"Though many a year has o'er us roll'dSince life's bright morningtide,I'm dreaming still the dream of oldWe once dreamt side by side."Helen Marion Burnside.
"Though many a year has o'er us roll'dSince life's bright morningtide,I'm dreaming still the dream of oldWe once dreamt side by side."Helen Marion Burnside.
It had been a long, trying day to Waveney, and it was a great relief when she found herself again in the Pansy Room. It was still early in the evening; but as soon as the door had closed upon the girl Althea rose from her chair.
"I have had a tiring afternoon, Dorrie," she said, in rather a weary voice. "A well-dressed crush always flattens me—so many smart bonnets, and so few brains! Somehow society always reminds me of a trifle, all sweetness and froth."
"Aren't you a little mixed, Althea?" returned her sister, good-humouredly. "There is froth certainly, but in my experience there is plenty of richness and sweetness underneath, if you only dig deep enough."
"Oh, I daresay;" and then a droll idea came to Althea, and she laughed softly. "Don't you remember the gingerbread queens that we used to buy when we were children at the Medhurst Fair, and how angry I was when some one stripped the gilt off. I thought it was real gold—like Nebuchadnezzar's image. Well, some of those fine ladies reminded me of the gingerbread queens."
Doreen looked amused. "You are in a pessimistic mood, dear." Then she put her hands on her sister's shoulders and scrutinised her face a little anxiously.
"You are very tired. Are your eyes paining you, Althea?"
"No, dear, but I think I shall go to bed."
But when she had left the room Doreen did not at once resume her book. "I wonder what is troubling her," she said to herself. "I know her expression so well, and with all her little jokes, she is not at ease. I hope that we have not made a grievous mistake in engaging Miss Ward—and yet she seems a nice little thing! But there is a look in Althea's eyes to-night as though she had seen a ghost. When one is no longer young the ghosts will come;" and then Doreen sighed and took up her book.
Althea was very tired, but it was mental, not bodily fatigue, that had brought the dark shadows under her eyes. But it was not her habit to spare herself, or to shunt her duties.
So, instead of going straight to her room, she turned down the passage that led to the two little chambers where their humbler guests slept, and sat for a few minutes beside Laura Cairns' bed. The girl slept badly, and Althea's sympathetic nature guessed intuitively how a few cheering words would sweeten the long night; and she never missed her evening visit.
"It is better to lie awake in the country than in Tottenham Court Roads," she said, presently. Then Laura smiled.
"Oh, yes, Miss Harford; it is so heavenly, the peace and silence. But at first it almost startled me. In London the cabs and carts are always passing, and there seems no quiet at all; but here, one can lie and think of the birds in their nests. And how good it is to be free from pain! Oh, I am so much better, and it is all owing to your kindness, and this dear old place!" And here the girl's lips rested for a moment on the kind hand that held hers. "But you will not leave me without my message, Miss Harford?"—for it was one of Althea's habits to give what she called "night thoughts" to the sick girls who came to the Red House.
Althea paused a moment. For once she had forgotten it. Then some words of Thomas à Kempis came to her, "Seek not much rest, but much patience," and she repeated them softly. "Will that do, Laura?"
"Oh, yes—and thank you so much, Miss Harford. 'Not much rest, but much patience.' I must remember that."
"I must remember it, too," thought Althea; and then she went to the Cubby-house to bid her old nurse good-night, and to have a little chat with her.
Nurse Marks was loud in her praises of Waveney.
"I like her, Miss Althea, my dear," she said, eagerly. "She has pretty manners, and a good heart; dear, dear, just to think of it being Jonadab's young lady. He thinks a deal of her, does Jonadab. She will be a comfort to you, my dearie. But there, you are looking weary, my lamb, and Peachey will be waiting to brush your hair." And Althea was thankful to be dismissed.
She sent Peachey away as soon as possible, and then sat down in an easy chair by the window; her eyes were aching, but the darkness rested them. She was a good sleeper generally, but to-night she knew that no wooing of the drowsy god would avail her. Doreen was right, and the ghost of the past had suddenly started up in her path.
Althea's youth had been a very happy one, until the day when she and Everard Ward had gathered peaches together in the walled garden at Kitlands, and then it had seemed to her as though they were the very apples of Sodom—mere dust and ashes.
Everard had judged his own case far too leniently; he had been eager to clear himself from blame. "A young fellow has his fancies before he settles down finally," he would say, in his careless way. "Oh, yes, you are right, Egerton. I was sweet on Althea Harford—there was something fascinating about her; she was rather fetching and picturesque—you know what I mean. But Dorothy—well, it was love at first sight, the real thing and no mistake. I wanted to ask her to marry me that very first evening, only I could not do it, you know."
"I suppose not," returned his friend, dryly. "You are a cool hand, Everard, upon my word. I wonder what Miss Harford thought about it all. Perhaps I am a bit old-fashioned, but in my day we did not think it good form to pay court to one girl and marry another." But this plain speaking only offended Everard, probably because in his inner consciousness he knew the older man had spoken the truth.
