CHAPTER XL.

"Down on your knees,And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love."As You Like It.

"He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural."Twelfth Night.

It is given to few favored mortals to know such hours or moments of intense happiness, that their cup of bliss seems well-nigh overflowing. But such a moment had come to Moritz Ingram and Mollie.

When Gwendoline came to summon them to luncheon, two such radiant faces beamed on her that she smiled back at them with joyous sympathy.

"Come here and congratulate me, Gwen," exclaimed her brother. "Mollie has forgiven me for my little ruse; she knows an idealist must have plenty of scope, and that everything is fair in love or war." And as Mollie did not contradict this audacious statement, Gwendoline let it pass without rebuke.

"Moritz, she is just perfect," she whispered, as Mollie left them and went down the gallery, in search of Waveney. "Oh, I know," as they watched the pretty, girlish figure with its awkward, lurching gait. "It is a pity the dear child is so lame; but she is like a little stray angel for loveliness. There, she has found her sister; we must leave them for a few minutes together."

Mollie discovered Waveney standing in one of the window recesses, looking down on the terrace. At the sound of footsteps, she turned round.

"Well, Mollie," she said, trying to smile, but her lip quivered. "So the Prince has come, after all, and my sweetheart is to be a great lady."

"Are you glad, Wave?" asked Mollie, with a loving hug, "really and truly glad?"

Then Waveney's dark eyes filled suddenly with tears.

"Glad that my Mollie should have this beautiful home, and all these fine things? My darling, what a question! Don't you know that I love you better than myself? I could cry with joy to think that there will be no more dull, anxious days in store for you, no worrying over Ann's stupidity, and no fretting because sixpence would not go as far as a shilling." Then, as Mollie laughed and kissed her, "I wonder what the Black Prince would have said if he had seen that poor little housekeeping book, drenched with tears?"

"Don't, Wave—please don't remind me of my silliness. Oh dear, how unhappy I used to be! And now"—and here Mollie gazed with delighted eyes down the splendid gallery—"to think that I shall ever be mistress of this! It is just like a wonderful fairy story; for none of our castles in the air—not even Kitlands—came up to this."

"Of course not," returned Waveney, energetically; "only Cinderella could compare with it." And then, in a teasing voice, "Your ladyship will not need to glue your face against shop-windows any more. You will have diamonds and pearls of your own."

"Yes, and a pony-carriage, with cream-coloured ponies!" exclaimed Mollie, joyously. "And Wave, just think! Moritz is going to give me riding-lessons! Oh, his kindness and generosity are beyond words. Darling, you must love him for his goodness to your poor little Mollie; and Wave, remember, all this will make no difference. I think I care for it so much because I shall be able to help you and father."

They were interrupted at this moment. Moritz carried off Mollie, and Gwen proposed that they should follow. "For, while Moritz has been dramatising," she observed, "you two poor things have been starving." And Waveney could not deny that she was excessively hungry.

The old, grey-haired butler was in his place when they entered the dining-room. Moritz stopped to speak to him.

"Tell Mrs. Wharton that I shall bring Miss Ward to see her this afternoon," he said; and then they took their places.

Both the girls were a little subdued by the unwonted magnificence of their environment, but they struggled gallantly against the feeling.

As Mollie ate her chicken, and sipped her champagne, she wondered how soon she would get used to be waited upon by two tall footmen, and how she would feel when she was first addressed as "My lady." "I hope I shall not laugh," she observed to Waveney afterwards.

Waveney was wondering why she had never noticed that Moritz had rather an aristocratic look. Their old friend, Monsieur Blackie, had always had good manners; but now that he was in his own house, and at his own table, she was struck by his well-bred air and perfect ease.

"He looks like a viscount," she said to herself, "and yet he is perfectly his old self. Mollie was wiser than all of us, for she found out that he was worthy of her love." And then Waveney fell into a reverie over her strawberries. Her thoughts had strayed to a certain dull, narrow house in Dereham. Thorold Chaytor's grave face and intellectual brow seemed to rise before her. If she had his love, she would not envy Mollie her rank and riches; she would envy no one. Even now she had her secret happiness, for the words she had heard that sorrowful night were for ever stamped on her memory. "Trouble? when there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" How, then, could she doubt that she was beloved?

When luncheon was over, Moritz took Mollie to the housekeeper's room and introduced her to Mrs. Wharton. Gwen accompanied them; and then they went back to the picture-gallery, and Mollie and Waveney feasted their eyes on the pictures and sculpture. It was pretty to see the girls when they recognised poor old "King Canute." Mollie actually kissed the canvas. "You dear old thing!" she said, apostrophising it. Wretched daub as it was, crude in colouring and defective in execution, Moritz proudly termed it the gem of the gallery.

