"Her angel's face,As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright.And made a sunshine in the shady place."Spenser'sFaërie Queene.
"Her angel's face,As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright.And made a sunshine in the shady place."Spenser'sFaërie Queene.
It is the opinion of certain wiseacres that enjoyment consists mainly in anticipation and retrospection, and that the actual pleasure is reduced to a minimum. But to Waveney her first Sunday at the Red House was simply perfect. Not the shadow of a shade crossed her path until she said good-bye to Mollie in the evening.
Even the weather was propitious, and when the morning mist had rolled off the common, another of those golden days, peculiar to Autumn, seemed to flood Erpingham with warm, mellow sunshine.
The rich brown and amber tints of the bracken excited Waveney's admiration as they crossed a corner of the common, on their way to church. It was the longest way, Doreen explained, but she had some business that took her to the upper end of the village. Then they walked slowly down the main street past the fountain and the Roman Catholic church, with its old lych-gate. On their way Waveney learned how the sisters spent their Sunday afternoons.
Doreen always went to the Home of Rest for Workers. One of the inmates had partially lost her sight, and Doreen generally read to her and wrote her letters. It was her custom to remain to tea; it gave the matron an hour's freedom, and made a change for the ladies.
The Porch House was always thrown open for the girls' use from two to six on Sunday afternoons. There was no meal provided, but some of them liked to come up for an hour or two's reading or study, or to meet their friends. In winter there was always a bright fire and plenty of light, and Althea, stealing down the dark garden paths, would peep, unseen, at the merry group of chattering girls gathered round the fire.
Althea's Bible-class was always held in the dining-room of the Red House. About twenty girls attended it. Waveney discovered later that Althea spent most of her mornings preparing for this class; but when she expressed her surprise at the amount of labour it involved, Althea only smiled.
"My dear, it is very necessary labour," she returned. "It is no easy matter, I assure you, to keep ahead of girls like Nora Greenwell and Alice Mitchell. I have to study for dear life, and sometimes their questions are so difficult to answer that I have to apply for help to our good Vicar.
"I am very fond of my Sunday work," she said, as she and Waveney walked slowly on until Doreen should overtake them. "Two or three of the girls always remain to tea. I give my invitations on Thursday evening; and as I make no distinction, and each one has her proper turn, there is no margin for jealousy. I limit the number to four, as I like my Sunday tea-parties to be cosy. We call them library teas, and Mrs. Willis is generally very liberal with her cakes. Well, dear, why do you look at me so?"
"I was only thinking how full your life is, and how happy you must be!" returned Waveney, simply; and a faint flush rose to Althea's cheek.
"All lives ought to be full," she said, gravely. "It always makes me angry when people talk of empty, blighted, or disappointed lives;" and her tone was so severe that Waveney felt vaguely surprised.
"But, Miss Harford," she observed, timidly, "a great many women are disappointed, you know."
"Oh, yes, of course, life is as full of disappointments as this bush is full of blackberries this morning. But, all the same, they have only themselves to blame if their existence is dull and colourless. There is too much mawkish sentiment talked at the present day," she went on. "I was only telling my girls so the other day. When trouble comes to a woman—and Heaven knows they have their share of suffering: I suppose, for their soul's good—it is no good creeping along the ground like a bird with a broken wing; they must summon all their pluck, and fight their way through the thorns. Of course, even the brave ones get a little torn and scarred, but they are too proud to show their wounds. Look, here comes my sister, and we will change the subject." And then, as Doreen joined them, they walked on quickly; but Althea's blue eyes had a strange glow in them.
When Waveney reached Sloane Square she found Mollie had kept her word, and was on the platform to receive her. She gave a little cry when she saw Waveney, and more than one passer-by looked round with kindly amusement as the sisters rushed into each other's arms.
"Oh, Mollie, how lovely you look! What have you done to yourself?" But Mollie only laughed. And then, like two children, they walked up the stairs hand-in-hand. And to Mollie it might have been the golden ladder that leads to Paradise. Her dearer self, her twin sister, was beside her, and the five blank days were over.
"Father and Noel have gone for a walk," she said, as they turned down King Street. "I shall have you to myself for a whole hour. Oh, Wave, how are we to talk fast enough!—so much has happened even in these five days! I wish I could write clever letters like you. But I am so stupid!"
"Nonsense, sweetheart. Why, I loved your letters, and always slept with them under my pillow."
"Did you, really? Oh, Wave, what a darling you are! But, of course, I did the same. And I was so amused at your meeting 'the noticeable man, with the large grey eyes.' Father heard me chuckling, and he insisted on my reading your letter to him; but he was quite startled when I came to Mr. Chaytor's name. I don't think he was quite pleased."
"What makes you think that, Mollie, dear."
"Oh, he frowned and bit his lip. You know his way. And then he took up the newspaper and cleared his throat. But I heard him mutter, as though to himself, 'Another of them. Now I wonder which of them it is.' But, as you only said Mr. Chaytor, I could not tell him."
"It was Thorold," returned Waveney. And then, as they came in sight of the house, she kissed her hand to it in a sort of ecstasy. "Oh, you dear old place, I have dreamt of you every night!" And then, as Mollie used her latch-key, Mrs. Muggins came to meet them, purring loudly, with uplifted tail.
"Dear me, I never noticed how steep and narrow the staircase is!" remarked Waveney, innocently. "And Mollie, dear, you really must cause father to get some new stair-drugget. Crimson felt would look so nice and warm, and would not cost much." But Mollie shook her head.
"We must wait for that, I am afraid," she said, sadly. Then she cheered up. "But, Wave, father has got such a lovely new great-coat, and he does look so nice in it; and Noel insisted on his getting a new hat, too. I tell father that he will be ashamed to walk with me, now he has grown such a dandy." And then Mollie broke off in confusion, and began to blush, for Waveney's eyes were fixed on the round table in the studio. A magnificent basket of hot-house grapes stood in the centre.
Waveney regarded it with the look of a cat that sees cream. There were three pounds at least, and the purple bloom of the fruit made a rich spot of colour in the room.
Waveney's expression was inscrutable. "Mollie," she said, at last, "the Black Prince has been here again."
"Yes, dear," stammered Mollie, with the air of a culprit discovered in a fault; "but I did not expect him—I told you so. I was on my knees darning the stair-carpets, because father caught his foot in a hole that very morning; and when Ann opened the door, there he was, and, of course, he saw me."
"Oh, of course, there is nothing wrong with Sir Reynard's eyes," muttered Waveney. "They are very good eyes, I should say." But this remark seemed to puzzle Mollie.
"Why do you call him Reynard, Waveney? He is not sly, not a bit of it. He was so funny. He wanted to help me with the stair-carpet—he said he was a good hand at darning; but I would not hear of such a thing, and, of course, I took him into the study."