Through the sweet spring days and the glorious months of summer Everard Ward had wooed the young heiress with the eager persistence that was natural to him. Althea's fascinating personality, her gentleness and bright intelligence, all dominated the young man, and for a time at least he honestly believed himself in love with her. He was not fickle by nature, and if Dorothy Sinclair had not crossed his path, and played Rosalind to his Orlando, in the green glades of Kitlands Park, he would to a certainty have married Althea Harford.
Hearts do not break, they say; but when Althea walked down the terrace steps that day, with her basket of peaches on her arm, she knew that the gladness and sweetness of her young life had faded, and that, if her heart were not actually broken, it was only because her unselfishness and sense of right forbade such wreckage.
"I shall live through it, Dorrie," she had said to her sister, in those early days of misery, "and, God helping me, it shall not make me bitter; but it has robbed me of my youth. One cannot suffer in this way, and keep young;" and she was right.
"If you could only hate him!" ejaculated Doreen. "In your circumstances I know I should loathe and despise him." But Althea only shook her head.
"How could I hate him, when I have grown to love him with my whole heart, when I have regarded myself as his." But here she stopped and hid her face in her hands, with a choking sob. "Oh, Dorrie, that is the worst of all, that I should have believed it, and that he never meant it; that he never really loved me."
"I think he was very fond of you, Althea," returned Doreen, eagerly. "Mother was saying so only last night."
"Yes, he was fond of me. We were friends; but I was not his closest and dearest. Dorrie, we must never talk of this again, you and I; a wound like this, so sore and deep, should be covered up and hidden. I must hide it even from myself. There is only one thing that I want to say, and then we will bury our dead. I cannot hate Everard—hatred is not in my nature—and neither can I ever cease to love him. Oh, there is no need for you to look so shocked"—as Doreen's face expressed strong disapproval of this. "There will be no impropriety in the love I shall bear him. If I could I would be his guardian angel, and keep all troubles from him." Then she sighed and put her hand gently on her sister's shoulder. "'Seek not much rest, but much patience;' that shall be my New Year's motto. We will bury our dead." Those had been her words, and for twenty years the grass had grown over that grave; and yet, on this September night, the ghost of her old love had haunted her, and the ache of the old pain had made itself felt.
Is there any grave deep enough to bury a woman's love? Althea Harford was nearly forty-one, and yet the memory of Everard Ward, with his perfect face, and boyish, winning ways, his gayinsouciance, and light-hearted mirth, made her heart throb with quickened beats of pain. All these years—these weary years—she had never met any one like him—never any one whom she could compare with him. People had often told her that he was not specially clever, that his talents were by no means of a first-class order; but she had never believed them. To her fond fancy he was the embodiment of every manly gift and beauty; even Dorothy, with all her love for her husband, would have marvelled at Althea's infatuation.
And now Everard's daughter was under her roof, and the knowledge that this was so had driven the sleep from her eyes, and filled her with a strange restlessness. Waveney's smile, and the turn of her head, and something in her voice, recalled Everard. More than once that evening she had winced, as some familiar tone brought him too vividly before her.
Waveney's artless confidence had given her food for thought. She had long known the hard fight that Everard Ward was waging, in his attempts to keep the wolf from the door. On more than one occasion her secret beneficence had lightened his weight of care. If Everard had guessed who was the real purchaser of some of his pictures, he would not have pocketed the money quite so happily; but Althea kept her own counsel.
"If I could only be his guardian angel!" she had said, in her girlish misery; and no purer wish had ever been expressed by woman's lips; in some ways she had been Everard Ward's good angel all these years.
Still she had never realised the extent of his poverty until Waveney had told her about the purchase of "King Canute."
A friend of Mr. Ingram's wanted a historical picture, and it was so fortunate that he took a fancy to "King Canute!"—he had actually paid five-and-twenty guineas, and they had paid off the disagreeable butcher; and now father would have the new great-coat that he wanted so badly.
Waveney had said all this with girlish frankness, as she and her new friend had paced up and down the garden path in the September darkness; but Althea had made no answer. She only shivered a little, as though she were cold; and a few minutes later she proposed to return to the house.
"It is a beautiful evening, but we must not forget that it is September," she had observed. But her voice was a little strained.
No, she had never really realised until that moment how badly things had gone with him; that mention of the great-coat had effectually opened her eyes. And then, as though to mock her, a little scene rose before her—a certain golden afternoon spent in an old studio at Chelsea, where Everard Ward and a friend had established themselves.
How well she remembered it! and the balcony full of flowers overlooking the river, with a gay awning overhead.
It was summer time, and she had put on a white gown in honour of the occasion, and Everard had brought her a cluster of dark, velvety roses. "They will give you the colour you need," he had said, looking at her admiringly; what an ideal artist he had seemed to her in his brown velveteen coat! The yellow sunshine seemed to make a halo round his fair hair.
"You look like a glorified angel, Ward," his friend had said, laughingly. "What do you say, Miss Harford—would he not do for Ithuriel in my picture of Adam and Eve sleeping in Paradise, with the Evil One whispering in Eve's ear. Do you remember the passage:
'Him thus intentIthuriel with his spear touched lightly.'
