"'Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,Here's to the widow of fifty,Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.'"
"'Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,Here's to the widow of fifty,Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Let the toast pass,Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.'"
Waveney was far happier in her mind when she heard from Mollie that Mr. Ingram's visits were always to be paid on Saturday afternoons; and even Mollie owned that she preferred this.
"You see, Wave," she explained, "it is a little awkward entertaining Mr. Ingram all by myself. If I were like you I should not mind it so much; but I never can talk properly, and he is so dreadfully clever."
"Well, he has travelled and seen the world; but he is not clever like Mr. Chaytor, Mollie. That man is a perfect well of knowledge." But this comparison did not seem to please Mollie.
"I think Mr. Ingram clever," she persisted, "and so does father. He said last evening that he was a thoroughly well-informed man. Oh, Wave, I forgot to tell you something. I asked him yesterday how long he meant to stay in Chelsea, and he looked quite surprised at the question. He said he had not been staying there for weeks, and that he was at his diggings as usual, but that he generally spent a night or two in town every week. 'When I am up in town, I always sleep at my club,' he said. Now, Waveney, is it not odd that he has never told us where he lives? And I did not like to ask him." And Waveney assented to this.
The following Sunday, when Waveney went home, she found Mollie in a state of great excitement.
It was a cold, November afternoon, and a dull moisture seemed to pervade everything. The pavements were wet and greasy, the horses' coats steamed, and the raw dampness was singularly penetrating. As the two girls hurried along, arm-in-arm, Mollie poured out her story breathlessly.
"Oh, Wave, you will never guess; such a wonderful thing is going to happen! Mr. Ingram has got a box at St. James's Theatre for Wednesday forAylmer's Dream, and he has actually invited father, and Noel, and me; and father says we may go."
"Aylmer's Dream," returned Waveney. "I heard Mr. Chaytor talking about that to Miss Althea. He told her that she and Miss Doreen ought certainly to see it—that Miss Leslie's representation of the crazed Lady Aylmer was the most perfect piece of acting; and Mr. Sargent as Sir Reginald Aylmer was almost as fine."
"Yes, I daresay," interrupted Mollie, impatiently; for she had no wish to discuss the merits of the play beforehand. "But do listen to me, Wave, dear; Mr. Ingram will fetch us in a carriage, and he has promised to go early, so that I may see the curtain draw up. I shall wear my white dress. But what am I to do for a nice wrap?" Mollie's voice was a little troubled, and for the moment Waveney did not answer. She realised at once the difficulty of the situation.
"I shall not draw my salary until Christmas," she said, presently. "That will be a month hence; and we must not ask father for any money."
"No, certainly not."
"Well, then, we must just make the best of it," went on Waveney. "Your black jacket is impossible, and so is your waterproof. So there only remains 'Tid's old red rag of a shawl'"—a title they had borrowed from a charming tale they had read in their childhood.
"Oh, Waveney, dear, mother's old red shawl!" and Mollie's voice was decidedly depressed. "What will Mr. Ingram say?"
"He will say—at least, he will think—that you look sweet. How could he help it, darling? Mother's shawl is warm, and in the gaslight it won't look so very shabby—you can throw it off, directly you get into the box. Father must buy you some new gloves; and, with a few flowers, you will do as well as possible." But though Mollie tried to take this cheerful view of the case, she did not quite succeed, and "Tid's old rag of a shawl" lay heavily upon her mind.
"We have seen better days."Romeo and Juliet.
"We have seen better days."Romeo and Juliet.
"Her little face, like a walnut shell,With wrinkling lines."Henley.
"Her little face, like a walnut shell,With wrinkling lines."Henley.
On Monday morning, when Waveney went into the library, Althea would always ask a kindly question or two about the previous evening, to which Waveney would gladly respond. But when the girl told her, with sparkling eyes, about Mollie's promised treat, and Mr. Ingram's kindness, she looked extremely surprised, and not a little amused.
Doreen, who had followed them into the room, and was hunting through the book-shelves for a volume she needed, turned with an exclamation. But Althea put her finger on her lip, with a warning gesture.
"Aylmer's Dream!Why, that is the very play that Thorold is so anxious for us to see," she observed, calmly. "Why should we not have a box, too? You are driving into town this afternoon, Dorrie, and you can easily go to St. James's. It will be a treat for Waveney—and you know we always intended to go."
"Yes, but not on Wednesday," returned Doreen, in a doubtful tone. But again Althea looked at her meaningly. As for Waveney, she was speechless with delight.
Althea sent her into the dining-room the next moment to fetch theTimesand Doreen took instant advantage of her absence.
"Althea, are you serious? Do you really wish me to take a box for Wednesday?"
"Oh, yes," returned Althea, flushing a little; but there was a mischievous smile on her lips, "I am quite serious. Moritz is masquerading, and I want to find out his little game. My lord is too busy to call on his old friends. But I will be even with him. Hush! here the child comes, Dorrie. We will have a nice little drama of our own on Wednesday. I long to see pretty Mollie, and that 'lad of pairts,' Noel, and it will be a grand opportunity." Then, as Waveney returned with the paper, Doreen contented herself with a disapproving shake of the head. Althea was very impulsive, she thought, when she at last left the room. It was all very well to talk about Moritz, but she feared that she was putting herself in an awkward situation. Everard Ward would be there as well as Mollie and Noel, and they could hardly leave the theatre without speaking to him. But, old maid as she was, the idea of hinting this to Althea made her feel hot all over. "Althea would only laugh at me, and pretend not to understand," she said to herself; "and if she makes a plan, nothing will induce her to give it up."
In truth Althea was quite enamoured of her little scheme. "Now, Waveney," she said, in a mysterious voice, "you are not to say one syllable to Mollie, mind that!"
"Is it to be a surprise?" asked Waveney, opening her eyes as widely as the wolf in Red Riding Hood.