"Well, child, what then?" and Waveney seated herself on Grumps, and patted the sofa gently as an invitation for Mollie to do the same. "And then Sir Reynard presented his grapes."
Mollie stamped her little foot.
"I will not have it, Waveney. You shall not call our nice little Monsieur Blackie by such a horrid name. Yes, he offered the grapes with such a droll little speech; but I can't remember exactly what he said, only that a friend of his had a splendid vinery, and he always sent him such quantities of grapes, and it would be a charity to help him to eat them, and so on."
"Yes, and so on. And you said, 'Thank you, my dear Black Prince. You are very generous to poor little Cinderella.'"
"Waveney, if you talk such nonsense I won't love you a bit. Of course I thanked him—and I must have done it nicely, for he looked pleased, almost as though he were relieved. 'That's right,' he said, heartily. 'What a sensible young lady you are, Miss Mollie! You take things naturally and as you ought—and I wanted to please you. You know I always want to please you.'"
Waveney caught her breath, and there was almost a look of fear in her eyes.
"Did he say those very words, Mollie?"
"Yes, dear," in a tranquil tone. "And I am sure he meant it, too. He did look so very kind. 'Do you know I wanted to please you the very first day I saw you,' he went on, 'and it has been the same every day since. I am such a lonely sort of fellow since Gwen left me. Gwen is my sister, you know.'"
"And that fetched you, of course?" But Waveney did not speak in her usual tone. And how she watched the bright, speaking face beside her.
"Yes, indeed, I thought of you, and I asked such a lot of questions about this Gwendoline, and I am sure he liked answering them. She is not pretty, Wave, not a bit—ugly, in fact; but her husband adores her. She is very tall and graceful, but he told me he would not show me the picture he had in his pocket, because plain people were not in my line. Wasn't that a funny speech? And then we had a quarrel; but he stuck to his point. He said he hoped that some day he would be able to introduce her to us, and that he would rather wait till then. But, Wave, what am I thinking about? I meant you to have some grapes." And then she jumped up from her seat and limped quickly to the table, and for a moment Waveney's eyes were a little misty.
"How innocent she is! What a child! But I dare not enlighten her," she said to herself. "I wonder what father thinks. If I can, I will just give him a hint. I think he ought to find out who Mr. Ingram really is; we know nothing about him. He may be in earnest—very likely he is; but he ought not to come when Mollie is alone."
The hour passed all too quickly, and just as Waveney was giving a full description of Thursday evening her father's voice made her start from her seat and fly downstairs; but there was no one that day to liken her to Titania. How Everard's face brightened at the sight of his darling! And even Noel "chortled in his joy," to use his favourite expression. He actually submitted to be kissed twice without making a wry face, though he immediately turned up the collar of his coat.
"It has been rather tropical lately," he observed, blandly, "but now old 'Storm-and-Stress' has come, we must look out for draughts." But Waveney was admiring the great-coat, and took no notice.
"It is father's turn," exclaimed Mollie, cheerfully. "Noel, you must come and help me get tea ready. We shall have it in the studio, of course;" and then she stumped off to the kitchen, and Waveney and her father went upstairs.
They had a little talk together. Everard asked a few questions about his old friends, and seemed much interested in all Waveney's descriptions.
"I think you have a good berth, dear," he said, presently, "and that you are likely to be very happy with the Misses Harford."
"Yes, father, and I am sure that I shall soon learn to love Miss Althea—Good Queen Bess, as I call her. But—but"—the colour rising to her face, as she squeezed his arm with her little hands—"I would rather be at home with my dad."
"I know that, darling, and dad has missed his little girl badly. By the bye, Waveney, there seems a plentiful crop of ghosts at the Red House. Mollie tells me that the other night you met a Mr. Chaytor."
"Yes, father, Mr. Thorold Chaytor. He seemed very nice, and he read so beautifully. Miss Althea says he is a barrister—but that, though he is so clever, he gets few briefs, and that he ekes out his income by doing literary work."
"He was always a clever fellow," returned Mr. Ward; "but I remember I liked Tristram best. Poor old Trist, he was a bit soft on Althea. I remember how angry he was when some one told him it was lad's love. Thorold was a cut above us, and we were rather in awe of him. I wonder what sort of looking fellow he is now."
"He is tall and rather distinguished looking. I mean, people cannot help noticing him." Then Mr. Ward's eyes twinkled mischievously.
"'A noticeable man,' eh, Waveney? 'with large grey eyes?'" Then Waveney blushed and laughed.
"What a perfidious Mollie! But, father, it is really such a true description! Mr. Chaytor is quite plain and ordinary-looking, and he is old, too,—five-and-thirty, I should say; but when he speaks you would never call him plain."
"No, I know what you mean. But his brother Tristram was a very handsome man."
"Did you know them well, father?"
"Very well, indeed. The Chaytors lived at the old Manor House—their grandfather had bought it. It was a fine old place, about two miles from Kitlands, and when I visited them they lived in good style and entertained largely. Old Chaytor, as we called him, was fond of life and gaiety; though we youngsters knew little about it, he kept racers, and about the time I married, his losses were so heavy that they could no longer afford to live in the old Manor House."
"Were there only those two brothers, father, dear?"
"No, there was a sister Joanna—Joa they called her—a pretty, fair girl; she and Althea were great friends. She was engaged to Leslie Parker. The Parkers were neighbours of theirs; they lived in a quaint old house in the village, called The Knolls, but I heard afterwards that, when the old Manor House was sold, and Mr. Chaytor died, the marriage was broken off. I never cared much for the Parkers; they were a mercenary lot. All the sons married women with money. But it was hard lines on poor little Joa."
"Oh, father, how dreadfully interesting all this is! I do so love ancient history."
"It was by no means interesting for the Chaytors," returned Mr. Ward, with a laugh. "Old Chaytor's love for the turf ruined them. When he died, his sons found that his affairs were hopelessly involved, and that he had left heavy debts. I had lost sight of them by that time; but I heard a year or two afterwards that Mrs. Chaytor was dead, too, and that Tristram had gone to New Zealand. Rumour said that he had turned out unsatisfactorily, and that his brother had shipped him off, but I know nothing more."
"Neither do I, except they are living in a dull-looking house in Dereham." And then Mollie limped in with the tea-tray, and Noel followed, carrying a huge plum cake on his head, like one of the black slaves in the "Arabian Nights." And then, as he made an obeisance like Lord Bateman's "proud young porter," it rolled to his feet; after which Mollie boxed his ears, and his father called him a young ass.
They had a merry tea, and then they drew round the fire and sang hymns; and church-time came only too quickly.