'Him thus intentIthuriel with his spear touched lightly.'
Look here, old man, you must sit for me to-morrow." But Everard had only grumbled and looked bored.
In those days great-coats had certainly not been lacking. And as this thought occurred to her, Althea had shivered and become silent.
About four-and-twenty hours later Mollie received the following letter, which she carried off to her bedroom and read over and over again. She had already had the note in which Waveney had described the Cubby-house and her Pansy Room, and Mollie had certainly not expected another so soon.
"My own Sweetheart.—Here I am actually writing to you again. But I know what a long, weary day this has been, and how my sweet Moll has been missing me; and I said to myself, 'A letter by the last post will send her to sleep happily, and make her think that we are not so far apart, after all!' Well, and how do you think I have been spending my first day of servitude? Why, all by myself on the common; and if you had been there it would have been simply perfect; the common is such a beautiful place, and it stretches away for miles. But you will be saying to yourself, 'Is this the way Miss Harford's reader performs her duties?' My dear child, I have not seen my Miss Harford to-day. At breakfast time, Miss Doreen told me that her sister had had a bad night, and that she was suffering great pain in her eyes. 'It is so severe an attack,' she explained, 'that she cannot bear a vestige of light, and reading would drive her distracted. Her maid Peachey is looking after her, and most likely by evening the pain will have worn itself out.' And then she advised me to take a book out of the library and sit on the common, as she would be absent the greater part of the day. It was rather a business choosing a book, but I took 'Ayala's Angel' at last, as it looked amusing, and angels always remind me of my Mollie. There, is that not a pretty speech?
"The two little Yorkshire terriers accompanied me—Fuss and Fury—they are such dear little fellows, and it was just lovely! There was a little green nook, with a comfortable bench, a little way back from the road, and there I spent the morning. Miss Doreen was still at the House, so I had luncheon alone, and afterwards I went out in the garden. The two shop-girls were there; they had hammock chairs under a tree. The tall, pale girl was working, and the other was reading to her. I stopped to speak to them, and then I found a delightful seat in the kitchen garden. It was so warm and sunny that you would have thought it was August. Mitchell came to tell me when tea was ready, and now I am up in my Pansy Room, writing to you. There is a pillar box quite near, and when I have finished it I shall slip out and post it." And then a few loving messages to her father and Noel closed the letter.
"And touch'd by her fair tendance, gladlier grew."Milton.
"And touch'd by her fair tendance, gladlier grew."Milton.
When Waveney crossed the hall after posting her letter, the dressing-bell rang, and Mitchell, who encountered her on the stairs, informed her with quiet civility that both her mistresses were in the library, and had desired that she would join them as soon as she was ready.
It did not take many minutes for Waveney to brush out her curly hair and put on her white dress. It was almost severe in its simplicity and absence of trimming, but in hers and Mollie's eyes it was a garment fit for a princess; and when Waveney had pinched up the lace ruffles, and put in the little pearl brooch—which had belonged to her mother—she was innocently pleased with her appearance.
She had rather a shock when she entered the library. Doreen was not there, but Althea was sitting with her back to the light, with a green shade over her eyes. The pale tints of her gown—Waveney discovered she always wore soft, neutral tints—the pallor of her long, thin face, and the disguising shade, gave her a strangely pathetic look.
She held out her hand with a faint smile.
"I am so sorry, my dear, that this should have happened, and on your first day, too! It is the worst attack I have had for months, and no remedies seemed to have any effect. But the pain has gone now, and to-morrow I shall be myself again."
"Oh, I am so glad of that!"
"I am glad of it, too," returned Althea; "for I would not willingly miss one of our Thursday evenings. You will be surprised to hear that we have begun a course of Shakespeare readings. Some of the girls are so intelligent, and read so well! Our old friend, Mr. Chaytor, helps us. He is a barrister, but a very poor one, I am sorry to say; but he is wonderfully clever. He used to read to the girls. Then he got up an elocution class; and now he has started these Shakespeare readings, and the girls do so enjoy them!"
"It sounds very nice."
"I think you will say so. We have hadTempestandTwelfth Night, and to-morrow it is to beAs You Like It. Mr. Chaytor is to be Touchstone and the melancholy Jacques. Rather contrasts, are they not?"
At this moment Doreen re-entered. She looked pleased as she noticed the animation in her sister's voice, and as the gong sounded, she said,—
"You will like Miss Ward to come and talk after dinner, Althea, while I write those letters." And Althea smiled and nodded.
"She looks very ill," Waveney said, in a low voice, as they walked down the corridor.
"Oh, yes," returned Miss Harford, "she always looks bad after one of these attacks; it is the pain, you see—my sister does not bear pain well; it wears her out."