"It helped me to win my Mollie," he said to Gwen, who was regarding it dubiously. "I painted many a worse picture when we were at the Tin Shanty, eh, Gwen?" And her assent to this was so emphatic that Moritz felt decidedly snubbed; but he rose to the occasion nobly.

"Mr. Ward has not quite worked out his subject," he went on; "but his idea is good, and I shall always venerate it as the failure of a brave man. 'A gallery of failures.' Would that not be a happy thought, Althea? Suppose you and I start a hospital, refuge, or whatever you like to call it, for diseased works of art? We would buy them cheaply, at half-price, and the poor things should live out their time." And here Moritz looked round the company for approval.

"How about the survival of the fittest?" asked his sister, scornfully.

"Oh, that will be all right," he returned, easily. "Besides, we should have no very fit specimens, in a gallery of failures. They would be in all stages of disease. But just think, my dear, what an encouragement it would be to the artists! 'If my failure is remunerative,' the poor beggars would say to themselves, 'I must just try again, and do better next time.'"

"You are very absurd, Moritz." But Gwen looked decidedly amused. And Mollie, privately, thought it a clever idea.

When they had finished inspecting all the treasures in the gallery, Gwen summoned them to tea. The tea-table was in the prettiest of the alcoves, which was large enough to hold seven or eight people.

After this they went down to the gardens, and through a small fir-wood, to the Silent Pool. Here the carriage was to meet them.

Mollie and Waveney were enchanted with the Silent Pool. The still, green pool, surrounded by the dark firs, the beauty, the stillness, and the solemnity of the spot, inspired them with awe. To Althea it was a favourite and well-remembered place. She had visited it more than once, in the old viscount's time. For it had never been closed to the public. That still pool, with its dark, hidden depths, reminded her of her own life, with its calm surface, and troubled under-current. "There are so many lives like that," she thought, as she looked back at the solemn scene. And then she followed the others, down the winding path, to the little inn, which was known as the Brentwood Arms. Here Gwendoline bade them an affectionate farewell. And then they drove off to the station.

"It has been the most wonderful day that I have ever spent in my life!" exclaimed Molly, a little breathlessly.

"It has been a happy day to me," returned Moritz, in a low tone. "There can only be one day more perfect, and that will be our wedding day, Mollie."

When they reached Waterloo, Althea refused to allow Moritz to accompany them to the Red House. Mollie was tired and over-excited, and must rest. He was to come to them the following evening, to meet Mr. Ward and Thorold. There was to be a sort of friendly re-union. It was Noel's birthday, too. But there must be no more excitement for the present. And Althea was so firm and inexorable that Moritz had to yield.

"I think we are all tired," observed Waveney. "But it has been a lovely day." And then, in spite of Althea's advice to rest and be quiet, she and Mollie discussed their delightful picnic. Only, as they drove down High Street, and passed a certain house, Waveney became a little silent. The blinds were up, and the lamp was lighted. Waveney distinctly saw a tall figure standing by the window. Althea evidently recognized it, too. "Thorold has come back early from the Porch House," she said. And then she spoke on quite a different subject to Mollie.

The next few weeks were busy ones at the Red House. There were long mornings of shopping, and endless interviews with dressmakers and milliners; and the all-important business of thetrousseauoccupied the three ladies from morning to night.

Mollie took a child-like pleasure in it all. Prosperity did not spoil her. She was still the same simple, light-hearted Mollie of old, and the one drawback to her perfect happiness was the thought that Waveney could not have it too. "I wish I could give you half mytrousseau," she said, quite piteously. But Waveney only laughed at her.

"Don't be a simpleton, Mollie," she returned. "Why, you foolish child, there are actually tears in your eyes! Don't you know that all these fine things—these satins and silks and laces—would be most incongruous in my position? What could I do with them at Cleveland Terrace?"

"But you will be at Brentwood half your time," retorted Mollie. "Moritz says he could not have the heart to separate us; and he is so fond of you, Wave."

"Yes, dear; but all the same, I must not expect to be as smart as your ladyship." And then Mollie made a face at her.

Moritz had not forgotten his little Samaritan, and Althea had her orders. Besides the beautiful bridesmaid's dress, a tailor-made tweed, and two pretty evening frocks were provided for Waveney; and then, indeed, Mollie was content.

There was so much to do that it was not until the beginning of July that Waveney and Mollie went back to Cleveland Terrace to spend the last few weeks with their father and Noel. The wedding was to be from the Red House, and it was already arranged that they were to return a week before the marriage.

All this time Moritz had haunted his cousin's house morning, noon, and night, and had refused to consider himself in the way. Every few days Everard dined there, and now and then Thorold was invited to meet him.