Waveney had her old place between her father and Mollie; and when the gas was turned down during the sermon, Mollie slipped her hand into hers.
And a dark young man, who was sitting a few pews behind them, watched them attentively through the service; and, when, in the dusk, he saw Mollie nestle up to her sister, a great softness came into his eyes, and he said to himself, "Poor little thing!"
But as Noel strutted beside his sisters on the way to the station to see Waveney off, he said a thing that surprised them.
"Did you see my friend the Idealist!" he asked, with his chin elevated. "My word, he looked quite the swagger gentleman in his new frock coat."
"Do you mean Monsieur Blackie!" asked Waveney; and she pressed Mollie's arm involuntarily. She had had no opportunity of giving her father that hint, and now she must wait for another week.
"Yes, Monsieur Blackie—Monsieur Blackie—Monsieur Blackie," returned the provoking lad, in a falsetto squeak. "Hold hard, father, you have nearly landed me into the gutter."
And then a little, dark gentleman, who was following them unperceived, gave a low laugh. "My friend the humorist at his tricks again," he murmured. "I wish Gwen could see that lad; she would love him."
"The situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here in this miserable, despicable actual wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal. Work it out therefore. The Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself."Carlyle."Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished."Longfellow.
"The situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here in this miserable, despicable actual wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal. Work it out therefore. The Ideal is in thyself, the impediment too is in thyself."
Carlyle.
"Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished."
Longfellow.
One evening, about a week later, Thorold Chaytor walked quickly over the Dereham bridge on his way from the station. His day, as usual, had been spent in his dingy chambers in Lincoln's Inn; he had worked hard, and felt unusually weary, and the damp chilliness of the mists rising from the river made him shiver and button up his coat more closely.
A slight mizzling rain was now falling; the pavements were wet and greasy; the gas lights on the towing path seemed to waver and then flare up with windy flickers; the black hulls of the boats and barges moored to the shore loomed through the mist like vast monsters weltering in the mud; and the grey river flowing under the bridges washed silently against the piers in the darkness.
Mr. Chaytor's chambers in Lincoln's Inn were high up, and very small and inconvenient—"Chaytor's sky parlour," some of his friends called it, for in reality it consisted of only one room and a good-sized cupboard; but the view of chimney-pots from the window was certainly unique. To be sure, it was somewhat cold in winter, and at times the chimney was given to smoking, and in summer it certainly resembled the Black Hole in Calcutta; but these were trifles to be borne stoically, if not cheerfully.
In this den Thorold Chaytor did most of his literary work, and waited for briefs; nor did he wait wholly in vain.
Althea had spoken of him as a poor man, and this opinion was shared by many others. When old friends of the family, who had visited at the old Manor House, came down to the dull, shabby-looking house in High Street, where Thorold and his sister lived, they used to sigh and shrug their shoulders.
"It was grievous," they would say. "No wonder poor Joanna looked so old and careworn! And they only kept one servant, too;" and then they would talk, under their breath, of the wasteful extravagance at the old Manor House, and then of that racing establishment at Newmarket, to which the Chaytor fortunes had been sacrificed.
But if Thorold and Joanna practised rigid economy, and only kept one servant, it was because they stinted themselves of their own free-will.
Thorold Chaytor was not really poor; his literary work was successful, and his papers on social questions were so brilliant and versatile, so teeming with thought and sparkles of wit, that he was already making his mark as a clever writer.
And in his own profession he was not doing so badly. Quite recently he had distinguished himself in some case. "Chaytor is a clear-headed lawyer; he is sharp and has plenty of brains," his friends would say; "he will get on right enough, if he does not kill himself with work first."
Thorold loved his work. The hours spent in that grimy den were full of enjoyment to him; he was equally happy solving some legal problem or doing some of his journalistic work; his clear, strong brains delighted in labour.
He had one curious companion of his solitude—a small, yellow cat, who had only three legs, whom he had rescued from a violent death, and who refused to leave him.
Sisera was not an attractive animal, but his heart was in the right place; he adored his master, and when Thorold's step sounded on the stairs in the morning, Sisera would jump off the old coat on the shelf, where he was accustomed to pass the night, and limp with loud purrs to the door.
Sisera was as much a hermit as his master; he took his exercise among the chimney-pots, and never went downstairs, where unseen enemies lurked unnumbered for him. He had his pennyworth of milk, and his skewer of cats' meat, and a share of his master's frugal luncheon; and on Sundays the fat old housekeeper toiled up the stairs and deposited the rations for the day, grumbling as she did so.
But, although Thorold already earned a fair income, he lived as though he were poor, and both he and his sister were almost parsimonious in their habits; but not even Althea, who was their closest friend, did more than guess at the reason for all this thrift. Thorold had set himself an Herculean task—to pay his father's debts—and in this Joanna had willingly helped him; with all her faults and failings, she was a good woman, and her sense of honour was almost as strong as his.
Thorold was still at Oxford when his father died. His brother Tristram was three or four years older. He had been summoned in haste to the death-bed; but, to his relief, his father recognised him.
"It is a bad business, my boy," he said, faintly, as Thorold took his hand. "If I could only have my life again, I would do differently;" and a few minutes later, when they thought he was sleeping, he opened his eyes. "Never get into debt, Trist," he murmured. "It is hard for a man to die peacefully with a millstone round his neck." And Thorold was struck by the look of anguish that crossed his face.
"Father," he said, gently, for he was young and impressionable, and perhaps, in his wish to give comfort, he hardly knew what he was saying. "Father, you shall die in peace; and Trist and I will work hard, and pay your debts."
"Yes, yes," murmured Tristram, with a sob; "we will pay them, dad."
Then a wonderful smile came over the sick man's face.
"Good lads, good lads," he muttered. "God bless you both!" Those were his last words; but, even as he lay in his coffin, Thorold began to realise that the millstone was already round his own neck.
Those first few years that followed his father's death were very sad ones to Thorold. His mother's failing health, and Joanna's disappointment, embittered the peace of their home; and, worse than all, Tristram became a care to them. He had been brought up in expectation of a fortune; and, as far as work was concerned, his life at the university had been a failure.
"What does it matter whether I grind or not?" he would say. "I am having a good old time, and the governor will pay my debts." And when the evil days came, and George Chaytor's sons had to put their shoulders to the wheel and earn their bread, there seemed nothing that Tristram could do.
Again and again a berth had been found for him, but he had failed to keep it. Either he had been wanting in steadiness or application, or he had lost his temper and quarrelled with his employer. "He is not worth his salt!" one of them said angrily to Thorold.
In sheer desperation, Thorold went to an old cousin who had already shown him a great deal of kindness; and, with his help, Tristram was equipped and shipped off to New Zealand.