Waveney felt relieved when dinner was over. Doreen was very kind and pleasant, but she was not a great talker, and hardly knew how to interest her young companion. "Girls were more in Althea's line," she said to herself, "Althea had such marvellous sympathy and understood them so thoroughly. She herself got on better with older women;" and once or twice she smiled in an amused way when she lifted her eyes from her plate and saw the little figure in white opposite her. "She reminded me of one of Moritz's pictures," she said, afterwards to Althea. "Whichever could it be? I have been puzzling myself all dinner-time. The white frock makes her look more like a child than ever; her eyes are lovely, but she is not pretty."
"Not exactly; but I like her face. I expect you mean that picture of Undine. Yes, she is wonderfully like it, only this Undine has her soul. By the bye, we have not seen Moritz for an age. I shall write to Gwendoline and tell her that her boy is up to mischief."
When Waveney returned to the library she found that one or two shaded lamps had been lighted, but that Althea was still seated in the darkest corner of the room.
She bade Waveney draw up a chair beside her. "My head is too confused to listen to reading," she observed; "so you shall just talk and amuse me. Tell me anything about yourself, or Mollie, or your brother; everything human interests me, and nothing in the world pleases me better than to listen to the story of other people's lives."
Waveney laughed; but she was a little embarrassed, too. "Shall I tell you about my dear old men at the Hospital?" she said, rather nervously; and Althea concealed her disappointment, and said, "Yes, certainly; tell me anything you like."
And so Waveney began; and as usual her narrative was very picturesque and graphic. But lo and behold! before many minutes were over she had crossed the green sward, and the lime avenue, and was standing in fancy before a certain high, narrow house, with vine-draped balcony, and an old courtyard; and as she talked her eyes were shining with eagerness. And now the beloved names were on her lips—father and Mollie and Noel. Althea almost held her breath as she listened. "Oh, we were so happy!" exclaimed the girl. "I think no one could have been happier—we were never dull, not even when Noel was at school and father away; but, of course, we liked the evenings best!"
"Oh, yes, of course," echoed Althea, softly.
"I think the winter evenings were best," returned Waveney, reflectively, "because we could make up such a lovely fire. Father was often cold and tired, but he always smiled when he saw our fire, and sometimes we would roast chestnuts—that was Noel's treat—and tell stories, and sing. Father has such a beautiful voice, and so has Mollie, and when they sing in church, people look round and wonder who they are."
"Your brother is happy at school, then?"
"Happy! I should think so! He is so clever—even his masters say so; and then, he never shirks his work like other boys. Oh, do you know, Miss Harford, he has set his heart on getting a scholarship; he is working for his examination now. If he gets it, we hope he will be able to go to Oxford, for he does so want to be a barrister."
"But, my dear, eighty pounds a year would not pay his expenses at any university." And then Althea bit her lip as though she had said more than she intended.
"Oh, we know that," returned Waveney, eagerly, "but we thought—at least, Noel thought—that perhaps the veiled Prophet——" And then she broke into a laugh. "How absurd I am! As though you could understand! But Noel is always so ridiculous, and gives such funny names to people! The veiled Prophet is that kind friend of mother's who has sent him to St. Paul's."
"A friend of your mother's, my dear?" Althea's tone was a little perplexed.
"Father always says it is some friend of mother's, but, of course, it is all guess-work. The lawyer, who pays his bills, tells us nothing;" and then, partly to amuse her hearer, and partly because it gave her pleasure to narrate anecdotes of the lad's cleverness and sense of humour, she told her how Noel intended one day to go to Lincoln's Inn and interview the old lawyer. And there was something so racy in the girl's manner, and she imitated Noel's voice so well, that Althea, who had been trying to suppress her amusement for some minutes, gave up the effort, and broke into a hearty laugh.
"My dear, you have done me good," she said, when they were serious again, "and my evening, thanks to you, has passed very pleasantly. But I am going to send you away now, as I must not talk any more." And then, as Waveney rose from her chair at this dismissal, she drew her gently towards her, and kissed her cheek. "I am your friend; remember that, Waveney," she said, in her quiet voice, and the girl blushed with surprise and pleasure.
The next morning Waveney was summoned to the library. She found Althea looking pale and weak, but she had discarded her shade. She was resting in a deep, easy-chair, and her lap was full of letters.
Waveney found that her work was cut out for her, and for more than an hour she was busily engaged in writing the answers dictated to her. One was to Mrs. Wainwaring, and Waveney felt great pleasure in writing it. She had not forgotten Fairy Magnificent. She had taken a fancy to the pretty old lady, and longed to see her again. When Althea had finished her correspondence, she put a volume of "Robert Browning's Life" into the girl's hand.
"I must not use my eyes to-day," she said, with a sigh, "so if you will be good enough to read to me, I will finish my jersey. Knitting and crochet are my only amusements on my blind days. We work for the Seamen's Mission." And then she added, brightly, "It is such a luxury having some one to read to me. We shall get through so many nice books, you and I."
The morning passed so quickly that both of them were surprised when the gong sounded. After luncheon Waveney was told to go out and amuse herself until tea-time, and she spent a delightful afternoon rambling over the common, with Fuss and Fury frolicking beside her. The little terriers evidently regarded her as a new playmate, and were on the friendliest terms with her.