Everard was now quite at home at the Red House. Almost insensibly he had relapsed into the old intimacy with Doreen and Althea. He forgot he was only a poor drudge of a drawing-master. He forgot his shabby dress-coat, and pitiful little economies. Brighter days were in store for him; his little Mollie was to be the wife of a nobleman, and Waveney was coming back to him to be the light of his home; and there was little doubt in his mind that Noel would distinguish himself and pass his examination.

"I feel better days are coming," he said once to Althea. She was his old friend and confidant; he would often speak to her of his children's future, and her gentle sympathy never failed him.

It was Althea's advice that he sought, when Moritz told his future father-in-law that he intended to allow him an income. Everard, who was as proud as he was poor, was sorely perturbed in his mind when he heard this.

"What am I to do?" he said, in a vexed voice, when he found himself alone with Althea that evening. They were all in the garden together—Ingram, and Thorold Chaytor, and Joanna, as well as Moritz. They had broken up in little groups, and Everard and Althea had strolled down a side path behind the Porch House.

"I wish you would give me your advice," he went on, "for I am in a terrible fix. Ralston is the most generous fellow I ever met; he wants me to give up my teaching and accept an income from him. The fact is," continued Everard, rather bitterly, "he is unwilling that his father-in-law should be only a poor devil of a drawing-master. It is just his pride, confound him! But, as I tell him, I have my pride, too. I am afraid I hurt his feelings, though he was too kind to tell me so."

"Moritz is very sensitive," returned Althea; "in spite of eccentricities, he is very soft-hearted; his generosity amounts to a vice; he is never happy unless he is giving."

"Oh, that is all very well," replied Everard, in rather a huffy voice. "But if I do not choose to be indebted to my son-in-law, surely my feelings must be considered as well as his."

"True, my dear friend." But Althea smiled as she spoke. "But it seems to me, if I may speak frankly, that your pride is at fault here. Moritz wishes to be a son to you; he will be your Mollie's husband; he has more than he can spend—every year he is likely to grow richer, for, as you know, they have found coal on the Welsh property; he and Mollie will be rolling in money, and——" Here she hesitated.

"And Mollie's father will be out at elbows. Why do you not finish your sentence, Miss Harford?"

"No; I should not have put it that way," returned Althea. "But I think it will be rather hard on Moritz, and doubly hard on Mollie, if you refuse the gift that their filial love offers you. Mollie knows how you loathe teaching. It is the crown of her happiness that her marriage will enable her to help you and Waveney. Moritz intends to give her a magnificent allowance for her own private use, and directly they were engaged he informed her that he intended to settle an income on her father. Mr. Ward, you cannot be proud with your own children. Why not accept your son-in-law's kindness? I am sure you will not repent it." And then Everard yielded.

Mollie and Waveney were overjoyed when they heard that Althea's counsel had prevailed, and Moritz was excessively pleased; he was even disposed to encroach a little on his privileges, only Althea begged him to be cautious.

"You and Moritz must bide your time," she said, one day, to the little bride-elect; "you have both gained a victory, and you must be content with that for the present. Your father told Waveney the other day that nothing would induce him to leave Cleveland Terrace. Your mother died there," she continued, in a low voice, "and I suppose that is why he is attached to the house."

"Yes; but it is such a dingy, dull little place," returned Mollie, sadly, "and Moritz meant to buy such a pretty house, and furnish it so beautifully. But I suppose we shall have to wait."

"Indeed, you must. But cheer up, Mollie; new carpets and curtains, and light, tasteful papers will soon transform Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace, into a charming abode—indeed, I do not believe you will recognise it."

"And Ann is to be sent away? You are sure of that, Miss Althea?"

"Yes, and two good servants are to replace her. Waveney will have no trouble with her housekeeping. Now I hear Moritz's voice, and you know his lordship objects to be kept waiting!" And at this hint Mollie blushed beautifully and ran away.

"We are ne'er like angels till our passions die."—Thomas Dekker.

"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive, and a hand to execute."—Edward Gibbon.

The evening before Waveney and Mollie returned to Cleveland Terrace there was a family gathering at the Red House. Everard Ward and his son and Lord Ralston dined there.

Waveney had secretly hoped that Mr. Chaytor would have been invited; but Althea, who was not aware of the girl's secret, had said, more than once, that no outsiders were to be admitted, and Waveney vainly tried to hide her depression. In spite of home-sickness and longings for the society of her twin sister, she had been very happy at the Red House. Her affection for Althea only had deepened with time, and the thought that she was no longer to minister to her comfort filled her with profound sadness.

Dereham and Erpingham had grown very dear to her, and the idea of separation from her kind friends made her heart heavy.