"Perhaps he will do better in a new world," Thorold said, when Joanna bewailed his departure rather bitterly. Tristram was her darling; she loved him far better than she did Thorold. Like many other prodigals, Tristram Chaytor was not without his endearing qualities. Women loved him, and he was good to them; but in character he was selfish and unstable as water, and very prone to fall into temptation. Already, as Thorold knew, he had become addicted to low pleasures. His friends were worthless and dissipated; but Joanna, who was mildly obstinate on occasion, turned a deaf ear to all Thorold's hints on this subject.
Tristram seemed to do better for a time in his new environment. Then he foolishly married some pretty, penniless girl who took his fancy, and after that they lost sight of him.
Thorold was thinking of him now as he walked over the wet bridge; although he was a ne'er-do-well, he was his only brother, and in the old days they had been close chums and playfellows.
"Dear old Trist," he said to himself. "I wonder what he is doing now, and if Ella makes him a good wife." And then, in the darkness, Tristram's handsome face and tender, humourous smile seemed to rise vividly before him. He could even hear his voice, clear and boyish, close to his ear—"Well played, old chappie—but it was a fluke for all that!''
"What on earth makes me think of Trist to-night?" Thorold asked himself, in some perplexity—but if he had only guessed the truth, he need not have puzzled himself: at that very moment, under the flickering, wind-blown gaslight, the brothers had passed each other without recognition, "like ships that pass in the night."
Thorold was trying to keep his umbrella steady, and took no notice of the passenger, who almost brushed his elbow—though he heard a small, childish voice say, "I don't like English rain, father." But the answer did not reach him.
"Aye, it is a bit saft, Bet—as the Scotch folk say. Creep under my Inverness cape, little one, and it will keep you dry." And then the little feet toiled on wearily and bravely in the darkness.
As Thorold let himself in with his latch-key, the parlour-door was opened hastily, and a woman's face peeped out anxiously. "Is that you, Thorold?" Then the man bit his lip with sudden irritation. Day after day, month after month, this was Joanna's never-varying formula—until "Is that you, Thorold?" seemed to be dinned into his brain like a monotonous sing-song.
"Who should it be" he longed to answer this evening. "What other fellow do you suppose would let himself in with my latch-key." But he controlled himself—Joanna had no sense of humour, and did not understand sarcasm. "Yes, here I am, as large as life," he returned, cheerfully. "But don't touch me, dear, for I am a trifle wet. Is supper ready? I will just change my coat, and be with you in a moment. Ah! Rabat-la-Koum," as a big, grey Persian cat rubbed against his legs, "so you are there, old mother of all the cats; and you are coming up with me, eh?"
"Don't forget to rub your feet, Thorold. There were marks on the landing carpet yesterday;" and then Joanna went back to pick up her knitting, feeling that she had properly welcomed her brother.
Joanna Chaytor had been a pretty girl, with that soft, rounded prettiness that belongs to youth; but at six-and-thirty she was faded and old-maidish. Doreen and Althea, who were several years older, scarcely looked their age, but Joanna had worn badly.
Disappointment and sorrow, and the small, carking cares of daily life, had washed away the pretty bloom from her cheeks, and had sharpened the lines of her face. Her brown hair was streaked with grey, and though her figure was still graceful and she dressed youthfully, strangers always thought she was at least forty-five.
Women are as old as they feel, people say, but in that case Joanna would have been seventy at least.
To her the drama of life had been wholly tragical. She had lost her father and the mother she adored, and the beloved home of her childhood. The man to whom she had given her young affections and whom she looked upon as her future husband, had basely deserted her in her adversity; and, as though this were not enough, her favourite brother was in exile, separated from her by the weary ocean.
If Joanna had married Leslie Parker, she would have made an excellent wife and mother; but her present environment did not suit her. She grew thin and weedy, as Althea once phrased it. Joanna was not a clever woman; she was dense and emotional, and her mild obstinacy and tenacity were powerful factors in her daily life. She had long ago shelved her deeper griefs; but a never-ending crop of minor worries furnished her with topics of conversation.
Thorold was fond of his sister, but she was no companion to him. His calm, self-restrained nature was the very antipodes of Joanna's fretful and nervous temperament. Manlike, he failed to understand why the dust and sweepings of the day should be brought for his inspection. Joanna had not toiled long hours in hard, strenuous brain labour, in a grimy attic, with a three-legged Sisera curled up at her feet; her work had been light, compared to his.
Sometimes, when he felt lonely and weary, and the need for companionship was unusually strong, he would try and interest her in his day's work; but it was always a failure. She would listen, and then her attention would fly off at a tangent, or he would see her trying to stifle a yawn.
There was something he wanted to tell her this evening; for the day had been eventful to him. If Althea had been his sister, he would have followed her into the sitting-room, wet as he was, and would have told her triumphantly that his foot was on the rung of the ladder at last, and that he had begun to climb in earnest. And he would have told her, too, that before long their father's debts would be all cleared off.
Thorold had not done this unaided. About eighteen months before, the old cousin who had come to his assistance with Tristram, died, and, with the exception of five hundred pounds to Joanna, left all his savings, amounting to several thousands, to Thorold.
Thorold never consulted any one; he asked no advice; he paid in twelve hundred pounds at his banker's, that it might be ready for a rainy day, and then he went around to his father's creditors, paying off each one by turn. The racing debts had been settled years ago, in his father's lifetime, by the sale of the old Manor House and the lands adjoining; but he had lived recklessly, and his creditors were many. He owed large sums to a carriage-builder in Baker Street, and to his tailor, wine merchant, and other tradespeople. One of them, a small jobbing carpenter, who lived in the village, stared incredulously at the cheque in his hand and then fairly burst out crying.
"It is for joy, Mr. Thorold," cried the poor fellow, rubbing his coat-sleeve across his eyes, "for I never expected to see a penny of the squire's money, and we have had hard times lately. Business has been slack, and my missis has been poorly and run up a doctor's bill, and God bless you, sir, for your honest dealing with a poor man, for I shall be able to keep the shop together now." And for that afternoon at least Thorold felt a lightening of the millstone round his neck.
Joanna looked at him a little tearfully when he showed her the receipted bills. She was not too dense to understand the grandeur of the action. How few men would have considered themselves bound by a few impulsive words gasped out by a death-bed!
"You have used all Cousin Rupert's money in paying father's debts," she said; and there was a queer look in her eyes.
"No, dear," he returned, gently, "I have not spent it all. I am keeping twelve hundred pounds for a rainy day. I thought that would be only right. But, Joa, there are only two bills left, and most of the things owing were for Tristram."