On going up to her room to dress for dinner, which was always an hour earlier on Thursdays, she noticed a group of girls in the verandah of the Porch House. Some were sitting down, and others standing about with racquets in their hands. Through the open window she could hear merry voices and laughter. Laura Cairns and the other girl were with them. The young housemaid who waited on her volunteered an explanation as she set down the hot-water can.
"Those are the young ladies from the Dereham shops, ma'am. It is early closing-day with most of them, and they come up early to play tennis." Althea looked amused when Waveney repeated this speech.
"They are young ladies to Dorcas," she said, laughing. "But, indeed, some of these girls are so intelligent, and so truly refined, that one need not grudge them the term. One or two of them would grace any drawing-room; but, of course, we have our dressy smart girls, too. By the bye, Waveney, do you play tennis?" And as Waveney shook her head, "I thought not. The houses in Cleveland Terrace have only small gardens, and you would have no opportunity of practising; but I am a devout believer in tennis."
"Mollie and I always longed to play," returned Waveney, with a sigh. "But, of course, it was out of the question for Mollie."
"Yes, but it is quite possible for you, and if you like, Nora Greenwell will teach you; she is our crack player. Even my sister, who is severely critical, allows that she makes wonderful strokes; eh, Dorrie?"
"She plays exceedingly well," returned Doreen, looking up from a scrap-book she was making for a children's hospital. "But then, Miss Greenwell does everything well. She is to take Rosalind's part to-night, is she not?" Althea winced slightly as Doreen asked the question. To her dying day she would never hear Rosalind's part read or acted, without secret emotion. She had dreaded this evening ever since the play ofAs You Like Itwas decided upon, but none the less she had determined to be present.
"Yes," she returned, rather hastily, "of course, Mr. Chaytor selected that part for her, as Nora is certainly our best reader. Minnie Alston will be Celia." And then she turned to Waveney. "They are my two favourites. When my sister wishes to tease me, she calls them my two paragons. And, indeed, I am proud of them. Oddly enough, they serve in the same shop—that big haberdasher—Gardiner & Wells."
"Miss Ward has not passed the shop, Althea. She has yet to make acquaintance with Dereham."
"Why do you call her Miss Ward?" returned Althea, playfully. "It is far too stiff a name for her. Follow my example and call her Waveney."
But Doreen looked a little dubious at this. She was a kind-hearted woman, but an undemonstrative one, and her sister's pretty speeches and little caressing ways often filled her with envy.
Dinner that evening was rather hurried, and the moment it was over Althea took up a light wrap and invited Waveney to accompany her to the Porch House.
The girls had finished their tea, and were now arranging the room for their reading. Althea paused doubtfully on the threshold as she heard the commotion.
"We are a little early," she said; "and they never like me to find them in confusion. I will show you the kitchen, Waveney. Is this not a nice little place? And that room beyond is where the girls wash their hands and brush their hair. There is a store-room, too, where I keep my jams and cake."
A pale-faced young widow was washing up the tea-cups as they entered. She brightened up as Althea addressed her.
"That is my caretaker, Mrs. Shaw," observed Althea, in a low voice. "Come, they are fairly quiet now, and we may as well go in, as Mr. Chaytor is generally punctual."
Waveney felt a little shy as she followed Althea. The great room seemed full of girls. There were thirty or forty of them, but Althea shook hands with every one, and had a pleasant word for each.
"This is my friend, Miss Ward," she said, in her clear voice, to the assembled girls. "Nora," singling out a tall girl, with an interesting face, "I am going to ask you to teach Miss Ward to play tennis. The asphalt court behind the Porch House will soon be ready. Thanks to the early closing movement, some of you will be able to have a game before it gets dark."
"Yes, indeed, Miss Harford."
"And we can practise our skating, too," interposed a pretty, dark girl.
Waveney found out afterwards that it was Minnie Alston, and that she and Nora were great chums.
"That will be charming," returned Althea. She looked more like Queen Bess than ever, as she stood in the circle of girls, with the light shining on her ruddy hair and soft ruffles. "Now, girls, we must take our places;" and then she beckoned Waveney to a long, high-backed settle that stood by the fire. The room was large, and a little cold, so a fire had been lighted.
Waveney looked round with intense interest. The Recreation Hall, as it was called, was of noble dimensions, and evidently well-lighted, from the number of windows.
There was a platform at one end, with a piano; and two or three easels and half a dozen round tables, with gay, crimson cloths, occupied the centre of the room. These were at once surrounded by groups of girls, some with books in their hands. The floor was stained, and some warm-coloured rugs gave an air of comfort. A well-filled book-case, a few well-chosen prints, and a carved oak chair known as "Miss Harford's throne," comprised the remainder of the furniture.
This evening Althea had vacated her throne for the settle, and a few minutes later Doreen entered the room, and with a pleasant nod to the girls, she seated herself by her sister.
Althea looked pleased, but she was evidently surprised. Waveney discovered afterwards that it was not Miss Harford's habit to attend the Thursday meetings. The sisters had their different hobbies. Doreen's active energies found plenty of scope in her "Home for Broken-down Workers," and though Althea had contributed largely to it, and always visited it at least once a week, it was Doreen who was the head and main-spring of the whole concern. The committee of management, comprised of a few personal friends in the neighbourhood, were merely tools in her vigorous hands.
