the description of the Red House, and as soon as Waveney paused to take breath, she said, "Why, it is almost as nice as Kitlands, only there is no park and no deer. But I wish I had thought of a peacock." Then she put her head on one side and reflected deeply. "There is the Italian garden, you know, Wave, a sundial would do very nicely there, and we could choose an inscription." But Waveney gave her a little push. "Don't be such a baby, Mollie. We are getting too old for Kitlands. We must put our play-house away with the dear old dolls. But, seriously, is it not perfectly delicious to think we shall be together every Sunday?"
"Yes, that will be nice, of course. But is it really settled, Wave?" and Mollie's voice was full of melancholy.
"I think so, dear; but, of course, I must talk to father. Darling, promise me that you will try and make the best of it. The week will pass so quickly, and then, when Sunday comes, we shall be together. I daresay I shall be with you by half-past three, just after father and Noel have started for their afternoon walk."
"I shall come to the station and meet you," interrupted Mollie.
"Will you? How nice that will be! And we shall have a cosy hour on Grumps, and you shall tell me all your worries—every one of them; and I will tell mine. Then, when father comes in, you and Noel shall get tea ready, and dad and I will have a little talk. And after tea we will sing all our favourite hymns, and then we will go to St. Michael's together, and I will have my old place by father."
"Yes; and then we will all go to the station with you. But oh, Wave, how I shall hate Monday mornings! I shall never feel cheerful until Wednesday is over;" but Waveney would not hear of this—she preached quite a little homily on the duty of cultivating cheerfulness; but her eloquence died a natural death when she saw Mollie nod, and ten minutes later they were both asleep.
It was a free morning with Mr. Ward, and he was not at all surprised when Waveney invited him to take a prowl.
"Won't Mollie prowl, too?" he asked, as he noticed her wistful expression. But Waveney shook her head.
"Mollie was an idle girl yesterday," she remarked, severely; "she must stay in and finish her menu card. There, you shall have the Black Prince's flowers to console you;" and Waveney placed them on the painting-table. "'Sweets to the sweet'—they are as much yours as mine, Mollie." Then Mollie blushed a little guiltily. More than once the thought had passed through her mind—how nice it would be if she had a Monsieur Blackie to bring her hot-house flowers. For Mollie was very human, and certainly
"A creature not too bright and good,For human nature's daily food,"
"A creature not too bright and good,For human nature's daily food,"
and she had her girlish weaknesses. Not that she envied Waveney her flowers; but, as she sniffed them delightedly, her imagination conjured up numberless bouquets for Miss Mollie Ward; only the donor must be tall and fair, not a little dark Frenchified artist like Monsieur Blackie.
Waveney chatted to her father quite gaily until they had crossed the lime avenue, and had reached the landing-stage. Then they walked a little way down the embankment, and sat down on a bench under a shady tree. It was still early, and there were few passengers; only now and then a river steamer passed, churning the blue water into light, foamy waves. Two or three children were bowling their hoops, followed by a panting pug.
Waveney cleared her voice rather nervously; then she slid her hand into her father's arm. Everard could see the worn little glove fingers on his coat sleeve; he stared at the white seams dreamily as he listened. He was a man who noticed trifles; there was a feminine element in his character. That little shabby grey glove appealed to him forcibly.
"Father, dear, I have something to tell you—that is why I did not want Mollie to come; it is so much easier to talk about difficult things to only one person." Waveney's voice was not as clear as usual. "Will you promise to listen, dearest, without interrupting me?" Mr. Ward nodded, but his face was a little grave. What could the child have to say?
Waveney told her story very fully. She gave her father a description of the Red House and Fairy Magnificent, but she never mentioned Miss Harford's name; she spoke of them vaguely as "the ladies."
"And you have settled all this without speaking to me?" and there was a hurt look on Mr. Ward's face. Then Waveney nestled closer to him.
"Father, dear, I wanted to tell you—I want to tell you everything; but you were so tired, and I thought it would be kinder to wait until I had spoken to the ladies."
"The ladies. What ladies? Have they no name?" he asked, irritably.
"Yes, dear, of course they have," returned the girl, gently. "Their name is Harford."
Then he turned round a little quickly.
"Harford. Oh, I daresay there are plenty of that name. I know Erpingham—Noel and I walked there one Sunday afternoon; but I do not remember the Red House."
"No; it stands in a lane. You have to go through some white gates. They have not always been at Erpingham; they used to live in Surrey." Then she felt him start slightly.
"I suppose you did not hear their Christian names?" he asked a little anxiously.