"You will often be with us," Althea said, trying to cheer her. "Do you think Doreen and I mean to lose sight of you? No, my dear, no. 'Once loved is always loved.' That is the Harford motto, and most certainly you are not losing your friends."

"No, but it will not be the same," returned Waveney, sadly. But the real cause of her depression was not the parting from her beloved Queen Bess. If she could only say good-bye to her other friend! If she could see him again and have some look and word to treasure up in her memory! On the last Porch House Thursday he had hardly spoken to her. It almost seemed as though he had avoided her, and certainly there had been no farewell. Most likely he would expect to see her on the following Thursday, and then Althea would tell him that she was gone.

Waveney tried to console herself with the thought that she would see him at the wedding, for both he and his sister were to be among the guests. But when one is in love even five weeks' absence seems like an eternity in prospect. And Thorold's silent influence and unspoken affection was already dominating Waveney's entire nature.

It was a sultry July day, and Althea had proposed to Doreen that ices and dessert should be served in the verandah of the Porch House, overlooking the tennis lawn; and when dinner was over she led the way to the garden. When they came in sight of the verandah, Lord Ralston expressed his approval with his usual frankness, but Everard looked at Althea rather meaningly.

"It reminds me of Kitlands," he said, in a low voice. "Don't you remember you often had dessert on the terrace?" And Althea smiled assent.

"Dorrie and I are very fond of theseal frescomeals," she observed. "I think in summer we should like to have them all in the open air."

And then, as they seated themselves in the comfortable hammock chairs, Doreen came across the grass with some letters in her hand. She had intercepted the postman on his way to the house.

"They are mostly for me," she said, looking at the addresses. "One from Aunt Sara, and another from Laura Cameron, and Mrs. Bell's account. Yours will keep, Althea; it is only a business-looking document from Mr. Duncan. Correspondence with one's family lawyer is not particularly interesting," added Doreen, briskly.

"Is old Andrew Duncan still in existence?" asked Lord Ralston, casually, as he handed an ice to Mollie.

Everard looked up quickly.

"Andrew Duncan & Son, of Number Twenty-one, Lincoln's Inn? I did not know he was your lawyer, Miss Harford."

But Noel suddenly broke in.

"Why, that is our Duncan, father!" he exclaimed, rather excitedly. "The veiled Prophet is his client, you know. That reminds me," he went on, with a glance at his sisters, "I am going to beard the old lion in his den, one of these days. The Veiled Prophet shall be unmasked, as sure as my name is Noel Ward."

"Noel is speaking of the unknown benefactor who is so generously educating him," explained Everard. "The silly children always speak of him as the Veiled Prophet——"

But here he stopped suddenly, as though he were shot. He had been addressing Althea, who was sitting near him; but at his first word, her pale face had become suddenly suffused with a painful flush, which deepened every moment. That scorching blush seemed burnt into her very soul as she sat with downcast eyes, unable to say a word.

"Will any one have any strawberries?" asked Doreen, hastily. Althea's confusion filled her with compunction, and she was anxious to atone for her carelessness. She handed some to Everard as she spoke, but he waved them aside with some impatience.

"Good heavens! was it you, Althea?" he asked, in a tone of dismay.

Then Noel sprang from his chair.

"It is Miss Harford!" he said, loudly. "By Jove! this is a surprise!" and the boy's face grew suddenly red. "All these years we have been talking of the Veiled Prophet, and it never entered into our heads that it was a prophetess."

"My friend the humourist has evidently hit it," observed Moritz, airily; but he was looking keenly at Althea. "Other people can play comedies," he said to himself; and then he twirled his moustache until it was perfectly ferocious-looking, and fell into a reverie.

Poor Althea tried to speak, tried to rise from her chair, but two pairs of white arms kept her a prisoner. Waveney and Mollie were kneeling beside her.

"Dear, dearest Miss Althea, was it really you?" asked Waveney, and the tears were running down her face, and Mollie was covering her hand with kisses. "How could we guess that you were Noel's unknown friend?"

"Hold your tongue, old Storm-and-Stress!" interrupted Noel, with boyish abruptness. "A fellow can't edge in a word with you women. It is for me to thank Miss Harford; it is for me——Oh, confound it all!" And here Noel, to everybody's surprise, and his own too, suddenly bolted.

"Let me go to him!" pleaded Althea, gently.

She had not said one word, or lifted her eyes to Everard's face. As she passed him, her dress almost brushing against him, he made no attempt to detain her. Doreen followed her; and then Moritz joined the agitated little group.