"I wanted to hear Miss Greenwell's Rosalind," she whispered. And then a man's step sounded in the little passage. There was a quick rap at the door, the girls all rose from their seats, and Althea went forward with a smile of welcome.
"You are punctual to a minute, Thorold," she said, as she shook hands. "Miss Ward, this is our old friend, Mr. Chaytor;" but as Waveney bowed demurely, a sudden gleam of amusement sparkled in her eyes; for lo and behold! it was "the noticeable man, with large grey eyes" who had enquired the way in Ranelagh Gardens.
Macbeth."If we should fail!"Lady Macbeth."We fail!But screw your courage to the sticking place,And we'll not fail."Shakespeare.
Macbeth."If we should fail!"Lady Macbeth."We fail!But screw your courage to the sticking place,And we'll not fail."Shakespeare.
Waveney was secretly piqued to see that there was no sign of recognition in Mr. Chaytor's eyes. He bowed as though to a stranger in whom he took slight interest, exchanged a few words with the sisters, looked at his watch, and then lifted his hand as a signal for silence, and the buzzing, girlish voices were instantly hushed.
The readers had already taken their places round the centre table. Miss Harford's throne and a reading-desk stood beside it. The rest of the girls had grouped themselves round the tables with their work. A few of them had a volume of Shakespeare in their hands. The moment after Mr. Chaytor's entrance one of the girls had left the room rather hurriedly, and a minute later Althea was summoned.
Mr. Chaytor was giving a few instructions in a low voice, and had not noticed the circumstance until Althea returned with a perturbed countenance.
"I am so sorry," she said, in a tone of vexation; "it is most unfortunate, but Miss Pierson has one of her giddy attacks, and is obliged to go home. She is in tears about it, but, as I tell her, it is no fault of hers."
Mr. Chaytor looked blank. His audience was impatient; already he had heard sundry thimbles rap the table, and his readers were eager to begin. But now there was no Orlando, what was to be done? Such failure was not to be borne. He frowned, considered the point, and then looked persuasively at Althea.
"If you will be so good——" he began; but Althea shook her head and turned a little pale. Not for worlds would she have read that part. To her relief, Doreen came to her aid.
"You must not ask Althea," she said, in her quick, decided way. "She was quite ill yesterday, and her head is not right to-day. I wish I could help you, but I am no reader, as you know. But there is Miss Ward; I think she would do nicely. You will help them, will you not?" turning to Waveney.
Poor Waveney was ready to sink through the ground. She grew hot and then cold. "Do try, dear," Althea whispered, coaxingly; and, to her dismay, she found Mr. Chaytor's grave, intent look fixed on her. The clear grey eyes were somewhat beseeching.
"It will be a great kindness," he said. "Your audience will not be critical, Miss Ward. Let me beg you to do us this favour."
"It is impossible. I should spoil everything," stammered Waveney, in great distress. "I have only once readAs You Like It, and that was a long time ago."
But she might as well have spoken to the wind. Mr. Chaytor evidently had a will of his own. His only reply was to put a book in her hand and offer her a chair.
"I have promised that we will not be critical," he said, quietly. "You will soon get into the swing of it. To give you confidence, I will read Orlando's opening speech to Adam."
Then, as Waveney took her place, with hot cheeks and downcast eyes, a delightful clapping of hands welcomed her.
Althea looked anxious as she returned to the oak settle.
"Poor little thing, she is frightened to death," she whispered; "but Thorold was so masterful with her."
"I like men to be masterful," returned Doreen, in an undertone; "but I wish he would try it on with Joanna." And then they both smiled, and Althea said "hush!" as Mr. Chaytor's full, rich tones were audible.
Waveney's turn came all too soon. Her voice trembled, and was sadly indistinct, at first: but as one girl after another took up her cue, she soon forgot her nervousness, and entered into the spirit of the play. Several of the girls read well, but none of them equalled Nora Greenwell. Celia was passable, and Ph[oe]be certainly understood herrôle; but Nora read with a sprightliness and animation that surprised Waveney. The girl seemed a born actor. Her enunciation was clear, and the changes of expression in her voice, its mirth and passion, its rollicking, girlish humours and droll witcheries, were wonderfully rendered.
But it was Mr. Chaytor's reading that kept Waveney spell-bound. When as First Lord he narrates the story of the melancholy Jacques and the sobbing deer, the pathos of his voice brought the tears to her eyes; and as Touchstone his dry humour and clownish wit were so cleverly given that once Waveney laughed and was covered with confusion.
Twice the reading was interrupted by a charming little interlude, when three or four girls went up on the platform and sang "Under the Greenwood Tree" and "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind." At the conclusion of the play, which was shortened purposely, Althea took her seat at the piano, and all the girls joined in an evening hymn.
Waveney did not sing, for her heart was full. The evening's performance had excited her, and her imagination, which was always remarkably vivid, seemed suddenly to grasp the full beauty and meaning of the scene. Was not this Christian socialism in its fairest aspect? she thought. Could any picture be sweeter or more symbolical than that group of young faces gathered round the two dear ladies; for Doreen was on the platform, too. Some of the faces were far from being beautiful—some were absolutely plain; and one or two sickly-looking girls with tangled hair, and decked out with cheap finery, were singularly unattractive. And yet, as Althea's long, slim fingers touched the notes, and the dear old tune that they had loved in childhood floated through the wide hall, each face brightened into new life.
"They are all workers," thought Waveney, as she watched them. "Some of them have hard, toilsome lives; they are away from their homes and amongst strangers, and, though they are so young, they know weariness and heartache. But when they come here, it is like home to each one, and it makes them happy. If I were a shop-girl at Dereham, I should look forward to my Thursday evening as I look forward to Sunday;" and then she said to herself, happily, "To-morrow I shall say the day after to-morrow, and how delightful that will be!"
Waveney was smiling to herself, when she suddenly raised her eyes and encountered Mr. Chaytor's amused glance. He had evidently been watching her for some time, for he was leaning back in the carved arm-chair, with the air of a man who felt he had earned his repose.
The next moment he came towards her. The hymn was over, but the girls were still gathered round Althea and wishing her good-night. Under the cover of their voices he addressed Waveney.
"I have not properly thanked you for your kind assistance, Miss Ward, but I assure you that I was most grateful. Miss Pierson's indisposition had placed us in an awkward dilemma, but you came to our help most nobly."
"I am afraid I acquitted myself badly," returned Waveney. She would have given much for a word of praise. People generally liked her reading, but she feared that Mr. Chaytor would be no ordinary critic.
"You did very well," he returned, quietly. "Indeed, considering you had only once read the play, I ought to give you greater praise. You see, Shakespeare is a sort of divinity to me. I think a lifetime is hardly long enough to study him properly. My reverence for him makes me unreasonable. Orlando did not suit you; you would have made a better Rosalind. If you were staying at the Red House, and liked to join my Thursday evening classes, I could give you a few valuable hints."
"I should like to join them," observed Waveney, colouring a little, "if Miss Harford could spare me." And as he looked a little perplexed at this, she added hastily, "I have come to the Red House as Miss Althea's reader and companion." And this explanation evidently satisfied him.
But the next moment, as Waveney was moving away, he stopped her.
"Will you pardon me, Miss Ward, if I ask if we have ever met before? I have a fancy that your voice,"—he was going to say eyes, but he checked himself—"is not quite unknown to me. I have been puzzling over it half the evening."
"Oh, yes, we have met before," returned Waveney, who was quite at her ease now. "It was in old Ranelagh Gardens, and you asked us to direct you to Dunedin Terrace. I hope you found it;" and he smiled assent to this.
"You were with your sister," he hazarded, and Waveney nodded; and then Doreen joined them, and Mr. Chaytor said no more.
Of course he recalled it now, and it was only last Monday too. But how was he to identify the little girl in her shabby hat with this dainty little figure in white?
True, her eyes had attracted him that day, but this evening he had not seen them fully until a few minutes ago. He recalled everything now; the beautiful face of the other girl, and the sweet, refined voices of both. He had wondered who they were, and why they were sitting hand in hand in the sunshine, and looking so sad; and it was only three days ago.
Doreen proposed that Waveney should come back with her to the house.
"My sister and Mr. Chaytor often stop behind for a little chat about the girls," she explained. And Waveney, glancing at them as she left the room, saw that she was right.
Althea had seated herself on the settle, and was holding up a small screen between her face and the firelight, and Mr. Chaytor was standing with one arm leaning against the mantelpiece looking down at her.
"I am so glad the reading went off so well," she said, when the door had closed after her sister and Waveney. "At one moment I was terribly afraid, until our little Orlando came to the rescue. She read very nicely, Thorold."
"Yes, very fairly, considering all things; but the part did not suit her. I hope you were proud of your petprotegée. I consider Miss Greenwell achieved a striking success to-night. I am not easy to please, but really once or twice I found myself saying 'Bravo!' under my breath."
"No; as a critic you are terribly censorious. Thorold—you will laugh at me—but Nora's cleverness and her undoubted talents almost frighten me. What is the good of her learning all this Euclid and French, and robbing herself of some of her rest to get time for her studies, if she is to spend her life in snipping off lengths of ribbon and tape from one end of the year to the other?"
"All the good in the world!" he returned, in a most energetic tone. "Why need the snipping of ribbon, as you describe it, interfere with the development of the higher life? Your argument is a weak one. You might as well say that cutting muslin by the yard for so many hours at a stretch interferes with the religious life; and yet I expect plenty of shop-women are good Christians."
There was a flash of amusement in Althea's eyes, though she pretended to be indignant.