"Tristram!" in a startled voice. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes—things that he wanted at Oxford and that father ordered; but three or four hundred will clear off the whole account."
"Thorold," returned his sister, plaintively—and now she was actually crying—"you do not expect me to help with my money?"
"No, of course not. What an idea!" he replied, hastily; but all the same he felt vaguely surprised. All these years Joanna had stinted herself of comforts, had scraped and saved and pared down every unnecessary expense with ungrudging cheerfulness, and with all her grumblings and worries she had never said one word of blame on this score. And now she was hugging her small fortune almost jealously.
"I am very sorry, dear, but I cannot give you my money," she went on quickly. "It is my own money, you know. Dear Cousin Rupert left it to me. I have helped you as well as I could all these years, but I must keep this for my very own."
"Of course you shall keep it," returned her brother; for Joanna was growing quite excited. "I suppose you will put it into the London & County Bank."
"Yes, that will be best; and then I can get it out easily."
"The consols would be better, perhaps," he continued, musingly; "and you would get more interest. Or you might buy some of those shares that Doreen was mentioning."
"No, no. I prefer the London & County," returned Joanna, obstinately. "Let me do what I like with my own money."
And Thorold said no more. But now and then he wondered if Joanna had drawn on her secret hoard. As far as he could see she had bought nothing fresh for the house, and certainly not for her dress, during the last eighteen months, and their bill of fare was not more luxurious.
"A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman."Shakespeare."Men are born with two eyes, but with one tongue, in order that they should see twice as much as they say."Colton.
"A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman."
Shakespeare.
"Men are born with two eyes, but with one tongue, in order that they should see twice as much as they say."
Colton.
The house in High Street where the Chaytors lived was somewhat dingy and uninviting in its outward aspect, but inside it was not without its advantages.
A small paved court separated it from the street; and at night its front windows were illuminated by the flaring gaslights from the opposite shops. All day long the ceaseless patter of foot-passengers on the pavement, and the rumble and rattle of cabs, omnibuses, and carts, made the narrow windows shake in their frames. And it was far into the night before silence brooded over the old town.
On one side of the passage was a small room where Thorold kept a good many of his books and papers. It was called the study, but he never sat there. Joanna had long ago proved to him that with one servant and a limited purse, an extra fire would be quite a sinful extravagance. It was for this reason too that she so seldom used her drawing-room. It was a pretty room on the first floor, with a pleasant view of the garden, and in summer she liked to sit at the open window with her work, and watch Thorold digging and raking in the borders. Gardening was his favourite amusement, and he took great pride in his flower-beds. Sometimes, when she had leisure, Joanna would weed or water a little; but she always made much of these labours.
The room they mostly used was a large one on the ground floor. It extended from the front to the back of the house, and the two narrow windows at the farther end overlooked the shady old garden.
This part of the room was furnished as a study. The stained book-shelves were loaded with ponderous-looking books. A writing-table occupied one window, and two comfortable easy-chairs, and Joanna's overflowing work-basket, stood on either side of the fireplace. A book-stand and a reading-lamp were by Thorold's chair; the front portion of the room was used for their meals.
When Thorold came down that evening the room looked warm and cosy. The crimson curtains were drawn, and a bright fire blazed cheerfully. The supper was laid, and Jemima had just brought in a small, covered dish, and placed it before her mistress. Thorold was hungry, for his luncheon had been a light one. For a wonder, the chops were well cooked and hot; and as he helped himself to the nicely browned mashed potatoes, he felt disposed to enjoy himself. He would tell Joanna about his visit to Murdoch & Williams. She would be interested; and for once they would have a sociable evening. He even thought that he would ask for a cup of coffee, as he felt chilled and tired. And then, by way of making himself pleasant, he commended Jemima's cookery.
It was an unfortunate choice of subjects. Joanna, who had been tranquilly eating her supper, suddenly grew red and querulous.
"Ah, she can cook well enough if she chooses," she returned, "but there! she so seldom chooses to take pains. Thorold, I shall have to part with that girl; her wastefulness and extravagance are beyond everything. And then she is so self-willed, too—she will not mind anything I tell her. Again and again I have begged her not to put an egg in the rice pudding, but she does it all the same."
"I suppose she thinks the egg will make the pudding nicer," returned Thorold, mildly; and then, to change the subject, he said, boldly, "I have rather a headache this evening, dear. Do you think Jemima could make me a cup of coffee?"
"She could make it, but I doubt if you would care to drink it," she returned, fretfully. "And she wants to go out, too. She has got a young man, I know she has; I taxed her with it this very morning, and she was as impertinent as possible."
"My dear Joa"—for his sense of fairness was roused by this—"why should not the poor girl have a lover? She is very good-looking, and as long as she conducts herself properly I can see no objection to the young man."
"Yes, and she will be having him in, and giving him supper when we are out—not that I ever do go out, Heaven knows! I declare I quite envy you, Thorold, going out every morning to your work. Women's lives are far more dull and monotonous than men's;" here Joanna's voice waxed more plaintive than ever—it was naturally rather a sweet voice, but fretfulness and discontent had deadened the harmony. If, as they say, the closing of an eyelid will shut out the lustre of a planet, so, to Joanna, the small everyday worries seemed to obliterate the larger and grander interests of life. Jemima's good looks, her lover, her small impertinences and misdemeanours, loomed like gigantic shadows on her horizon. "If she could only learn the right proportion of things!" Thorold had said once to Althea, almost in despair.
When Joanna made her dolorous little speech, Thorold raised his eyes from his plate and looked at her. "Why do you not go to the Red House oftener?" he asked, gravely. "You know how glad they would be to have you. You stay at home too much, Joa, but it is your own fault, you know. Doreen and Althea are always sending you invitations."
"Yes, I know, and I am very fond of Althea. But somehow I never care to go to the Red House; it reminds me too much of the dear old Manor House. That room of Althea's makes me quite shiver when I enter it."
"Oh, I would not give way to those feelings, Joa," he returned, hastily. "In life one has to harden one's self to all sorts of things, and it is no use moping and brooding over troubles that cannot be altered. If Jemima wants to go out, perhaps we had better not wait any longer." And then he lighted his reading lamp, and unfolded his paper. In spite of the well-cooked chops, supper had certainly not been more festive than usual.
And then a strange fancy came to Thorold. How would it be with him if some younger, brighter face were to be opposite to him, evening after evening. Would not his home, humble as it was, be a very different place? He knew why he was happier in his chambers at Lincoln's Inn. To his reserved temperament, solitude was far preferable than uncongenial fellowship with this small human soul, this weary little pilgrim forever carrying her heavy pack of worries.