"Why, of course it is. We will all remain snugly hidden at the back of our box until the curtain draws up, and then they will be too absorbed to notice us. Think how delightful it will be to see Mollie's start of astonishment, when at last she catches sight of you!"
"Oh, what fun it will be!" exclaimed the girl, joyfully. "Yes, yes, it will be far better not to tell Mollie; but I hope she will not call out when she sees me. Monsieur Blackie, too, and father and Noel. Oh, Miss Althea, how glorious it will be! There; I am forgetting your letters, and you wanted them written for the early post;" but Althea only smiled indulgently.
Waveney could settle to nothing properly that day; she had only been to the theatre twice in her life, and then only in the gallery. But to be in a box!—well, her excitement was so great that she took a long walk over the Common to calm herself.
Presently an unwelcome thought obtruded itself. Her white frock was losing its freshness with constant wear, but there was no possibility of buying a new one until Christmas, and she had no suitable wrap—not even "Tid's old red rag of a shawl." For a moment she was full of dismay, then, with her usual good sense, she determined to confide the difficulty to Miss Althea. She found her opportunity that very evening. Althea listened to her attentively. "My dear child," she said, very kindly, when Waveney had finished, "do you know the same thought occurred to me; but there is no need to trouble yourself. I have two or three evening cloaks that Peachy will not let me wear because she says they do not suit me, and of course you can have one. Oh, yes, there is a blue plush one that will just do." And Waveney thanked her delightedly.
There was nothing now to mar her enjoyment or to damp her anticipation. And the next morning a letter from Mollie gave her fresh pleasure.
"Oh, Wave, darling," it began, "it is so late, and father says I ought to be in bed; but I must write and tell you about such a wonderful thing that has just happened. I was mixing father's salad for supper and thinking how he would enjoy it with the cold pheasant when the door-bell rang, and the next minute Ann brought in a big box—one of those cardboard boxes that always look so tempting. It was from Marshall & Snelgrove, she said, and there was nothing to pay; and there was my name, 'Miss Mollie Ward,' written as plainly as possible. Oh, dear, how excited I was? But father would not let me cut the string, and he was such a time fumbling over the knots; and all the while he was laughing at me and calling me an excitable little goose.
"There were layers and layers of tissue paper, and then—oh, Wave, dear! never, never in all our lives have we seen such a cloak! I was almost afraid even to touch it. Father was right when he said rather gravely that it was more fit for one of the young Princesses of Wales than for his daughter.
"But I must try to describe it. It is a rich ivory silk, with a lovely pattern running through it that looks like silver, and it is so warm and soft, and lined with the faintest and most delicate pink, like the palm of a baby's hand—that was father's idea; and all round is the most exquisite feather trimming. And when I put it on, father said I looked like a white pigeon in its nest.
"Oh, Wave, do you think that our good little Monsieur Blackie sent it? There was no name, no clue of any kind. What am I to do? Ought I to thank him for it? But there is no one else who would do such a kind thing; and yet if he did not send it, how awkward that would be! You must think over it and help me, darling.
"Your loving but distracted"Mollie."
Waveney did not long delay her answer.
"I am delighted about the cloak, sweetheart," she wrote, "and he is the very Prince of Black Princes, to make my sweet Moll so happy; and now mother's old red shawl can go back into the cedar box.
"Why, of course it is Monsieur Blackie. Do you suppose any other person would do such a delightfully unconventional thing. It is like a fairy story; it is Cinderella in real life, the pumpkin coach and all. But Mollie, take my word for it, he will never own it.
"Perhaps if you get an opportunity you might tell him that you had been much mystified by receiving a beautiful present anonymously, and that you greatly desired to thank the kind donor, and then you will see what he says. Oh, he is a deep one, Sir Reynard, and I should not be surprised if he professes entire ignorance on the subject. If I could only peep at you on Wednesday! 'Oh, had I but Aladdin's lamp, if only for a day!' I have been singing that ever since I read your letter." And then Waveney closed her note abruptly, for fear she should say too much; but some subtle feeling of delicacy prevented her from telling Althea. That the cloak was Mr. Ingram's gift she never doubted for a moment; but though she had written jokingly to Mollie, and called him the very Prince of Black Princes, in reality she was secretly dismayed.
"If he loves her, why does he not tell her so?" thought the girl, anxiously, "instead of showering gifts on her in this Oriental fashion. Is it because Mollie is so unconscious and that she will not see, and this is his way of winning her? Mr. Ingram does nothing like other men; he is an Idealist, as he says. He is good and kind, but he is not good enough for my Mollie. She is worth a king's ransom; she is the dearest, and the loveliest, and the best;" and here Waveney broke down and shed a few tears, for her heart felt full to overflowing with mingled pride and pain.
Waveney had some errands to do in the town that afternoon, and amongst other things she had to take the usual basket of flowers to Miss Chaytor.
Waveney never cared for these visits. She liked Mr. Chaytor—he interested her more than any man she had ever seen; but his sister bored her. She told Mollie once that "she was as soft and damping as a November mist."
She found her this afternoon in one of her most depressing moods. She had been having an argument with Jemima, and, as usual, had retired baffled from the contest. Jemima was a clever girl, and had long ago taken her mistress's measure; and she had an invariable resource on these occasions.
"If I don't suit you, ma'am, I can leave this day month," she would say, crushingly; and then Joanna would hurriedly reply, "Please don't talk nonsense, Jemima. You suit me very well. But all the same you had no right to stand talking to the milkman for a quarter of an hour. Well, ten minutes, then," as Jemima, with some heat, protested against this; "and I will thank you to be more careful for the future."
Waveney heard the whole history of Jemima's misdemeanours. Joanna had taken a fancy to the girl, and often mentioned her to her brother. "She has such a pretty manner, and she is bright and sympathetic. She is just the person for Althea;" and Thorold had assented to this.