"How absurd you are! But I will not believe that you have so misunderstood me. Let me explain what I really do mean. I am very proud of Nora, but I am so afraid that all this education and cultivation will make her discontented with her surroundings; no life can be perfect that is out of harmony with its environment. I know a dozen girls from Gardiner & Wells', and only one of them, Minnie Alston, is worthy of Nora's friendship. She is very lonely, and, as you know, her home is most unsatisfactory—a virago of a step-mother, and a lot of boisterous children. Her work does not suit her, but she dare not throw herself out of a situation."
"Yes, I see what you mean," returned Mr. Chaytor, gravely. "Increase of knowledge often creates loneliness, and one member of a family may move on a different plane, where his relations cannot follow him. But if they are sensible people they do not beg him to climb down to them, and leave off his star-gazing. I think we need not disquiet ourselves about Miss Greenwell; perhaps she may have good things waiting for her."
Mr. Chaytor spoke in an enigmatical tone—he was grave and reticent by nature, and some up-to-date people would have thought a few of his ideas antiquated. He had a great dislike to any kind of gossip, and never mentioned reports which reached him until they were actually verified. Some one had hinted to him that Nora Greenwell had found favour in the eyes of her employer's son. Robert Gardiner was well educated and intelligent, but his parents, who were very proud of him, wished him to marry well.
"I have saved my pennies, Bob, and when you think of taking a wife I shall buy a plot of ground in the Mortimer Road and build you a house." But as Mr. Gardiner said this he was thinking of his partner's only child—Annie Wells. She was a pretty, fresh-looking girl, and when her father died she would have six or seven thousand pounds—for Gardiner & Wells drove a flourishing trade in Dereham.
If Mr. Chaytor had mentioned this report to Althea it would have thrown a little light on a circumstance that had come under her observation.
There had been a mistake in her quarterly account with Gardiner & Wells, and one Thursday afternoon Robert Gardiner had walked up to the Red House to speak to Miss Harford.
Althea kept him waiting for ten minutes, as she was entertaining a visitor; but on entering the dining-room she found him standing at the window, so intent on watching a game of tennis that she addressed him by name before she could gain his attention.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Harford," he said, hastily; he was a fair, good-looking man, and almost gentlemanly in manner. "I was watching the game. You have a capital tennis-court."
"So every one says. Miss Greenwell is our best player."
"She plays splendidly. I never saw such strokes;" and all through the brief interview Althea noticed how his eyes were following the girl's graceful movements.
"If Nora and Minnie had not been playing, I think I should have invited him to have a game," she said afterwards to Doreen; "but I thought of Gardinerpère, and was afraid I might shock his sense of propriety."
"It would not have been good taste," returned Doreen, sensibly. "You may depend upon it that Robert Gardiner has very little to do with the young ladies of the establishment." And then they both laughed.
"By the bye, Althea," observed Mr. Chaytor, when they had finished the subject of Nora Greenwell, "I am so glad you have taken your friends' advice, and have engaged a reader. I am sure Miss Ward will be a comfort to you."
"I think so, too. She is very bright and intelligent, and she talks in the most amusing way. She is so natural and unsophisticated."
"So I should imagine. Where did you pick her up?"
"Doreen applied to an agency in Harley Street. But Thorold," and here her voice changed, "what singular coincidences there are in life! Is it not strange that she should be Everard Ward's daughter?"
Mr. Chaytor was now sitting beside her, and as she said this he turned round and looked at her. He was evidently very much surprised.
"I had no idea of that," he said, in a low tone. "There are so many Wards. Such a thought would never have occurred to me." And then he glanced at her keenly. "Is it not a little awkward for you, Althea?" Then a faint flush came to her cheeks. She was five or six years older than Thorold, but they had been old playfellows and dear friends, and his brother had been one of Althea's lovers in the Kitlands days; and he knew all about the Ward romance, and, lad as he was, he had predicted its ending, as he watched Dorothy play the part of Rosalind in the pastoral play.
"I do not see why it should be awkward," she observed, quietly. "I have not met Mr. Ward for twenty years, but I should have no objection to do so to-morrow. He is very poor, Thorold, and I am afraid they are often in difficulties. His pictures do not sell well."
"Perhaps they are not worth much. I fancy Ward's genius is purely imaginary. None of his friends believed that he would do much as an artist. Well, it is getting late, and I am keeping you up, and then Doreen will scold me. Let me help you turn out the lights, and then I will walk with you to the house. It is a glorious night, and I shall enjoy my stroll home."
But as they stood in the porch a moment in the starlight, Althea touched his arm.
"How is Joa?" she asked, kindly.
"She is quite well!" he returned. "Joanna seldom ails anything; but she is no happier, poor soul. I sometimes think she never will be." Then his voice grew suddenly tired. "I do not profess to understand women, Althea. I suppose some natures are naturally depressed, and live in an atmosphere of worry; but they are scarcely pleasant house-mates. I am afraid that is hardly a brotherly speech;" and he laughed a little grimly as he shook hands.
"Poor Thorold!" Althea said to herself, as she crossed the hall. "Joa is the Old Man of the Mountains to him; she is a dead weight on him. And yet how seldom he utters a word of complaint!—scarcely ever, and only to me. But he can say what he likes to me; he knows I am a safe confidante."