"My cousin is a good woman," he said, with solemnity, as though he had just discovered the fact. "She has noble purposes, and has the courage to follow them out. I admire especially thefinesseand cleverness with which she has elaborated and carried out her beneficent scheme. It might almost be compared, in its grandeur of conception, and its marvellous diplomacy, with another drama of human life, in which I have played a part." And here Moritz looked at his youngfiancée, and his humour changed. "Come and take a turn with me, Mollie darling," he whispered in the girl's ear; and then Waveney and her father were left alone.

No one ever knew what passed between Althea and Noel in the Porch House; but, for the rest of the evening, Noel was unusually grave and thoughtful. But as Althea was about to return to the verandah, where the lad had already betaken himself, she came upon Everard. He was standing alone in the porch, and was evidently waiting for her.

It was now late, and the moon had risen, and Everard's face was illuminated by the white light. At the sight of him, Althea's assumed calmness vanished; but she tried to speak in the old friendly way.

"Were you looking for me, Mr. Ward?" she asked, hurriedly. "Are they all in the verandah still?"

"Yes," he returned, curtly; "but I have come to ask you a question. Althea, why have you done this; why have you heaped these coals of fire upon my head?"

Poor Althea! The avalanche had fallen, and she had nothing more to fear; never again, as she told herself, would she live through such a moment of humiliation and shame. The purity of her motives and the absence of all self-seeking and consciousness, would make it easy to defend herself.

"Mr. Ward," she said, in her sweet, pathetic voice, "we are old friends, and to me the claims and responsibilities of friendship are very real and sacred. When your trouble came, when you lost your dear wife, I heard from a mutual friend that you were struggling in deep waters, and that, in spite of hard work, you found it difficult to make ends meet."

"That is true," returned Everard. "But——"

"Please let me tell you everything," she pleaded. "This mutual friend often spoke to me of your twin girls, but one day he mentioned Noel. 'He is a bright little lad,' he said, 'and very sharp and intelligent; but Ward frets sadly about his education. He has no means of sending him to a good school, and he is very down about it, poor fellow!' Those were his very words. I never forgot them. I know, from your own lips, what a bright happy boyhood yours had been. You had told me so many stories of your Eton days, and it seemed to me so grievous that your son should be robbed of his rightful advantages."

"You forget that it was his father who was to blame for that," returned Everard, with emotion. "My children must reap what their father sowed. When I married Dorothy, we made up our minds to renounce the good things of this life. Oh, I know the name of your informant, Althea; it was Carstairs! He was a good fellow, and he was in love with my Dorothy; but when I carried her off, he never turned against me. I remember that evening, and how low I was in my mind about the poor boy. But there! I am interrupting you, and you have not finished."

"There is not much to say," replied Althea, gently. "Mr. Carstairs' account troubled me greatly. I wanted to help you, but I knew, and Doreen knew, too, that any offers of assistance would have been indignantly refused. We Harfords are obstinate folk, Mr. Ward, and we love to get our own way, and then and there I concocted my little scheme, and my good Mr. Duncan helped me to carry it out. But for Doreen's unlucky speech, the Veiled Prophetess would have remained veiled." And then she tried to laugh; but the tears were in her eyes. "Everard, dear old friend, you are not angry with me?" and she stretched out her hand to him.

"Angry!" returned Everard, vehemently. "One might as soon quarrel with one's guardian angel, for Heaven knows you have been an angel of goodness to me and mine."

"No, I have only been your friend," returned Althea, a little sadly. "But now it is your turn to be generous, and do me a little favour. Will you let me finish my work? Noel is a dear boy, and I have grown to love him; he and I understand each other perfectly. It was always my intention to send him to Oxford. Mr. Ward, you will not refuse me this pleasure?"

But Everard shook his head.

"We will talk about that later on, when Noel has got his scholarship;" and something in his tone warned Althea to say no more. "She would bide her time," she said to herself; and then, after a few more grateful words from Everard, she made some excuse and returned to the house. But for some time Everard did not follow her. He lighted his cigarette, and paced up and down the garden path.

Coals of fire, indeed! They were scorching him at this very moment. Long years ago he had wronged this woman, and she knew it. He had inflicted on her the most deadly wound that a man can inflict. He had won her heart, and then in his fickleness he had left her; and now, in her sweet nobility, Althea had rendered him good for evil. Secretly and unsuspected, she had befriended him and his; but even now he little guessed the extent of her benevolence, and that, in the home for workers, many of his pictures had found a place. Althea had kept her secret well.

"Good God!" he said, almost with a groan. "Why are men so weak and women so faithful? I can never repay her goodness." And then he thought of his dead wife. Dorothy had been the love of his youth; she was the mother of his children; he had never ceased to regret her loss, and he had always told himself that no other could take her place. In his way he had been faithful, too, but he knew now, when it was too late, that he had built his happiness on the wrecked hopes of another woman's heart.

The next day the girls returned to Cleveland Terrace. Althea had driven them to the door, and then she left them. Everard was out, but as they stood in the old studio, hand in hand, Mollie's bright face clouded.

"I never thought it was quite so shabby," she said, rather dejectedly. "How bare and comfortless it looks!" Probably Waveney had thought the same, but she played the hypocrite gallantly.

"Nonsense, Mollie," she returned, energetically. "We are just spoiled and demoralized by all the comforts of the Red House. We will unpack our boxes, and then we will put the room in order. Moritz has sent in a cartload of flowers, and it will be such fun arranging them!" And then Mollie cheered up; but she had no idea, as Waveney chattered and bustled about, that her head was as heavy as lead. It was Thursday, and that evening Mr. Chaytor would look for her. But the place by Nora Greenwell would be vacant.

After the first day, things were better. Lord Ralston paid them daily visits, and Althea and Doreen drove over constantly from the Red House. Everard was generally absent. He had not yet given up his drawing classes. But the summer vacation would set him free. Waveney and Mollie contrived to amuse themselves; they sat in old Ranelagh Gardens with their work and books. Moritz often followed them there. Sometimes, when Mr. Ward had a leisure afternoon, he would organise some pleasure-trip. Once he drove them down to Richmond, and they had dinner at the "Star and Garter." And one sultry July day they went by train to Cookham, and spent the afternoon in the Quarry Woods. Indeed, Moritz was never happy unless he was contriving some new pleasure for his darling.

The wedding was fixed for the tenth of August, and on the third, Mollie and Waveney returned to the Red House. Thetrousseauwas complete, but there were finishing touches that needed Mollie's presence.

When she tried on her wedding-dress, and Althea had flung over her head the magnificent Brussels lace veil that was one of Lord Ralston's presents, she and Doreen exchanged looks of admiration.

"She is almost too lovely," Althea said afterwards. "And then, she is so unconscious of her great beauty. 'I know I am pretty,' she once said to me. 'And I am so glad, for Moritz's sake.' I think I must tell Gwen that."

"Man is his own star, and the soul that canRender an honest and a perfect man,Commands all light, all influence, all fate,Nothing to him falls early, or too late.Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,Our fatal shadows, that walk by us still."John Fetcher.

"They laugh that win."Othello.

Two or three days before the wedding there was another gathering at the Red House. Gwendoline and her husband were staying with Lord Ralston, and Doreen suggested that the Chaytors and Everard Ward should be invited to meet them. Althea made no objection. Only when her sister proposed dessert in the verandah, she gently, but decidedly, put her veto upon it.

"There are too many; we had better remain in the dining-room," she replied, with heightened colour. And Doreen, who, with all her bluntness, had plenty of tact, said no more.

Every one accepted. But at the last moment Joanna excused herself, on the plea of indisposition. But Tristram Chaytor accompanied his brother. Waveney and Mollie were dressed alike that evening, in soft, ivory-coloured silk. Only Mollie's spray of flowers were pink, and Waveney wore dark red carnations. Thorold, who sat by her at dinner, noticed a diamond bangle on her arm. Waveney saw him looking at it.

"It is a present from Lord Ralston," she said. "I am to be Mollie's bridesmaid, you know. Was it not good of him. I never had anything so lovely in my life before."

Thorold murmured some response. Then he addressed his next neighbour. Waveney was dangerously attractive that evening; her dark eyes were bright with excitement and pleasure, and in her white dress she looked more like Undine than ever. The conversation during dinner turned upon long engagements. It was Gwendoline who started the subject; a friend of hers, who had been engaged for eight years, had been married that very morning. Gwendoline brought down on herself a chorus of animadversion and censure from the gentlemen, for saying that she rather approved of long engagements, and a warm discussion followed. The gentlemen took one side of the argument, and the ladies the other; but Gwen stuck tenaciously to her opinion.

"Waiting never hurts any one," she said, oracularly. "Don't you remember Lady Betty Ingram, Moritz? Lady Betty was an ancestress of ours," she continued; "she lived when farmer George was king, and she was faithful to her love for more than twenty years."

"Five-and-twenty years, was it not, Gwen?" And then, as most of the party begged to hear the story, Gwendoline narrated it in her own charming way.

"Lady Betty had been for some time one of Queen Charlotte's ladies-in-waiting. But Court life was not to her taste; she was lively by nature, and she disliked all the etiquette and restraint, and she pined to be back with her parents in the old home. But before she left the Court she made the acquaintance of a certain Sir Bever Willoughby—at least, he was only Bever Willoughby then, the son of an impoverished baronet, and heir to heavily mortgaged estates.