Joanna wanted her to stay to tea; but Waveney had had an excuse ready—she was only too glad to get out of the house. Her own vitality was so strong, and the interest of her own personality so absorbing, that she could not understand how any human existence could be so meagre and colourless as Miss Chaytor's seemed to be. "Is it because she is an old maid?" thought the girl, as she walked over the bridge. "If Mollie or I did not marry, should we ever be like that?" and then she added, piously, "Heaven forbid!"
What was it Miss Althea had said that first Sunday morning, as they walked through the village?—that it always made her angry when people talked of empty, blighted, or disappointed lives, and that it was their own fault if they did not find interests. "I wondered at the time what Miss Althea could mean," she said to herself; "it sounded a little hard. But I have thought it out since. We must fertilise and enrich our lives properly, and not let them lie fallow too long; there is no need that any life should be thin and weedy. I suppose Miss Chaytor has had her troubles, but she is not without her blessings, too. I daresay her brother is very good to her. Oh, yes, certainly, Miss Chaytor has her compensations."
Waveney had finished all her errands, but she meant to take a turn on the Embankment. The grey, November afternoon had a certain charm for her. It was not at all cold, and she wanted to sit down for a few minutes and watch the barges being tugged slowly against the tide. How mysterious they looked, emerging from the dark arches of the bridge! Already they were lighting the gas, and bright flickers were perceptible across the river. A faint wind was flapping the brown and tawny sails of some vessels that were waiting to be unladen; they reminded her of the tattered pennons in the chapel at Chelsea Hospital. And then she thought sadly of the dear old sergeant.
He had died peacefully in his sleep about a week after her visit, and his last conscious words had been about Sheila.
Mollie had seen the corporal two or three times, and one Sunday she and Waveney had gone over to the Hospital. The little corporal had looked aged and dwindled; but at the sight of Waveney he had brightened.
"Aye, he is gone," he said, in a subdued voice. "McGill is gone, and I am fairly lost without him. Ah! he was a grand man for argufying, and would stick to his guns finely. 'For it stands to reason,' says I, 'that a man with two eyes can see farther than a blind one'—not that McGill was blind then?—'and I'll take my oath that there were only two of those darned black niggers'; and then, how he would speechify and bluster, and there would be a ring round us in no time—and 'Go it, McGill!' and 'Up at him, corporal!' Ah, those were grand times. But the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away"—and here Corporal Marks bared his grey head. "And must you be going, Miss Ward? Well, good-bye, and God bless you!" And now the slow tears of age were coursing down the corporal's wrinkled face.
"Aye, Jonadab frets sorely after his old comrade," remarked Nurse Marks, when Waveney told her about her interview with the corporal. "What is it we are told, my lamb?—'One taken and the other left'; and it stands to reason that the world is a poorer place for him."
Waveney was thinking about her old friends as she seated herself on a bench overlooking the river. At the farther corner a little girl was sitting. But there was no one else in sight.
Waveney was fond of children, so she smiled and nodded to the child in quite a friendly way.
"You must not sit long, or you will take cold, my dear!" she said.
"Oh, I am always cold," returned the child, in a plaintive little voice, "and I am tired, too, for I have got two bones in my legs, and they do ache so!"
Waveney looked at her curiously; she was not a pretty child—indeed, it was rather a singular little face, with oddly pronounced features. She had pathetic-looking eyes, and fair hair, which she wore in a long plait, and in spite of her shabby dress and worn boots her voice was refined and sweet. When she made her little speech, she sidled up to Waveney in the most confiding way.
"Do you have bones in your legs, too—but you are one of the grown-ups; grown-ups don't mind being tired. Daddie says when my legs grow longer they will leave off aching, and I suppose daddie knows."
"Poor mite!" thought Waveney, pityingly; and then she said, kindly, "Are you alone, little one? Is your home near?" But the child shook her head.
"Daddie and I have not got any home," she returned, wearily. "There aren't any homes in England, are there? We live with Mrs. Grimson in Chapel Road. I think she is a good woman," she continued, gravely, in her old-fashioned way; "she bathed my feet so nicely when I got wet. But I don't like her rooms; they are not like my own dear home."
"Where was your home, my dear!" asked Waveney, taking the little cold hand in hers; but the child hesitated.
"We had many homes, but they were all across the sea, a long, long way off. We came in a big ship, with such a nice captain. Daddie's gone to Hamerton to look for Aunt Joa, and Mrs. Grimson's Susan left me here. I never knew before that grown-ups could be lost, but we have been looking for Aunt Joa, till I have got the aches in my legs, and we have not found her yet!"
This was rather puzzling to Waveney, but she was one of those motherly girls who knew by instinct how to win a child's heart, so she only cuddled the cold little hands comfortably, and asked her if she had a pretty name. Then the little girl smiled, showing a row of white, pearly teeth as she did so.
"Dad and I think it nice," she returned, nodding her head; "but it is very short. Daddie says I am too small to have a big name. I am Betty," with an important air. "Dad's little Betty. But dad does always call me Bet. Is your name long or short?"
Waveney was about to answer this friendly question when a man's voice behind them made her start.
"Why, Bet," it said, "why are you perched up here, like a lost robin? And Susan has been looking for you half over the place."
"It is my daddie. It is my dear dad," cried the child, joyously, and the next moment she was running to meet a tall man, who was walking quickly towards them.
Waveney watched the meeting. She saw the man stoop and kiss the little one fondly; and then Bet took hold of his rough coat and drew him towards the seat.
"Susan was naughty, dad. She did tell me to sit there, and she would fetch me, and she did never come at all, but this young lady was very kind, so I did not cry."
"That's my brave little Bet." And then the man took off his hat to Waveney. "Thank you, very much," he said, heartily. "I was obliged to leave my little girl, and I am afraid they neglected her."