"Poor dear Joa," he said to himself, for his keen eyes had noticed the reddened eyelids. "Very likely she remembers that it is Tristram's birthday, and that he is thirty-eight to-day."
Jemima had cleared the table and vanished. He was still alone, and Rabat-la-Koum was curled up like a huge grey ball at his feet; the leading article was unusually clever, and absorbed him until a sudden fragrance pervaded the room, and there stood Joanna at his elbow with a steaming cup of coffee.
"I waited until Jemima went out, and then I made it myself. It is very strong coffee, Thorold, and it will do your head good." Joanna's voice was a little more cheerful as she said this, and the slight flush from her exertions made her look younger.
Thorold was quite touched; he put out his hand and patted his sister's arm caressingly. "How good of you to take so much trouble, my dear! I never thought of the coffee again. Sit down, Joa, and let us be comfortable. I have been wanting to tell you something all the evening."
"Have you, indeed?" and Joanna brightened. "Wait a moment. I want to wind some wool. I can hear you talk all the same. And yet I must mention one thing before you begin. The gas man called for his account, and you forgot to leave the cheque.''
"Did I? I was in a hurry. But I will write it before I go to bed."
"Thank you. And there is one other thing, Thorold. If Jemima goes at her month, as she threatens, will she not forfeit her wages? You are a lawyer, so you ought to know."
"I am quite sure Jemima means to do nothing of the kind," he returned, impatiently. "Look here, Joa, she is the best servant we have had yet, and I would rather raise her wages than part with her. Take my advice for once, praise her a little more and find fault with her a little less; and if you are wise you will leave her young man alone;" and then he drank his coffee, moodily. Joanna had quenched his attempt at conversation again. Joanna pondered Thorold's advice as she unravelled her skein of yarn; it was somewhat tangled, and as she pulled it with nervous jerks, the yarn snapped and the ball rolled from her hand.
Thorold suppressed a forcible interjection as he groped under his chair for the ball. If ever he married, he determined that one of the first rules he would make for his wife's guidance would be that all wool-winding should be done by daylight.
Joanna had a tiresome habit of leaving a tangled skein for the comparative leisure of the evening hours. Thorold used to wonder sometimes if all her skeins were tangled. It got on his nerves sometimes and spoilt the enjoyment of his reading. Joanna's limp, nerveless movements, her jerky beginnings and abrupt endings, her brief spasms of energy, and the inevitable hunt for the unlucky ball, irritated him at times beyond endurance. It is quite ridiculous and almost derogatory to one's dignity to think how much daily life is marred by these small frets and torments. The buzzing of a bluebottle against the window-pane is certainly preferable to a brass band when the instruments are cracked, but the whizzing and fizzing of the insect may in time jar on the ear; and to thin-skinned people a midge's bite is fruitful of irritation.
Joanna was making up her mind slowly that her brother had given her good counsel, and that perhaps it would be well for her to follow it. Thorold was the master of the house, and if he wished to keep Joanna, of course the girl must stay. And when Joanna had arrived at this point, she broke the thread of her yarn again.
"I thought there was something you wanted to tell me, Thorold," she said, rather reproachfully, when she had found a new beginning. "I have brought my work and am ready to talk, but you do nothing but read." Then Thorold threw down his paper impatiently.
"I thought you were too busy with that work," he returned, rather curtly; "and, after all, it does not matter. It was only about my own business affairs."
"Oh, but I want to hear it," replied his sister, with much mild obstinacy. "It is seldom that you do care to talk to me, Thorold;" and here Joanna's voice was decidedly plaintive. "I sometimes think that if it were not for finding fault with Jemima I should almost lose the use of my voice."
Thorold was fast losing patience. Joanna was in one of her most trying moods; she was at once aggressive and despondent. She was at all times very tenacious of her sisterly privileges, and nothing offended her more than being kept in the dark. Well, he might as well get it over and be done with it; but he would be as brief as possible. "I only wanted to tell you that I have had a very satisfactory interview with Murdoch & Williams."
"Oh, indeed"—and here Joanna frowned anxiously over her skein. "They are solicitors, are they not?"
"Yes, but they are very big people. Joa, I think I am likely to get the brief. You see"—warming to his subject—"our last case was so satisfactory, and we got our client such heavy damages, that Murdoch & Williams were quite pleased. The junior partner made himself very pleasant, and said all kinds of civil things."
"And you think you will get it, Thorold?" and Joanna actually laid down her skein.
"I shall certainly get it;" and Thorold's eyes flashed with triumph as he spoke; at such moments his face was full of expression. "It will be a big case, Joa, and Sergeant Rivington will be leading counsel on our side." And then again he told himself that his foot was on the rung of the ladder, and that he had begun to climb in earnest.
"I am very glad, Theo;" and Joanna's blue eyes were rather tearful. She and Tristram had often called him Theo, but she seldom used the old pet name now. Thorold smiled a little sadly as he heard it.
"I knew you would be pleased, dear;" and his voice softened. "It will make a great difference to our income. Joa, I have made up my mind that the last of the debts shall be paid off before Christmas, and we will begin the New Year free and untrammelled. There shall be an end of all your small peddling economies. We shall not be rich, but at least we need not hoard our cheese-parings and candle-ends."
"I do not know what you mean, Thorold!" returned Joanna, in a puzzled tone. "We never use candles except in the coal cellar."
Then Thorold gave a grim, unmirthful laugh. If he ever married, the lady of his choice should have some sense of humour; nothing is more harassing and trying to the temper than to have to talk down to the level of one's daily companion. Althea once said, rather wittily, that Joa's brains were like a nutmeg-grater—one had to rub one's nutmeg very hard before the spicy fragments would filter through it.
"Perhaps we may have a better house soon!" he said, after a pause. "I should like to be out of the town and higher up the hill. The air is fresher, and it would be quieter."
"Oh, yes, much quieter!" Joanna smiled, and a pretty dimple came into view; at that moment she looked almost like a girl.
"We must wait for our good things a little," continued Thorold; "but there is no need for us to stint ourselves. And Joa," here he hesitated—"why should you not smarten yourself up a bit. Get one or two new dresses, or any fal-lals you require"—for his keen, observant eyes had noticed that the old lilac silk that Joanna always wore of an evening, a relic of the old Manor House days, was faded and darned, and of obsolete fashion. He was a man who was always keenly alive to the wants and wishes of his womankind. But even as he made the suggestion, he wondered why Joanna was hoarding her five hundred pounds, and why she should not use a few pounds to replenish her scanty wardrobe. He knew, and had been very angry when he heard it, that Althea had actually presented her with a beautiful dress, for church; because she said Joa was too miserly to spend a penny on herself.