"Oh yes, dad, I did. The ugly one—she was very nice, but she is terribly plain—was called Doreen; and the pale, fair one, like Queen Elizabeth, was Althea." Then it was evident that Mr. Ward was completely taken aback.
"Doreen and Althea," he muttered. "It must be the same. With a singular coincidence! Waveney, my child, tell me one thing. Was the name of their house in Surrey Kitlands?"
"I don't know, father; they never told me. But stay a moment: there was a picture in Miss Harford's sitting-room of an old Elizabethan house standing in a park, and under it was written Kitlands Park. I meant to tell Mollie about that."
"It is the same—it must be the same," he returned, in a low voice. "The names are too uncommon. Yes, and it is true, Althea was a little like Queen Elizabeth. I would have given five years of my life that this had not happened. It is one of the little ironies of fate that my girl should have gone to them."
"Oh, why, father?" asked Waveney, piteously; her father's look of bitterness filled her with dismay. Why was he so disturbed, so unlike himself? He did not even hear her question. He got up from the bench quickly and walked to the railings. Another steamer was passing. Mr. Ward looked after it with vague, unseeing eyes.
Everard Ward was a proud man, in spite of his easy-going ways. He had had his ambitions, his aspirations, and yearnings. He had set his ideal high, and yet, for want of ballast, he had suffered shameful shipwreck.
At the beginning of life he had had his good things—health, good looks, talents, and friends. Doors had opened to him, kindly hands had been held out to him, and one of them a woman's hand; but he had turned away in youthful caprice, and had chosen his own path.
He had meant to have carved his own fortunes, to have painted pictures that would have made the name of Everard Ward famous; and he was only a drawing-master who painted little third-rate pot-boilers.
How Everard loathed his poverty! His shabby coat, and Mollie's pitiful little makeshifts and contrivances, were all alike hateful to him. Too well he remembered the flesh-pots of Egypt—the Goshen of his youth, where he had fared sumptuously, when he had money to spend and the world smiled at him; and then, like a fool—the very prince of fools—he had flung it all away.
He had made a mess of his life, but he was not without his blessings; and in his better moments, when the children were singing their hymns, perhaps he would tell himself humbly that he was not worthy of them.
But as he stood by the river that morning, it seemed to him as though the cup of his humiliation was full to the very dregs. He had so broken with his old life that few ghostly visitants from the dim past troubled him; and now there had started up in his path the two women whom he most dreaded to see.
And one of them he had wronged, when, hot with a young man's passion, and tempted by Dorothy's sweet eyes and girlish grace, he had drawn back, suddenly and selfishly, from the woman he had been wooing.
Well, he had dearly loved his wife; but the disgrace of that shameful infidelity was never effaced from his memory. It was a blot, a stain upon his manhood, a sore spot, that often made him wince.
Would he ever forget that day they were in the old walled garden, gathering peaches, and Althea had just handed him one, hot with the sun, and crimson-tinted, and bursting with sweetness?
"You always give me the best of everything, Althea," he had said; but he was thinking of Dorothy as he said it, and of her love for peaches.
"I like to give you the best—the very best," Althea had answered sweetly, and her eyes had been so wistful and tender that he had felt vaguely alarmed. How he had made his meaning clear to her he never could remember. He had spoken of Dorothy, and perhaps his voice had trembled, for all at once she had become very silent, and there was no more gathering of peaches.
"I must go in now," she had said, suddenly, and he noticed her lips were pale. "Doreen wants me. Yes, I understand, Everard, and you have my best wishes—my best wishes." And then he had stood still and watched her, a tall, slim figure in white, moving between the fruit-trees and carrying her head proudly.
"And it is to Althea Harford that my daughter has applied for a situation," thought Everard, sadly. And again he told himself that he was draining the cup of humiliation to the very dregs.
"A hero worshipped and throned highOn the heights of a sweet romance,A faithful friend who was 'always the same'Till the clouds grew heavy and troubles came.But this is life, and this is to live,And this is the way of the world."Gertrude Carey.
"A hero worshipped and throned highOn the heights of a sweet romance,A faithful friend who was 'always the same'Till the clouds grew heavy and troubles came.But this is life, and this is to live,And this is the way of the world."Gertrude Carey.
Waveney sat on the bench feeling very forlorn and deserted until her father came back to her. He had evidently pulled himself together, for he looked at her with his old kind smile, though perhaps his lips were not quite steady.
"Come, little girl, don't fret," he said, tenderly. "Least said is soonest mended, and we must just go through with it."
"But, father, are you sure you do not mind?" she returned, eagerly. "We are very poor, but I would rather please you, dear, than have ever so much money—you know that, do you not?"