Waveney felt vaguely perplexed. The man's face, and even his voice, seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she was sure she had never seen him before. He was a handsome man, though his face looked weather-beaten and somewhat worn. His clothes were rough and shabby, but his voice was unmistakably cultured; he had evidently seen better days.
"Susan is not always naughty," observed Betty. "She gave me a peppermint once, and it was very nice. Dad, dear, did you find Aunt Joa?" Then the man shook his head in rather a depressed way.
"No, Bet, and we are still down on our luck. There is no such name at Hamerton. Perhaps this lady may know it"—and then he looked a little eagerly at Waveney. "I am a stranger in these parts. Can you tell me if any one of the name of Chaytor lives at Dereham?"
"Why, yes," returned Waveney, surprised by the question. "Miss Chaytor and her brother live in High Street."
"And their names?—their Christian names, I mean?" asked the stranger, hoarsely.
"Mr. Chaytor's name is Thorold," returned Waveney, simply, "and his sister is Joanna." Then the man snatched up the child in his arms; he seemed almost beside himself. "Thank God, we have found them, Bet. My dear old Theo and Joa! Oh, what a fool I have been, going so far afield, and all the time they are actually at Dereham;" and then he sat down, and a few words cleared up the mystery.
About an hour later, as Joanna was drawing the crimson curtains over the window, Jemima threw open the door with a little fling.
"There is a child outside wanting to speak to you, ma'am. I would not let her into the passage, because she might have come to beg; but she said she wanted Miss Chaytor most particular."
"Very well, Jemima, I will go and speak to her;" and Joanna, who was very tender-hearted and never turned away a tramp unfed, went quickly to the door.
A little girl, a tiny creature, was standing there. She looked up in Joanna's face wistfully.
"Oh, please will you tell me if you are Miss Chaytor—Miss Joanna Chaytor," correcting herself with careful pronunciation.
"That is my name, certainly," returned Joanna, rather surprised at this. "And what do you want with me, my little girl?"
"Oh, please, Aunt Joa," returned the child, "I am Betty, dad's little Betty, and daddy is at the gate." And then, the next moment, a man's shadow was distinctly visible.
"I was born, sir, when the crab was ascending and my affairs go backwards."—Congreve."Heaven lies about us in our infancy."—Wordsworth.
"I was born, sir, when the crab was ascending and my affairs go backwards."—Congreve.
"Heaven lies about us in our infancy."—Wordsworth.
Thorold Chaytor was not an imaginative man; he was neither emotional nor impressionable, and more than once lately he had puzzled himself over the singular persistency with which his long-lost brother Tristram haunted him. For the last two or three years he had hardly thought of him, but now, as he crossed the bridge of an evening, little tricks of speech and long-forgotten scenes would recur to his memory; but he never spoke of this to Joanna.
"Poor old Trist, I hope nothing has happened to him," he said to himself one evening, when the impression of his brother's presence had been so unusually strong that the familiar face had seemed as though it had been limned against the darkness. And then he thought sadly, and shuddered at the thought, how it was a well-known psychological fact that people at the point of death had often appeared, or rather seemed to appear, to some relative or friend.
"Of course, it is only animal magnetism—the transmission of thought—the influence of one mind over another," he thought—"a strong wave-beat of sympathy. But I should not have thought that I was the man for that sort of experience." And then he put this latch-key into the door, and let himself in.
As he hung up his hat on its accustomed peg, he was aware of an unusual silence in the house. The parlour door was not opened, and there was no Joanna, with her irritating question, "Is that you, Thorold?" Neither did he hear her soft, gliding footsteps overhead.
"Perhaps she has gone to the Red House after all," he said to himself. And the thought of an evening of blissful solitude pleased him well. But as he entered the sitting-room, he started. There were no preparations for the evening meal. The tea-things were still on the table, and, to his intense surprise, a child—actually a child—was fast asleep on the couch by the fire.
Thorold crossed the room softly, and contemplated the little stranger with puzzled eyes. "It must be one of Joa's waifs and strays," he thought—for he was aware of his sister's charitable propensities. And yet she hardly looked like a tramp's child.
"Very likely the poor little thing has lost her way, and Joa is taking her in for the night," he continued. "Poor child, she seems tired out." And then his eyes softened, as he noticed how carefully Joanna had wrapped her up in her old fur cloak.
The next moment he heard his sister's footsteps on the stairs, and went out into the passage to question her. But when he saw her face, he was struck dumb with astonishment.
Joanna was looking radiant. She was dimpling and smiling like the girl Joa of old, and her blue eyes were shining through happy tears.
"Oh, Thorold, why are you so late. We have wanted you so!" And Joanna's thin white hands grasped him almost convulsively.
"Who is that child?" he whispered, loudly. "Is it some one you have found in the street?" Then, in her excitement, she gave him an hysterical little push.
"You have seen her! Oh, Thorold, is she not like him? His little Betty! My darling Tristram's little Betty!" and as he stared at her, and turned pale—for a sudden prevision of the truth had come to him—she sobbed out, "Yes, yes, Tristram has come—he is upstairs; he is in your room, Thorold. Go to him, dear, while I get your supper ready." And then Thorold drew a long breath, and darted upstairs. And Joanna, crying softly, out of sheer bliss and gratitude, busied herself in womanly ministrations.
Thorold was thankful to meet his brother alone. In spite of his reserve he was a man of deep feelings, and when he felt Tristram's mighty grasp of his hand, and heard his familiar voice say in broken accents, "Theo, dear old fellow!—dear old chap!" he was almost too moved to speak.
"Why have you not written to us all these years?" were his first coherent words; but Tristram shook his head—he had no excuse to offer. He had drifted from place to place, seeking work and not always finding it, and he did not wish his friends to know how hardly things had gone with him.
"I was always a proud beggar, Thorold," he said, with a sigh, "but my back is pretty well broken now, and there's Bet, you see."
"And Ella—where is your wife, Trist?" Then Tristram turned his head aside.
"Ella is dead. I buried her two years ago," he returned, sadly. "Poor dear Ella, she never had her good things in this life. 'You have taken me for better or for worse, but there has been no better in it at all,' I often said to her; but she never liked me to say it. Ah, she was the best wife a man could have, but she lies in the cemetery at Melbourne, and little Theo lies with her—I called him after you, old chap. But he never got over the fever. I think it was the loss of the boy that finished Ella, for she never seemed to hold up her head again."
Tristram evidently felt his wife's death acutely, and Thorold, with quiet tact, said a word or two of sympathy and then changed the subject.
Before their brief talk was over, and they went downstairs to join Joanna, Thorold found out that Tristram was utterly unchanged. The handsome ne'er-do-well, as Althea used to call him, was only a little older, and perhaps a trifle rougher, but he was the same irresponsible, happy-go-lucky, easy-tempered Tristram of old.
Shiftless and indolent, he had drifted wherever the tide of circumstance had carried him. Sometimes he had worked and at other times he had starved; but when any good Samaritan stretched out a helping hand and drew him out from the Slough of Despond, he would pull himself together and go on gaily, as though the sun of prosperity had always shone on him. Never were there two brothers so widely dissimilar. But Tristram was no evil-living prodigal, no black sheep, to be dreaded and shunned by all right-minded people; he had loved his wife, and had treated her well, and the poor woman had repaid him with the truest devotion; and now his sister had received him with tears of joy. His sins were the sins of a weak nature, a nature that disliked effort, and chose the softest paths for itself, and which landed him in strange places sometimes.
"I have made an awful muddle of my life," he said, when Thorold questioned him with kindly interest. "Don't you recollect the dear old governor said something of the kind on his death-bed? Upon my word, old chap, I think I am the unluckiest beggar that ever walked this earth. Nothing prospers with me. If I make a little money I somehow contrive to lose it. I am pretty nearly at the end of my tether, I can tell you that?"
"What made you leave Melbourne!" asked Thorold, in his calm, judicial way. Then Tristram shrugged his shoulders and seemed unwilling to answer the question.
"Well, I was a fool," he returned, presently; and he pulled his rough moustache a little fiercely. "The biggest fool out, if you will; but I got into a regular panic. There were two of them lying there, and Bet was seedy, and I got it into my head that the climate of Melbourne did not suit her; and then I thought what a fine thing it would be if Joa could look after her a bit. A child wants a woman's care; and as I smoked my pipe that evening I had such a fit of home-sickness that I was nearly crazy. I had a bit of money put by, and I took our berths the next day; and here we are, old chap, and you must just make the best of us;" and Tristram brought down his hand heavily on his brother's shoulder.
They went downstairs after this, and found Betty awake and sitting on her aunt's lap. The little one was chattering happily to her, and Joanna was fondly stroking the plait of fair hair. "So he says to me, 'You are dad's Betty, are you, my little Miss?' and I said, 'Yes, of course, Mr. Captain, that is what daddie does always call me,' and he laughed in his beard, oh! such a great laugh."
"Why, Bet, you chatterbox, are you talking about your friend the captain?" exclaimed Tristram. "Come here, you monkey, and speak to Uncle Theo;" and Betty came with ready obedience.
"I am very glad to see you, Uncle Theo," she said, gravely, slipping her little hand into his. And Thorold stooped down and kissed her cheek; then a little awkwardly he lifted her on his knee, and scrutinised the childish features. Bet's blue eyes opened rather widely; she was vaguely alarmed by her new uncle's solemnity.
"Daddie," she said, after a few minutes' silent endurance. "Does not Uncle Theo like me? He do stare so. And he has such big eyes." For, even to wee Betty, "the noticeable man, with large grey eyes" was a formidable being at close quarters.
They all laughed at this; and Thorold kissed her again, and told her to run to Aunt Joa and she would make her more comfortable. But to his astonishment Bet refused to leave him. Her nature was a curiously sensitive one, and she had got it into her small mind that her plain speaking had hurt him, and that she must somehow make it up with him.
"I don't mind big eyes if they are nice ones," she said, graciously; "and yours are pretty nice, Uncle Theo."
Bet was rather aggrieved when her flattering speech was received with fresh mirth. She was not so sure after that that she did not like Aunt Joa much the best.
When supper was over, Bet went to bed. Joanna had refused to part with her, and had carried her off to her own room. To the jaded, disappointed woman, the sight of Bet kneeling by the bedside and saying her simple prayers was very sweet and touching.
"God bless dear daddie, and my own dear mammie and dear little brother Theo, and Uncle Theo and Aunt Joa, too, for ever and ever.—Amen."
"Bet, darling," whispered Joanna, pressing the little white-gowned figure tenderly in her arms, "did father teach you those prayers?"
"Yes, he did teach me," returned Bet, sleepily; and then she roused up. "There was an old woman once, Aunt Joa, she was a silly old woman, and she did say to dad, 'Why do you let that baby pray for her mother? I am quite shocked,' and dad, he did say, 'I am sorry, ma'am, thatyoushould be shocked, but I don't think the angels are a bit offended because my little girl asks God to bless one of the dearest of mothers.' Oh, I did laugh, I was so pleased when dad said that!"
When Joanna went downstairs, she found the two brothers talking over the fire. She sat down beside Tristram, but on this evening there was no tangled skein in her hands; they were folded placidly in her lap. It was occupation enough for her to look at Tristam's brown, weather-beaten face, and to listen to his voice. Now and then he looked at her with a kind smile.
"Trist, do you know that Thorold has nearly paid off father's debts?" she said, presently. Then Tristram regarded his brother almost with awe.
"Oh, you were always a fine fellow, Theo," he said, enviously. "You are the good elder brother, you know, and I am the prodigal." Here he sighed heavily. "Well, I am weary of my husks, I want to turn over a new leaf and settle down. You will find me some work, old chap, and I'll stick to it like a Trojan, I give you my word I will."