Joanna blushed slightly when Thorold made his good-natured proposition. "You are very kind, Theo," she said, gently, as she folded her white, nervous-looking hands over her skein, "but I go out so seldom, that I do not require many new dresses. I have Althea's merino, and"—eyeing her lilac silk complacently—"there is plenty of wear to be got out of my old gown yet!"
"Well, you know best," returned Thorold, indifferently. If he had stated his opinion candidly, he would have suggested that the gown in question should be relegated to Jemima or the rag-bag. Well, he had done his part nobly; and now he might take up Guizot's Life. But the next moment Joanna's plaintive tones arrested him.
"Theo, do you remember what day this is?" And as he nodded, she continued, mournfully, "Trist is eight-and-thirty to-day; it is actually ten years since we have seen him—ten long years." And now a slow tear or two welled down Joanna's face. "What a weary time it has been! And he and Ella have never written—not a line, not a single word, since their little girl was born."
"He was going to Australia then, and he seemed to write in good spirits—we have his letter still, Joa. He was so pleased with his little daughter, and the prospect of the new berth offered him!"
"Yes, but that was eight or nine years ago. Oh, Thorold, why does he never write? Do you think he has ceased to care for us?"
"No, my dear, certainly not," replied her brother, kindly; for he was moved by her deep dejection. "But you know how casual and happy-go-lucky the dear old chap always was. Bad habits grow stronger as we grow older—remember that, Joa. Trist never liked making little efforts. He hated writing letters even in his school days—probably he hates it still. And yet, for all that, he may be flourishing on some sheep farm or other."
But this view of the case did not comfort Joanna, and during the rest of the evening she shed silent tears over her tangled skein. And all the time, not half a mile away, a man and a child sat hand in hand over a smoky little cindery fire; the child's shivering form wrapped in an old Inverness cape.
"Is it always cold in England, father? Why does not Mrs. Grimson make up a big fire?"
"Well, you see coals are dear, Bet, and the stove is a small one; but my old coat is warm and thick. Why, you look as snug as a robin in its nest, or a squirrel in its hole, or a dormouse, or anything else you like to name. I wonder what Aunt Joa will think of my little Betty when she sees her?" Then the child laughed gleefully.
"Shall we really find them, father?"
"Of course we shall find them, my girlie; but we must not tire those poor little feet too much. Put them up on my knee, darling, and dad will rub them and keep the chilblains away." And then, as he took the tiny feet in his hand, Bet's thin little arm went round his neck.
"Oh, father, I do love you so. It makes me ache all over to love you so hard;" and then Bet rested her rough, tangled head against her father's shoulder.
"Simplicity of all things is the hardest to be copied."—STEELE."How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us."—Hamlet.
"Simplicity of all things is the hardest to be copied."—STEELE.
"How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us."—Hamlet.
Before many days had passed Waveney had settled down happily at the Red House; and though she still missed Mollie, and had to combat frequent pangs of home-sickness, her environment was so pleasant, and her work so congenial, that it would have seemed to her the basest ingratitude not to be thankful for her advantages.
Sweet temper, and high principles, are important factors in a girl's happiness. Waveney knew she was walking in the path of duty, and that she had done the right thing in severing herself from the home life. A sense of independence and well-doing sweetened her daily duties, and at night, after she had prayed for her dear ones, she would sleep as calmly and peacefully as a tired child.
"I think Waveney is happy with us," Althea said, once, in a satisfied voice; and, indeed, at that moment the girl's clear notes were distinctly audible, singing to herself in the corridor, as she had been accustomed to sing in the old house in Chelsea. Waveney's duties were not very irksome. When Althea's eyes troubled her, her young companion would spend the morning and the greater part of the evening reading to her or writing from her dictation; and in this way Waveney gained a great deal of valuable information.
"It is a liberal education to talk to my dear Miss Althea," she would say to Mollie. "She is so clever, and knows so much, and yet she thinks so little of herself. I believe I love and admire her more every day."
"But you like Miss Doreen, too?" observed Mollie, tentatively.
"Oh, yes, I am quite fond of her, and she is always as nice as possible. But she could never come up to Queen Bess; she is more earthly and commonplace. But, there, I am not expressing myself properly. Miss Althea is human, too, but she is so much more sympathetic and picturesque."
"But the old ladies at the Home like Miss Doreen best," retorted Mollie.
"Yes, dear, old ladies are her specialities, and girls are Miss Althea's. You would think, sometimes, to hear her talk, that she was a girl herself, and knew exactly how they felt. Some of them almost worship her, and no wonder."
"I wish I could see her," sighed poor Mollie. "I love her, too, for being so good to you"—for her unselfish nature knew no taint of jealousy. When Althea's eyes were in good order, Waveney merely wrote a few letters, or copied some extracts neatly and then her duties in the library were over.
Sometimes she would walk across to the Home and read for an hour to the blind lady, Miss Elliot, or she would do little errands in the town for one or other of the sisters. Sometimes she would carry the weekly basket of flowers that Althea always sent to Joanna. But she never thoroughly enjoyed her visits. She told Mollie that Miss Chaytor was a rather depressing sort of person.
"I daresay she is good and amiable," she observed; "she must have virtues, or Miss Althea would not be so fond of her. But she looks as though she has been out too long in a bleak wind, and has got nipped and pinched. I think if she would only speak more briskly and cheerfully, that she would feel better; she wants prodding, somehow, like the old coster-monger's donkey;" and Mollie laughed at this.
Waveney certainly had her good times. Althea had presented her with a beautiful racket and a pair of tennis shoes, and on Thursday afternoons she and Nora Greenwell played tennis on the new asphalt court behind the Porch House. She also joined Mr. Chaytor's Shakespeare readings; they were to get upThe Merchant of Venicenext, and to her secret delight the part of Jessica was allotted her.
Mr. Chaytor took no special notice of her; she sat amongst the other girls, and listened to his instructions. Sometimes, when Thorold had finished some masterly declamation, he would look up suddenly from his book. Waveney's little pale face and curly head were just opposite to him; the deep,spirituelleeyes seemed glowing with golden light. Where was she? Not in the Recreation Hall, but on some marble steps belonging to a Doge's palace. The dark water was washing almost to her feet; gondolas were passing and repassing in the moonlight; grey-bearded men, in velvet doublets and ruffs, were standing in a group, under the deep archway; and Portia, in her satin gown, was walking with proud and stately step, followed by her train.
"It is your turn, Miss Ward," observed Thorold, quietly. And then, as Waveney started and flushed, he bit his lip with an effort to suppress a smile. He knew, by a sort of intuitive sympathy, where her thoughts had strayed. Her absorbed attention pleased and flattered him; he began to feel interested in so promising a pupil. "Miss Greenwell reads better," he thought; "but I doubt if she grasps the full meaning and beauty of a passage as Miss Ward does." And on more than one evening the little pale face, and dark, vivid eyes seemed to haunt him. Strangely enough he had used Doreen's comparison. "She is like Undine," he said to himself; and somehow, the name seemed to suit her.