"Lady Betty was no beauty, but she was considered fascinating by most people. She was very witty, and she danced beautifully, and handsome Bever Willoughby lost his heart to her when he saw her walk through the minuet; for she pointed her toe so prettily and curtsied with such exquisite grace, that Willoughby was not proof against her charms. One evening when they were at Ranelagh, and Lady Betty looked more bewitching than ever in her little quilted satin hood, Willoughby suddenly addressed her in an agitated voice.

"'My Lady Betty,' he said, 'the Court is not the place for a poor man. You have robbed me of my peace of mind, but no lady, however fair, shall rob me of my honour. I am going to win my laurels. To-morrow I sail for America. Fare you well—and God bless you—dear Lady Betty.' And then he bowed to her with his hand on his heart, and for four-and-twenty years she never saw his face again, though she heard of him often.

"It was then that Lady Betty returned to the old Hall. And there she lived a quiet life, cherishing her aged parents, and busy with her still-room and herb-garden, after the fashion of those days. She had many lovers, but she never married; for, as she once told her mother, she had never met any one to compare with Sir Bever Willoughby. 'He was a goodly youth,' she said, 'and when I looked on his countenance I bethought me of young David, playing his harp among his sheep; but he had one fault, and it has spoiled both our lives—he was too proud to owe his fortune to the woman he loved.'

"Lady Betty was in her comely middle age when she next saw Bever Willoughby. She had grown rather stout, but people said she was handsomer than she had been in her youth. She was dancing a minuet in the picture-gallery at Brentwood Hall, when a tall, soldierly-looking man, with his arm in a sling, attracted her notice. When their eyes met Lady Betty blushed like a girl, but Sir Bever turned very pale. When, a week or two later, Sir Bever asked her to marry him, Lady Betty looked him full in the face.

"'There is an old proverb, Sir Bever,' she said, 'that tells us that some things are better late than never; and methinks this wooing of yours is somewhat tardy.'

"'Say not so, dear Lady Betty,' he returned, passionately, 'for though I rode away without telling my love, I have had no wife or child, but have been your true lover at heart all these years.'

"Then Lady Betty dropped him a low curtsy; but he saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes.

"'You have not been more faithful than another,' she replied. 'You are a brave soldier, Sir Bever, but you had no right to break a woman's heart, as mine was broken that evening at Ranelagh.'"

"But she married him?" pleaded Mollie, rather piteously, as Gwendoline paused for a moment.

"Oh, yes, she married him, and they were very happy; but Sir Bever only lived ten years. As he lay dying he expressed his regret that their wedded bliss had been so brief.

"'Dear heart,' returned Lady Betty, 'your mannish, foolish pride kept my husband from me for nigh upon twenty-five years, but we will make up for it hereafter;' and then she fell on his breast weeping. 'Death cannot part true hearts,' she cried, 'and thou wilt be my own Sir Bever in heaven.'"

And here Gwen caught her breath, for Jack was looking at her; and actually Mollie, silly little Mollie, was crying.

"It is a lovely story, Gwen," observed Althea; and then she rose from the table. A little later, when the gentlemen had had their coffee, they all went out on the terrace, and Waveney found herself pacing the garden paths with Mr. Chaytor.

They talked on indifferent subjects—the beauty of the evening and the charm of a well-kept garden. And then they paused to listen to a nightingale in the shrubbery. Presently they sat down in the verandah at the Porch House, and watched the other couples passing to and fro below. Lord Ralston and Mollie, Gwen and Jack Compton, and Doreen and Tristram; the other three, Althea and Mr. Ward and Noel, had seated themselves on a bench outside the library window. The moon was rising behind the elms. Waveney's eyes were fixed on it, when Thorold suddenly broke the silence.

"What did you think of the true story of Lady Betty?" he asked. There was something inexplicable in his tone.

"I thought it beautiful," she returned; "though I did not cry over it as Mollie did. They were both so faithful; but Lady Betty was braver than Sir Bever."

"What do you mean?" remonstrated her companion. "Surely it was better for him to ride away without telling his love. You do not agree with me"—looking in her face. "You think Sir Bever was wrong to be afraid of his poverty."

"Yes, I think he was wrong," faltered Waveney. "I agree with Lady Betty, that he had sacrificed their youth to no purpose. You see, he gave her no chance of setting things right; he just rode away, and left her to bear her life as well as she could."

"You are severe," returned Thorold, eagerly. "You do not make an allowance for a man's pride, that will not stoop to take everything from a woman. I grant you the story was pretty, and that Mrs. John Compton told it well; she has a charming voice and manner."

"Oh, yes; and she is so nice. Mollie is quite fond of her already."

"I do not wonder at it; but, Miss Ward, I want to convince you that you ladies are not the only ones who set us an example of faithfulness. Men may be proverbially fickle, but there are exceptions to the rule."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"It is difficult to judge in some cases. There was a friend of mine——" Here Thorold hesitated and glanced at the girl's averted face. Something in her attitude—the shy droop of the head, the hands clasped so tightly on her white gown—excited him and quickened his pulses. There was a tremor in his voice as he went on. "My friend was deeply in love with a girl. She was very young. He was much older, and weighted with many cares and responsibilities, and he was poor—oh, far too poor to take a wife."

Again he paused, but Waveney made no comment, only her hands were clasped more nervously.

"He did not exactly ride away, as Sir Bever did," he went on; "but he made up his mind that the most honourable course would be to lock up the secret of his love in his own breast, and not burden that bright young life with his troubles. No!"—with strange emphasis—"he loved her too well for that. Dear Miss Ward, surely you will own that my friend was right."

Waveney would have given worlds not to answer. Her little pale face grew rigid with suppressed emotion. Though she never raised her eyes, she was conscious that he was watching her keenly; his strong will seemed to compel her to speak.

"My friend was right, was he not?" he repeated, slowly, and as though he were weighing each syllable.

"No," she returned, abruptly; "he was wrong. He was as mistaken as Sir Bever." And then she grew crimson. Oh, if she could only escape! If she could bring this conversation to an end! She was tingling from head to foot with sheer nervousness.

"So I begin to think myself," returned Thorold, coolly. And then his voice deepened with sudden tenderness. "Waveney, my dear one, tell me the truth. Would you wait for me?"

Gwendoline always boasted that she had made the match. "For you know, Jack," she would say, "if I had not told that story about Lady Betty, Mr. Chaytor would never have mustered up courage to speak to Waveney that night, and they might have been pining for each other for years."

After all, it had come about quite naturally. Perhaps Thorold had read something in Waveney's eyes, as she listened to that old love-story, that made him change his purpose of silence. But he never repented it.

"We may have to wait for years," he said to her, when the first agitation of their great joy had calmed a little. But Waveney only gave him one of her radiant smiles.

"Faithfulness has not gone out with powder and patches," she said, in her quaint way. "I would rather wait through a lifetime, knowing without doubt that you loved me, than have to exist through years of chilling silence." And in his heart Thorold agreed with her.

Everard Ward gave his consent very willingly when Thorold, in rather an embarrassed voice, told him that he feared they could not be married for perhaps four or five years. He received the news with profound satisfaction.

"Chaytor is a son-in-law after my own heart," he said to Althea. "He will not rob me of my little girl for the next five years. 'My dear fellow, I am delighted to hear it,' I said to him; but he looked at me rather reproachfully."

"I hope they will not have to wait quite so long," returned Althea, gravely.

But Everard would not endorse this. Lord Ralston had robbed him of his Mollie, and he could not spare his little Waveney.

Perhaps Althea was the most astonished at the news. Thorold and Waveney had kept their secret so well that she had never guessed it; but when her first surprise was over, she rejoiced heartily in their happiness.

"Thorold has grown years younger since his engagement," she said one day to Joanna. "He is not half so grave and sober now." And Joanna assented to this.

"I am getting very fond of Waveney," she replied. "Tristram likes her, and so does Betty."

But Joanna spoke without enthusiasm. Her brother's choice had greatly surprised her, and privately she thought his engagement to a penniless girl was an act of pure folly. "If he had only married a girl with money!" she would say to Tristram sometimes.

But Althea, who had not outlived romance, approved thoroughly of the engagement. She saw that Waveney entirely satisfied Thorold—that she was the light of his eyes, and the desire of his heart. "My lonely days are over," he once said to her. And it was true. Waveney's bright intelligence enabled her to take interest in all his work, and he could share all his thoughts with her.

When Mollie and Lord Ralston plighted their vows in the old church at Erpingham, Thorold was making silent vows in his heart, and looking at a little white figure with worshipping eyes. And Waveney was repeating herTe Deum.

"Oh, Mollie, I don't think you are happier than I am," she whispered, when they were alone together for a moment.

But Mollie looked just a trifle dubious. Thorold was very nice and clever, and she meant to be quite fond of him; but he could not be compared to her Moritz.

"Oh, Wave, do you know what I heard as we came out of church just now?" she said, merrily. "Somebody near me said, 'The lame bride is a real beauty, and they say she is a ladyship now.'" And then Mollie laughed gleefully, and gave her satin train a little fling. "Wasn't it funny? But I don't think Moritz quite liked it. And Wave"—and now Mollie's dimples were in full play—"somehow I could not feel quite grave when Colonel Treherne called me Lady Ralston."

Back to Index Next