"Work is not so easy to find," returned Thorold, quietly, "but I will do what I can to help you. I am pretty busy myself, for I have to get up an important case. We will talk about ways and means to-morrow."
"Yes, and I must be going to my diggings now, or Mother Grimson will think I am lost. She's a decent body, Mother Grimson, and has been very good to my Bet." As Tristram rose from his chair, Joanna caught hold of his arm.
"Wait a moment, Trist—I want to ask Thorold something before you go. Why should not Trist and Betty come here?—at least for a time. There is plenty of room, and I could look after Bet—and Jemima is so fond of children. Do have them, my dear, it will make me so happy;" and Joanna timidly put her hand on Thorold's arm.
"No, no!" returned Tristram; but he spoke a little hoarsely. "You are a good creature, Joa, but I must not take advantage of your kindness. I have made my own bed, and it is a hard one, and I must lie on it." But he looked at his brother very wistfully as he said this.
There was no hesitation in Thorold's manner.
"Joanna is right," he said, calmly, "you had better come to us, Trist, at least for a time, while you are looking for a berth to suit you;" and Tristram accepted this offer with gratitude.
"Oh, Thorold, you have made us both so happy!" exclaimed Joanna, gratefully, when Tristram had left them. "Bet is such a darling, I could not bring myself to part with her." But Thorold only smiled at her without speaking.
When Joanna had gone up to her room, he sat down by the fire. He wanted to think over things quietly. The millstone that had been so long round his neck was slipping off, and now he must adjust his shoulders to a new burden.
The wanderer had returned, and he and his helpless child were to be received under his roof. Was he glad or sorry for this? Was the burden or the joy the greater? Would his home life be gladdened or still further depressed by these new inmates? Thorold could not answer these questions; his straightforward, sincere nature only grasped the one fact.
"It is my duty. With all his faults and follies, he is my only brother. God do so to me and more also, if I refuse to help my own flesh and blood!"
Althea was very much moved when Waveney carried home the news that evening. She drove down to High Street so early the next morning that Joanna was still doing her marketing. She found Tristram sitting by the fire, with Bet on his knee. He put down the child when he saw a stranger.
"Do you remember an old friend, Tristram?" she said, holding out her hand, and looking at him kindly. Then a sudden light dawned on him.
"Is it—can it be Althea?" he asked; and as she smiled he wrung her hands so energetically that she winced with pain. "Oh, yes, of course, I recognise you now. You are just the same, Althea. You are not a bit changed all these years."
"No, I have only grown older; we all do that, you know. And this is your little girl, Tristram? But she is not like you."
"No, Bet takes after her mother; but Ella was pretty, and Bet is not, bless her." Then Betty, who was snugly ensconced in Althea's arm, peeped out at her father with a protesting face.
"Did you want your little Bet to be pretty, dad?" she asked, rather sadly.
"No, my pet," he returned, laughing. "I don't want her any different."
"Oh, I am glad of that," returned the child; and then she frowned, anxiously. "You are quite sure, dad? I could try very hard, you know; every one can try hard to be pretty." And then, in a low voice, "And I could ask God to help me. Mother always did say, I might ask for anything I want; and I could just say, 'Dad wants his little girl to be real pretty, so please make me so for ever and for ever.—Amen.'"
Tristram looked at Althea with a smile; he was used to Bet's quaint speeches. He was surprised to see that Althea's eyes were full of tears.
"How beautiful it is!" she sighed. "The faith of little children, how it shames us poor worldlings!" But at that moment Joanna entered the room, and Bet, with a joyful exclamation, ran to meet her.
"In all the humours, whether grave or mellow,Thou's such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,Hast so much wit and mirth, and spleen about theeThat there's no living with thee or without thee."Addison(Spectator).
"In all the humours, whether grave or mellow,Thou's such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow,Hast so much wit and mirth, and spleen about theeThat there's no living with thee or without thee."Addison(Spectator).
"The way is as plain as way to parish church."—As You Like It.
"The way is as plain as way to parish church."—As You Like It.
In all London there were no two happier girls than Waveney and Mollie Ward that Wednesday evening; nevertheless, Mollie's cup of bliss lacked one ingredient to make it perfect. If only Waveney were there!
If she had only known that at that very moment Waveney was peeping at her from the back of the box opposite! "There is my dear Mollie," she whispered, excitedly; then Althea, much perplexed, swept the boxes with her opera-glass.
She could not see the girl anywhere; but just opposite them, standing quite alone in the front of a box, there was a young lady in a white silk cloak, and a pink shower bouquet in her hand, and she had the sweetest and most beautiful face that Althea had ever seen.
"What a lovely girl!" she said to herself; and she was not surprised to see that opera-glasses from all parts of the house were levelled in that direction; but the next moment she started—for surely she recognized that dark, foreign-looking man who had just entered the box.
"Moritz!" she ejaculated. "Good heavens, could that exquisite young creature be Mollie Ward!" and then Althea's colour changed as a slight, fair man joined them, followed by a tall, aristocratic-looking youth withpince-nez.
"Father and Noel," whispered Waveney, in a voice of suppressed ecstasy; but only Doreen heard her. Althea's lips were white and trembling; the lights were flickering before her eyes; the tuning up of the instruments in the orchestra sounded harsh and discordant.
No, she had not expected this!—to find him so unchanged. It was twenty-one years since they had met, and yet it seemed to her that it was the same Everard Ward whom she remembered so well; he even wore the same white stephanotis in his coat.
He was a little older, perhaps, a trifle thinner, but it was the same perfect face. Distance and the electric light softened down defects. Althea could not see how shiny and worn Everard's dress-coat was any more than she could see the lines on his forehead and round his eyes, or the threatened baldness; she only noticed that he stood in his old attitude, his head raised, and one hand lightly twirling his moustache. Althea stifled a sigh. Well, she was glad to have seen him again, very glad. When ghosts were troublesome it was well to lay them. And then, though her woman's heart failed her, and she vaguely felt that Doreen had been wiser and more prudent than she, she determined to pluck up spirit and play her little drama to the bitter end.
The curtain had now drawn up, and they were at liberty to seat themselves comfortably in the front of the box. Mollie's and Waveney's eyes were fixed on the stage, but Mr. Ingram, who had seen the play before, was not so engrossed. He had just discovered a picturesque little girl in a sapphire blue cloak, and a curly babyish-looking head who reminded him of his little Samaritan; he wanted to take another look at her, but he could only see her profile. And then Althea's long, pale face and reddish hair came into view, and beside her Doreen's dark-complexioned features.
"Now what on earth has put it into my cousins' heads to come here to-night?" he said to himself, in a vexed voice. "It is not like Althea to spoil sport in this fashion. And they have brought little Miss Ward, too," and then he frowned and twisted his moustache fiercely, and growled under his breath, "Confound those women!" in quite irate fashion.
Any one who knew Mr. Ingram well—his mother, if he had one, or his sister—for there was certainly no wifeen evidence—would have seen that he was greatly chagrined and perplexed; but, being a humourist and one of the most good-natured men living, he worked off his wrath harmlessly by parodying the well-known verse, and muttering it softly for his own refreshment:
"Oh, woman in our hour of easeA giddy flirt, a flippant tease,As aggravating as the shadeBy blind Venetian ever made.When pain and anguish wring the browA veritable humbug thou."
"Oh, woman in our hour of easeA giddy flirt, a flippant tease,As aggravating as the shadeBy blind Venetian ever made.When pain and anguish wring the browA veritable humbug thou."
And lo and behold! he was so pleased with his own cleverness that his exasperation died a natural death.
The first act was over before Mollie caught sight of Waveney, and then her delight and excitement were so great that her father had to gently admonish her that they were surrounded by strangers; and Noel, in a melodramatic whisper, threatened to take strong measures unless she behaved properly and left off kissing her hand like a crazy infant.
The next moment Mr. Ingram left his seat, and Althea, who guessed that he was coming across to them, went to the back of the box to receive him.
He looked at her gravely. "Et tu Brute!" he said, reproachfully, as he took her hand.
Althea laughed. "Oh, I was not spying on you, my lord," she returned, playfully; but he exclaimed,—
"Hush, for pity's sake!" in such an agonised tone that Althea nearly laughed again.
"That child does not hear us," she said, soothingly. "Shall we take a turn in the corridor?" And as he nodded assent, they went out together. Waveney had not even seen him enter the box; she was busily telegraphing to Mollie.
"Well, Moritz?" demanded Althea, in an amused tone, "you may as well make a clean breast of it. Why have you forgotten your poor old cousins at the Red House, and why are you masquerading in this mysterious fashion? They call you Mr. Ingram, these children, but you are not Mr. Ingram now; and though I am not curious—oh, not the least bit in the world!" as he smiled, provokingly; "I should like to know what it all means."
"What it means. Upon my word, Althea, you have asked a difficult question. One cannot always tell the meaning of things." And then Moritz pulled his moustache in a perplexed way. "Haven't you watched some boy throw a stone in a pond? It may be a mere pebble, but the circles widen and widen until the whole surface of the water is covered with intersecting circles?"
"Why, yes," she returned, coolly, "but we are not throwing stones just now, are we?"
"No, it was only a parable; I deal in parables sometimes. I was just flinging my little pebble for mere sport and idleness, when I called myself by my old name. I wanted to be incognito, to have no gaudy tag or bobtail attached to my hum-drum personality; only, you see, the play has lasted longer than usual."
"But why?" she persisted—but her tone was a little anxious. "Moritz, please do not think me disagreeable,—you were always a whimsical being, and only Gwen knows the extent of your eccentricities; but I am interested in these people." Here she caught her breath a little. "When Mr. Ward knows, he might not be pleased."
"Oh, I will take my chance of that," he returned, obstinately. But Althea had not finished all she had to say.
"We used to know him so well in the old days; he was constantly at Kitlands. No, I know you and Gwen never saw him there. You were living abroad those two years. But Thorold Chaytor knew him. I was thinking that all this masquerading might lead to awkward complications by and by."
"Nonsense!" he returned, quickly. "What makes you so faint-hearted? My dear cousin, there will be no complications at all." But Althea shook her head almost sadly.
"Listen to me," he went on, with increased animation. "It is a pretty little comedy in real life, and full of dramatic situations. I am enjoying my incognito immensely; it is the best bit of fun I have had since poor old Ralston died. In Cleveland Terrace I am Monsieur Blackie; I adore the name—it suits me down to the ground." Then, as Althea laughed, he took hold of her arm in a coaxing fashion.
"Althea, you are a good creature—you must promise to keep my secret for a little while. I have made all my plans and prepared mydénouement, and I shall want your help in carrying it out. No hints to Gwen, no treasonable correspondence! Gwen is a good girl, but her honesty is almost clumsy—it is yea, yea, and nay, nay, with her and Jack too. My masquerading, as you call it, would simply shock her. Now I have promised Miss Mollie to bring her sister to our box, and I must keep my word."
Perhaps Moritz's voice changed as he said this, but Althea looked at him rather earnestly.
"She is beautiful as an angel," she said, in a low voice. "Take care of yourself, Moritz." But only a flash of his eyes answered her. Certainly Althea looked very grave when she re-entered the box.
Mr. Ingram had warned Mollie that there must be no stage embrace, so she had to content herself by squeezing Waveney's hand at intervals.
The second act had already commenced, and until it had ended there could be no conversation between the sisters. But when the curtain fell for the second time Mollie dried her eyes—for she had been shedding a deluge of tears—sniffed daintily at her flowers, and then asked Waveney, in a loud whisper, if Miss Althea had given her that pretty cloak.
Waveney nodded. "Yes. Is it not sweet of her? She says I am to keep it. But, Mollie, dear, yours is almost too lovely. Do you know, Miss Althea would not believe you were Mollie Ward, because you were so beautifully dressed. Cinderella is turned into a princess to-night." And then she put her lips to Mollie's ear. "Did you find out anything from the Black Prince?"
"Yes—no—oh, please hush," returned Mollie, with a distracting blush, and a timid glance at Ingram. "No, dear, he will not own to it; but, of course, I know. There! the curtain is going up again, and we shall hear if that dear girl is really dead."
Mollie had made her little attempt while she was waiting for her father and Noel. Mr. Ingram had come early, but Mollie was already dressed, and limping up and down the room; for she was far too restless to sit still.
"I have brought you some flowers," he said, simply, as he handed her the magnificent bouquet. Then, as Mollie blushed and thanked him, she carefully rehearsed the little speech that she had prepared beforehand. He was looking at her cloak, admiring it. Yes, his eyes certainly expressed decided approbation.
"Mr. Ingram," she stammered—for tact andfinessewere not strong points with Mollie, "do you know I have had a great surprise. I have had such a beautiful present. It came the other night, and there was no name and no address. And I do so want to thank the kind friend who sent it."
Mr. Ingram was arranging the flowers in his buttonhole. A leaf was awry, and he was the soul of neatness. Perhaps this was why he did not look at Mollie.
"Dear me," he said, quietly. "An anonymous gift! This sounds interesting. A little mystery always enhances the value of a thing."
"Oh, do you think so?" returned Mollie, rather nonplussed by his tone. "I suppose, being a girl, I think differently about that. I am sure that I should enjoy wearing my beautiful cloak a hundred times more if I could thank the giver."
"There now," observed Ingram, in a voice of supreme satisfaction, "I did not like to ask the question for fear you should think me inquisitive. And it is really that cloak that becomes you so well—that is the mysterious present—I congratulate you, Miss Mollie, I do indeed, for I never saw you look better in my life. Upon my word, if I were ordering an evening cloak for Gwen I would choose her just such another."
Poor Mollie. All this glib talk bewildered her, but she was far too grateful, and too much in earnest, to give up her point, so she only raised her lovely eyes to Ingram and said, very wistfully,—
"You could not help me to find out. I do so want to know." But Ingram only shrugged his shoulders: he even looked a trifle bored.
"You may ask me anything else, Miss Mollie, but I assure you I should make a bad detective. Why," he continued, airily, "I find it difficult enough to keep my own secrets, without finding out other people's. Oh, here comes our friend the humourist. And now may I beg to inform you that Monsieur Blackie's carriage stops the way."
Waveney did not return to her friends' box, and at the conclusion of the play they all met in the lobby. Waveney was hanging on her father's arm, but he disengaged himself hastily when he saw the sisters.
Althea, who had been nerving herself for this moment all the evening, was only a little paler than usual as she held out her hand to him.
"It is a great many years since we met, Mr. Ward," she said, with a grave smile.
"Yes," he returned, looking at her with equal gravity; but his eyes were sad. "More than twenty years, I think;" and then he shook hands with Doreen rather stiffly, while Althea spoke to Mollie and Noel.
"I should like you to come and see me, my dear," she said to the delighted girl. "Would next Tuesday suit you? Waveney shall come over in the carriage and fetch you. And perhaps your brother would join you, and take you back in the evening," And Mollie accepted this invitation with great readiness.
Everard, who had overheard this, came a step nearer.
"I must take this opportunity of thanking you for your kindness to my dear child," he said, with strong feeling in his voice. "It was hard to part with her, but you make her so happy that Mollie and I try to be resigned to her loss."
"You do not owe me any thanks," returned Althea, her lips paling with evident emotion, "for we love her for her own sake, and she is a great comfort to me. Ah, I see my cousin is beckoning to you, so I will wish you good-night."
Everard shook hands with her rather absently; but a moment later he came back to her side.
"Miss Harford, pardon me, but did you say, just now, that Ingram was your cousin."
Then Althea looked a trifle confused. How incautious she had been!
"Yes," she returned, guardedly, "Moritz is certainly our cousin—once removed. When we were at Kitlands, his father, Colonel Ingram, lived abroad, so that is why you never met him. Did you not ever hear us speak of Moritz and Gwendoline."
"I think not—I am sure not." But Everard's eyes were downcast as he spoke. Then, without another word, he lifted his hat and turned away; the mention of Kitlands had been like a stab. Even Althea hardly guessed how this meeting had tried him, and how cruelly his pride had suffered.
Althea was very silent all the way home. She was tired, she said, and Doreen and Waveney must discuss the play without her; but as she leant back in her corner of the carriage, very little of the conversation reached her ears. Ah, she had noted all the changes now. The shiny dress-coat, the lines, the slight baldness, had all been apparent under the flaring gaslights in the lobby. She could see now that Everard was aged and altered.
The spring and brightness of youth had gone, and care and disappointment and ceaseless drudgery had given him the stoop of age. Already his shoulders seemed bowed, as though some heavy load lay on them; but the face, grave and careworn as it was, was the face of her old lover. The features were as finely chiselled as ever. No sorrow, no failure, no wearing sense of humiliation, would ever rob Everard Ward of his man's beauty, though perhaps an artist would no longer desire to paint him as Ithuriel.
"I am glad to have seen him again," thought Althea; but a dry sob rose in her throat as she said it. How coldly, how gravely he had accosted her! He had expressed no pleasure in meeting his old friends, had asked no single question about their welfare. A few stiff words of thanks for her kindness to Waveney, but nothing more, nothing more; and Althea's eyes grew misty with unshed tears in the darkness.
There were some lines by Miss Murdoch that Everard had once written in her album. She had read them so often that she knew them by heart; they were haunting her now.