Waveney's eyes were full of tears, and her little hands clasped his arm appealingly. Mr. Ward's laugh was a trifle husky.
"I know I have two good children," he returned, feelingly. "Look here, my child, things have got a little mixed and complicated, and I find it difficult to explain matters. It is my 'poverty and not my will consents,' don't you know—and we must just pocket our pride and put a good face on it."
"Do you mean that I am to go to Miss Harford? Are you very sure that you mean that, dad?"
"Yes, certainly"—but his face clouded. "Did you not tell me that Miss Althea suffered with her eyes, and needed a reader and companion? We were good friends once, so why should I put an affront on her by refusing her my daughter's services?"
Waveney sighed; she felt a little oppressed: her father took a reasonable and practical view of the case, but his voice was constrained; he was a proud man, and at times he chafed sadly at his limitations. He could not forget that he had come of a good old stock; he used to tell his girls to carry their heads high, and not allow themselves to be shunted by nobodies.
"Your mother was a gentlewoman," he would say, "and your great-grandmother had the finest manners I ever saw; she was a Markham of Maplethorpe, and drove in a chariot and four horses when she went to the county ball. It was your grandfather who ruined us all; he speculated in mines, and so Maplethorpe was sold. I saw it once, when I was a little chap: I remember playing on the bowling green."
Everard Ward thought he was doing his duty in teaching his girls to consider themselves superior to their neighbours, but sometimes Waveney would joke about it. She would come into the room with her little nose tip-tilted and her head erect, and cross her mittened hands over her bosom. "Am I like my great-grandmother Markham?" she would say. "Stand back, Mollie; I am going to dance the minuet;" and then Waveney would solemnly lift her skirts and point her tiny foot, and her little performance would be so artless and full of grace that Mr. Ward would sit in his chair quite riveted.
"Father, I wish you would tell me how you first came to know the Misses Harford?" asked Waveney, rather timidly.
Mr. Ward had relapsed into silence, but he roused himself at the question.
"It was in my Oxford days, child. I was quite a young fellow then. There were a good many pleasant houses where I visited, but there was none I liked so well as Kitlands.
"Mrs. Harford was alive then; she was rather an invalid, but we all liked her. I always got on with elderly women; they said I understood their little ways. I knew your Fairy Magnificent, too; she was a great beauty. We young fellows used to wonder why she had never married again."
"Oh, father, this is very interesting. My good little Fairy Magnificent."
Then he nodded and smiled.
"When Mrs. Mainwaring came down to Kitlands there would be all sorts of gaieties going on—riding parties and archery meetings in the summer, and dances and theatricals in the winter."
"Once we acted a pastoral play in the park—As You Like It. It was very successful, and the proceeds went to the county hospital. I remember I was Orlando."
"Was Miss Althea Rosalind?"
"No, your mother was Rosalind. She acted the part charmingly; it was her first and last appearance. Althea"—his voice changed—"was Celia; her sister Doreen insisted on being Audrey, because she said she looked the part to perfection."
"Then mother knew them, too?" observed Waveney, in surprise.
"Well, no, dear, one could hardly say that. We were in great distress for a Rosalind, and the Williams heard of our difficulty, and they said they knew a young lady who had studied the part for some private theatricals that had never come off. I had already met your mother at the county ball, and I was very glad to see her again. Rosalind"—he laughed a little—"and Orlando clenched the business."
"But, father, why have you dropped such nice friends?" It was evident that Mr. Ward had expected this question, and was prepared for it.
"Well, you see, my child, when I married your dear mother I was supposed by my friends to have done a foolish thing. It was difficult enough to hold our heads above water, without trying to keep in the swim. People quietly dropped us, as we dropped them. It is the way of the world, little girl." And then in a would-be careless tone, he quoted,—
"A part played out, and the play not o'er,And the empty years to come!With dark'ning clouds beyond and above,And a helpless groping for truth and love,But this is life and this is love,And this is the way of the world."
"A part played out, and the play not o'er,And the empty years to come!With dark'ning clouds beyond and above,And a helpless groping for truth and love,But this is life and this is love,And this is the way of the world."
It was a habit of Mr. Ward's to quote poetry; he often read it to his children; he had a clear, musical voice. But Waveney was not content to have the subject so summarily dismissed.
"Father, dear, do you really mean to say that the Harfords gave you up because you were poor?" and her tone was a little severe.
"No, dear, it was I who gave them up. By the bye, Waveney, I wonder why they left Kitlands?" and as the girl shook her head, he continued, thoughtfully, "It was a big place, and perhaps they did not care to keep it up after their mother's death; they always wanted to live nearer town. Well, have we finished our talk?" and then Waveney rose reluctantly. He had not told her much, she thought regretfully; but, all the same, her girlish intuition went very nearly the truth.
There was something underneath; something that concerned Miss Althea. Why had her father looked so pained when she had mentioned the name? But with a delicacy that did her honour she was careful not to drop a hint of her suspicions to Mollie.
Mr. Ward thought he had kept his secret well. He was impulsive and reckless by nature, but his care for his motherless girls was almost feminine in its tenderness. They were too precious for the rough workaday world, so he tried to hedge them in with all kind of sweet old obsolete fashions, for fear a breath should soil their crystalline purity.
"Father would like to wrap us up in lavender, and put us under a glass case," Waveney would say, laughingly, and it must be owned that neither she nor Mollie were quite up to date. They did not talk slang; they were notblasé; and they had fresh, natural ideas on every subject, which they would express freely. Waveney was the most advanced; Mollie was still a simple child, in spite of her nineteen years.
Mollie was very curious on the subject of her father's intimacy with the Harfords, but Waveney managed to satisfy her without making any fresh mysteries.
"It is all in a nutshell, Mollie," she said, quietly. "When father was a young man he went to a lot of nice houses, and Kitlands was one of them. They were rich people and very gay, and gave grand parties, and he had quite a good time of it; and then he and mother married, and they were poor; and then, somehow, all their fine friends dropped off."
"Oh, what a shame!" interrupted Mollie, indignantly.
"Well, the Harfords did not drop him, but somehow he left off going there; and he has never even heard of them for twenty years. I think it upset him rather to have his old life brought up before him so suddenly; it made him feel the difference, don't you see!" and Waveney's voice was a little sad, she could so thoroughly enter into her father's feelings. What a change from the light-hearted young man of fashion, acting Orlando and making love to Rosalind in the green glades of Kitlands, to the shabby, drudging drawing-master, with shoulders already bowed with continual stooping.
Waveney wrote her little note of acceptance the next day. It brought a kind answer from Miss Althea; she was very glad that Miss Ward had decided to come to them. She and her sister would do their best to make her feel at home. Erpingham was so near, and they so often drove into town, that she could see her people constantly. "Please give our kind remembrances to your father, if he has not quite forgotten his old friends," was the concluding sentence.
Waveney handed the note silently to her father; he reddened over the closing words. What a kind, womanly letter it was. The faint smell of lavender with which it was perfumed was not more fragrant than the warm-hearted generosity that had long ago forgiven the slight.
Had he really wounded her by his desertion, or had her vanity merely suffered? How often he had asked himself this question. They had only met once, a week before his wedding, and she had been very gentle with him, asking after Dorothy with a friendliness that had surprised him; for, manlike, he never guessed how even a good woman will on occasion play the hypocrite.
"She is a kind creature," he said, giving back the letter; but his manner was so grave that even Mollie did not venture to say a word.
The girls had a good deal on their minds just then. Waveney's scanty wardrobe had been reviewed, and Mollie had actually wept tears of humiliation over its deficiencies. "Oh, Wave, what will you do?" she said, sorrowfully. "And we dare not ask father for more than a few shillings!"
"No, of course not;" but Waveney's forehead was lined with care as she sat silently revolving possibilities and impossibilities.
What would the Misses Harford think of her shabby old trunk, that had once belonged to her mother? Then she threw back her curly head and looked at Mollie resolutely.
"Mollie, don't be silly. Life is not long enough for fretting over trifles. The Misses Harford know we are poor, so they will not expect smart frocks. I have my grey cashmere for Sundays, and I must wear my old serge for everyday. I will get fresh trimming for my hat, and a new pair of gloves, and——"
"And boots," ejaculated Mollie. "You shall have a pair of boots if I go barefoot all the winter; and your shoes are very shabby too, Wave."
"Yes, I know. I will talk to father and see what is to be done. If he would advance me a couple of pounds I could repay it at Christmas. Is it not a blessing that I have one tidy gown for evenings?"—for some three months before they had gone to some smart school party, and their father, being flush of money just then, had bought them some simple evening dresses. The material was only cream-coloured nun's-veiling, but Mollie had looked so lovely in her white gown that all the girls had been wild with envy.
The dresses had only been worn once since, and, as Waveney remarked, were just as good as new. "Shall you wear it every evening, Wave?" Mollie had asked in an awed tone; and when Waveney returned, "Why, of course, you silly child, I have no other frock. In big houses people always dress nicely for dinner; I found that out at Mrs. Addison's," Mollie regarded the matter as quite decided—her oracle had spoken.
Mr. Ward had advanced the two pounds without any demur, and the sisters made their modest purchases the following afternoon. As Waveney was re-trimming her hat, and Mollie painting her menu cards, Ann flung open the door somewhat noisily. "Mr. Ink-pen, miss," she announced, in a loud voice; and the next minute Monsieur Blackie entered. He looked trim and alert, as usual; his face beamed when he saw Waveney.
"It is the right Miss Ward this time," he said, shaking hands with her cordially. Then he looked at Mollie, and his manner changed. "Will you allow your maid to hang these birds up in your larder?" and he held out a superb brace of pheasants to the bewildered girl.
Mollie grew crimson with shyness and delight.
"Do you mean they are for us?" she faltered.
"Yes, for you and your sister, and your father, and my young friend the humourist. And please remember"—and now his smile became more ingratiating—"that they are from Monsieur Blackie. No, please do not thank me. They were shot by a friend of mine. I rather object to the massacre of the innocents myself, and I prefer doing it by deputy. By the bye, I find I have a new name—your maid is a humourist too. 'Ink-pen'—there is something charmingly original and suggestive about that. It makes Ingram rather commonplace."
"Oh, I think you have such a beautiful name!" returned Mollie, artlessly. "It is ever so much better than Ward."
Then Waveney nudged her.
"I think the pheasants ought to be hung up," she said, rather brusquely; and at this broad hint Mollie limped off, with very pink cheeks. "Whatever made you say that, Mollie?" was her comment afterwards.
"I don't think it is quite nice to tell gentlemen that they have beautiful names. I am sure I saw an amused look on Mr. Ingram's face."
But Mollie only looked puzzled at this.
"Ann is very stupid about names," remarked Waveney, as she took up her work again. "She always calls me Miss Waverley and Noel, Master Noll. Somehow she does not seem to grasp sounds."
"Was your sister christened Mollie?" he asked, quickly; and he looked at the menu cards as he spoke.
"Yes; it was mother's fancy, and I do so love the name," returned Waveney, in her frank way. "I daresay you would not guess it—people seldom do—but we are twins. Strangers always think Mollie is the elder."
"I should have thought so myself," returned Ingram; and then he took up one of the cards. Waveney thought he was a little nervous—his manner was so grave. "These are very pretty," he said, quietly. "I thought so the other day. The design is charming. May I ask if your sister ever takes orders for them?"
"Yes, indeed; a lady has commissioned Mollie to paint these. She is to have twelve shillings for the set."
"Twelve shillings!" and here Ingram's voice was quite indignant. "Miss Ward," he continued, turning round to Mollie, who had just re-entered the room, "it is a shame that you should be so fleeced. Why, the design is worth double that sum. Now there is a friend of mine who would willingly give you two guineas for a set of six. She is very artistic, and fond of pretty things, and if you are willing to undertake the commission I will write to her to-morrow."
Willing! Mollie's eyes were shining with pleasure. If she could only earn the two guineas! They should furnish sop for Cerberus—aliasBarker. Waveney's earnings would not be due until Christmas, and the constant nagging of the aggrieved butcher was making Ann's life miserable.
"'Master says if meat's wanted it must be paid for, and he does not hold with cheap cuts and long reckonings.' Drat the man! I hates the very sight of him," remarked Ann, wrathfully, to her usual confidante, Mrs. Muggins—for with toothache, a swollen face, and an irascible butcher, life was certainly not worth living.
"Then I will write to my—to the lady to-morrow." Both Mollie and Waveney noticed the little slip. "I wonder if he is married," Waveney said to herself. But Mollie's inward comment was, "Very likely Mr. Ingram is engaged, but he does not know us well enough to tell us so."
Mr. Ingram was trying to regain his airy manner, but a close observer would have detected how keenly he was watching the two girls as he talked. Nothing escaped him—the new hat trimmings, and the faded hat; Waveney's worn little shoe, and the white seams in Mollie's blue serge.
Cinderella—he always called her Cinderella to himself—was no whit smarter than she had been the other day; her hair was rather rough, as though the wind had loosened it. And yet with what ease and sprightliness they chattered to him! Their refined voices, theirpiquante, girlish ways, free from all self-consciousness, delighted the young man, who had travelled all over the world, and had not found anything so simple, and artless, and real, as these two girls. It was Waveney to whom he directed his conversation, and with whom he carried on his gay badinage; but when he spoke to Mollie, his voice seemed to soften unconsciously, as though he were speaking to a child.