Waveney's Sundays were always her happiest days; they were red-letter days and high festivals to her, as well as to Mollie; but each time she went home she thought Mollie looked lovelier, and on each occasion she found relics of the Black Prince.
The grapes had long ago been eaten, but a generous box of Paris chocolate had replaced them, and there were always fresh hot-house flowers in the red bowl. Mollie, who was becoming hardened, scarcely blushed as she pointed them out, and informed Waveney quite coolly that a hare or a brace of pheasants were hanging up in the larder.
"Sir Reynard at his tricks still," thought Waveney. And one evening she did give her father a hint. "Dad," she said, a little nervously, for she felt her task a delicate one, "Mr. Ingram is very kind to dear Mollie—he is always bringing her things, and of course she is pleased; but I do not think he ought to come so often when she is alone."
Everard started and looked at her. His little girl had plenty of penetration and sense, as he knew.
"No, dear; I suppose you are right," he said, slowly. "I will talk to Miss Mollie, and she must give Mr. Ingram a hint. The little Puss has encouraged him, I suppose." And then he frowned, and said, a little anxiously, "You don't think the fellow is making up to her, eh, Waveney?"
"Father, dear, how can we tell? Mollie is such a great baby in these sort of things; I think she fancies that she is not grown up yet, but she is nineteen. Dad, I think he must like her a little; but he ought only to come to the house when you are at home. Won't you try and find out all about him?"
But Mr. Ward shook his head; he hardly knew how that was to be done.
"He is a gentleman," he returned, rather gravely, "and he is a good fellow—I am sure of that; and he has plenty of means. I like Mr. Ingram; he is a little eccentric, but he is honourable and straightforward. I would take my oath of that. Well, well, I will give Mollie a good strong hint." And Mr. Ward kept his word.
So a day or two later, when Mr. Ingram walked into the studio with some fresh flowers and a beautifully bound volume of Jean Ingelow's poems under his arm, that Mollie had innocently remarked that she longed to read, Mollie seemed hardly as pleased as usual to see him; she even turned a little pale when he presented the book with one of his joking speeches.
"Oh, thank you; you are very kind," she stammered, fluttering the pages. "And you have written my name in, too!" Mollie spoke hurriedly and breathlessly; she had not even asked him to sit down.
Mr. Ward's hint had certainly been a strong one.
Mr. Ingram looked at the girl a little keenly; then he took a chair and seated himself comfortably.
"What is it, Miss Mollie?" he said, gently. "You have something on your mind. Oh, you cannot deceive me," as Mollie blushed and shook her head. "I can read you like a book, and for some reason poor Monsieur Blackie is in disgrace."
"Oh, no, no!" protested Mollie, quite shocked at this. "You could not think me so ungrateful!"
"There can be no question of gratitude between you and me," returned the young man, gravely; and he looked a little pained. Then, as Mollie's sweet, wistful face seemed to plead forgiveness, he recovered himself with an effort.
"I am only troubled because I am afraid of hurting you," she went on; "and I am sorry, too, because I do so enjoy your visits. We know so few people, Mr. Ingram; but father said——" But here Mollie utterly broke down. And why ever was Mr. Ingram looking at her in that way? Was he angry or unhappy?
"You do not surely mean, Miss Mollie, that your father has forbidden my visits?" And now it was Mr. Ingram's turn to look pale.
"Oh, no, no!" gasped Mollie, "how could you think of anything so dreadful? Only father would like to see you sometimes and——" Then the stern look of gravity was no longer on Ingram's face.
"My dear Miss Mollie," he said, kindly, "please do not distress yourself so. Let me finish that sentence for you. Your father does not in the least object to my visits, but he would like me to pay them when he is at home, and he wishes you to tell me this."
"Oh, yes. Thank you; but how could you guess so cleverly?" and Mollie looked as though a world of care had rolled off her. But only an inscrutable smile answered her.
"Sir Oracle has spoken," he said, trying to resume his old manner. "Now, Miss Mollie, I may be an Idealist, but I can be practical, too. Will you kindly tell me on which afternoon I am likely to find your father."
"Only on Saturdays for certain."
"Very well, then, will you tell Mr. Ward, with my compliments, that unless his house be on fire nothing will induce me to ring his door-bell on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, unless by special invitation. But on Saturday I will do myself the pleasure of calling."
"Is that a message to father?" asked Mollie, a little puzzled at his tone. But Mr. Ingram only laughed and rose from his chair.
"I am rather a riddle to you, am I not?" he said, taking her soft little hand. And then his manner suddenly changed. "Miss Mollie," he continued, "do you remember the first time I saw you? You were sitting in the ashes, like Cinderella. I have called you Cinderella ever since."
"Oh, not really, Mr. Ingram! But, of course, I remember the day, for I was never so startled in my life. When the door opened I thought it was Ann, and, oh dear, how frightened I was for a moment!"
"It was like a picture," went on Ingram, and his eyes looked grave and intent. "The kitchen was a little dark, but a ray of sunshine was full on your face, and you were singing. Do you remember, Miss Mollie?" And Mollie hung her head, as though she were rather ashamed of herself.
"Oh, yes, that old song of father's." And then, rather pettishly, "But I don't want to remember that."
"I shall never forget it. I wish I were the Fairy Godmother instead of Monsieur Blackie. And then there is the Prince. What are we to do about the Prince, Miss Mollie?"
"Oh, I don't know," murmured Mollie, confusedly; for Mr. Ingram's manner was rather baffling that afternoon. But how amused he would be if he knew that Waveney often called him the Black Prince. "There never are princes in real life," she finished, demurely.
"Oh, I would not be too sure of that," he returned, coolly. "Life is full of surprises. Why, I heard of a fellow last year—he was only a dairy-man, and a rich uncle who had made his pile in Chicago, and was a millionaire, died, and left him all his money. He told me in confidence that for the first month he was nearly out of his mind with worry, for he and his wife had not a notion what to do with it. I gave him a lot of advice. I told him to give his children the best education possible, and to live comfortably without trying for grandeur; and he was a sensible fellow, and followed my advice. He has a good house, and a model farm, and his breed of Alderney cows is the finest in the country; and I have a great respect for him and his wife, and often go and see them."
Mollie was much impressed with this story; she was sorry when Mr. Ingram took his leave. He had paid such a very short visit, and she knew her father's message was the cause. But he had quite recovered his spirits, for, as he went downstairs, she could hear him singing to himself in a low, melodious voice: