"Forgotten! no, we never do forget;We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,Leave them to bleach out in the open dayOr lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,Till we shall dare unfold them without pain;But we forget not, never can forget."
"Forgotten! no, we never do forget;We let the years go; wash them clean with tears,Leave them to bleach out in the open dayOr lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes,Till we shall dare unfold them without pain;But we forget not, never can forget."
"It is my nature to be faithful," Althea had once touchingly said to her sister; and to forget was certainly not possible to her!
"Learn to live, and live to learn,Ignorance like a fire burns,Little tasks make large returns."Bayard Taylor.
"Learn to live, and live to learn,Ignorance like a fire burns,Little tasks make large returns."Bayard Taylor.
"Sits the wind in that quarter."Shakespeare.
"Sits the wind in that quarter."Shakespeare.
When Waveney went home the following Sunday, she carried with her a choice little piece of information, which she retailed with much gusto at the tea-table.
"Father," she said, in a mysterious voice, "I have found out something so interesting about our dear little Monsieur Blackie." Then Mollie, who was pouring out the tea, paused in her task to listen. "He is a relation of the Misses Harfords—their cousin once removed. Miss Althea told me so. His father, Colonel Ingram, was their own cousin."
Mollie's face wore an awed expression; she was evidently much impressed. But Mr. Ward looked a little perplexed.
"Ingram," he muttered, "I do not remember the name, and yet I thought I knew all their relations."
"No, father, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "Miss Althea said you had never seen any of them—they were living abroad, because Mrs. Ingram's health was so bad. There was only one daughter, Gwendoline, and she is married now, but I thought you and Mollie would be interested to know that he is a connection of the dear ladies at the Red House."
Then Noel solemnly rapped on the table with his knife.
"I propose Monsieur Blackie's health," he said, grandly; "he seems a respectable sort of party, and I am proud to have made his acquaintance. I regret—I may say I deeply regret—that I once made the unlucky observation that his head was like a scrubbing brush, and that his moustache was of the Mephistophelian pattern; but what are such trifles between friends?" And then his voice grew thin and nasal. "For I guess, and do calculate, ladies and gentlemen, that the party in question is boss of the whole show, and will boom considerable." And then he sat down and glared at Mollie through hispince-nez; but Mollie, who seemed a little flurried and excited, said nothing at all.
Only, as she and Waveney were putting on their hats for church, she said, in rather a subdued, quiet little voice,—
"Wave, dear, of course I am glad about Mr. Ingram; but it does not make any real difference, does it? for we always knew he was a gentleman. Father thinks he must be rich, he is so generous with his money; but he will never be too grand to be our friend, will he?" Mollie's voice was not quite steady when she said this. To her simplicity it seemed a surprising thing that their homely, kindly Monsieur Blackie should have such grand relations.
Mollie spent a very happy day at the Red House. Althea, who knew what girls love best, told Waveney to take her all over the house and show her everything, and left them alone together. She and Doreen had an engagement for the afternoon, but tea was served up as usual in the library.
When Althea returned she found them nestled together in the big easy-chair by the fire, "looking like a couple of babes in the wood," she said to Doreen afterwards. And it was so pretty and effective a picture that she forbade them to move; and then she sat down and talked to them in so sweet and friendly a way that Mollie's soft heart was soon won; and when Noel arrived, looking a little shy and awkward—after the fashion of boys—he found them all talking merrily together.
Both Althea and Doreen were charmed with Mollie. Doreen frankly owned to her sister that she had never seen so beautiful a face.
"If it were not for her lameness she would be perfect," she said, regretfully; and Althea agreed to this.
"It is a pity, of course," she returned, gently; "but there is something pathetic in it; and then her unconsciousness is so childlike. She is a sweet creature, and I love her already, but not so much as I love my little Undine;" for, somehow, both she and Doreen often called her by this name.
Waveney had not seen her little friend Betty again, but Althea and Doreen were constantly at the house in High Street, and she often heard them mention her name. Sometimes of an evening, when she was reading to herself, she heard them talking about the Chaytors; and as they never dropped their voices, she thought it no harm to listen.
"Joa is a different woman," Doreen once said. "I never saw such a change in any one. I always knew Tristram was her favourite. Thorold has to play second fiddle now; I am a little sorry for him sometimes."
"Your sorrow is wasted, Dorrie," returned her sister, with a smile. "Thorold is too big and strong for these petty feelings; he values Joa's peace of mind far too much to disturb it by paltry jealousy. He tells me that for the present Tristram and the child will continue to live with them, until Tristram can earn enough to keep a respectable roof over his head. It was very lucky, finding him that berth, and it really suits him very well. But Joa says that Betty misses her father terribly; she spends half her time at the window, watching for him."
Betty's name was perpetually on the sisters' lips; her queer little speeches, her odd ways, her shrewdness and intelligence, and, above all, her warm, childish heart, were favourite topics; and Bet's last was a standing joke with them.
Waveney began to wish to see her again, but Miss Althea never sent her now to the Chaytors. Once Joanna called and had tea at the Red House, but Betty was not with her; the child had a slight cold, she said, and she had left her with Jemima. But throughout the visit she talked of little else. Bet's lessons, her story-books, the new doll that Althea had given her, and the basinette that she was trimming for a Christmas present, were all discussed quite seriously.
Waveney listened eagerly in her corner. For once she found Miss Chaytor interesting. Her voice had lost its fretful strain; she spoke with animation, and as she talked there was a pretty dimple that Waveney had never noticed.
"She must have been very pretty when she was a girl," thought Waveney. "She is good-looking now, and her face is quite pleasant when she smiles." And then again she heard Bet's name, and composed herself to listen.
"The love of that mite for her father is quite wonderful," went on Joanna. "Even Thorold notices it. Quite an hour before Trist is due, Bet will be gluing her face and flattening her nose against the window; and nothing will move her. And all the time she is humming to herself, like a little bird—such funny little scraps of tunes. And then, when he crosses the road, she is out of the room like a dart. And to hear all her old-fashioned questions to him in the passage! Oh, it almost makes me cry to listen to her! 'Are you very tired, father dear? Have you had a hard day? Does your head ache? and are your feet cold? But Aunt Joa has made up such a big fire!'—something like that every night."
"Bless her little heart," observed Doreen, sympathetically; but Althea only smiled.
"And then she brings him in and makes such a fuss over him," went on Joanna. "Just as though he were some feeble, gouty old gentleman. But Tristram lets her do it. I think he likes to feel her little fingers busy about him. She fetches him his warm slippers, and a footstool, or a screen if the fire is hot; and when he is quite 'comfy,' as she calls it, she climbs up on his knee and gives him an account of the day."
When Joanna had taken her leave, Althea stood looking into the fire with a grave, abstracted look. But when Doreen returned to the room, she changed her attitude slightly.
"Joa seems very happy, does she not, Dorrie? She has not worn so bright a face since the Old Manor House days!"
"No, indeed! And it is all Bet's influence. She is like a hen with one chick; it almost makes me laugh to hear her."
"I felt nearer crying, I assure you. But, Dorrie, is it not beautiful to see how love effaces self. 'And a little child shall lead them;' do you remember those words? Already Bet's tiny fingers have smoothed out the lines on Joa's face, and taught her to smile again."
Waveney only saw Mr. Chaytor on Thursday evenings at the Porch House. The Shakespeare readings were still in full swing, and she still sat beside Nora Greenwell. She sometimes thought that Mr. Chaytor spoke less to her than to the other girls, though he was always careful to point out any fault of punctuation; now and then, when she was a little weary of following the text, she would raise her eyes from her books; and more than once it had given her an odd shock to find at that very moment Mr. Chaytor was quietly regarding her; then some sudden shyness made her eyelids droop again.
Mr. Chaytor took no apparent notice of her. When the reading was over he always joined Althea, and a grave bow, or perhaps a pleasant "good-night," when Waveney left the room, was all that passed between them.
It was strange, then, that as Thorold Chaytor walked down the hill in the wintry darkness, a little pale face and a pair of dark,spirituelleeyes should invariably haunt him. Never in his life had he seen such eyes, so soft and deep and magnetic.
And then that babyish crop of brown, curly hair—he wondered why she wore it so, it made her look so childish; but he liked it, too—it struck him that she was lighter, and more sprightly and full of grace and lissomeness, than any girl he had seen, and that his name of Undine suited her down to the ground. He remembered well her sister's lovely face, but of the two he preferred his little Undine.
Once, when he had entered the Recreation Hall, and the seat beside Nora Greenwell was vacant, a troubled look came into his eyes; but Waveney, who had only gone across to the house for a book Althea wanted, re-entered a moment later; and Thorold's brow cleared like magic as her light, springy step passed by his chair.
"I hope I have not disturbed you," she said, rather timidly, as he rose from his seat and wished her good-evening; "but Miss Harford had forgotten her Shakespeare."
"Not at all; but we will begin now." Then, as Waveney opened her book, she wondered at Mr. Chaytor's grave, intent look.
About ten days before Christmas, Waveney, attended by her little companions, Fuss and Fury, started off for a walk over the Common.
It was one of those ideal afternoons in December, when all young creatures feel it is a joy to be alive. There had been a heavy frost in the night, and the bright, wintry sunshine had not yet melted it. The Frost King had touched the saplings with his white fingers, and even the bare blackberry bushes were transformed into things of beauty. The vast common seemed to glitter with whiteness under the pink glow of the winter's sky.
Waveney had turned her steps towards the golf links. The wind blew more bleakly there, but the wide stretch of open common, with the black windmill in the distance, always gave her a pleasant sensation of freedom. She loved to watch the sun sinking into his bed of bright-coloured clouds. But when the pink glow faded, and the sky-line became a cold, steely blue, she shivered a little, as though she had stayed too long at some pageant, and set her face homewards.
She had walked too far, and she knew the darkness would overtake her long before she reached the Red House, and then Miss Althea would gently admonish her for her imprudence.
The little dogs were tumbling over each other, and wetting their silky coats in the frosty grass. Waveney called them sharply to order. If no one were in sight she thought she would race them across the Common; but the next moment she heard footsteps behind her.
Involuntarily she quickened her own steps. It was rather a lonely part of the Common. There was no one to be seen, only the gaunt, black arms of the windmill seemed to stretch into the darkening sky.
The rapid, even footsteps behind her made her nervous, and gave her the feeling of being in a nightmare. If she could only look around! And then, to her intense relief, a familiar voice pronounced her name.
"Mr. Chaytor!" she gasped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly speak. "Oh, how glad I am! It was very foolish of me, but I never can bear to be followed in a lonely place."
"I was afraid I frightened you?" he said, coming to her side, "but you were walking so fast that I found it difficult to overtake you. Forgive me, I know I have no right to lecture, but at this hour the golf links is far too lonely a place for a young lady."
"Yes, you are right," returned Waveney, touched by this kind interest in her welfare, "and I must never walk here again so late. But"—with a sigh of regret—"I do love it so."
"Do you?" returned Mr. Chaytor, quickly. "I wonder why." But with his habitual reserve he forbore to add that it was his favourite walk.
"It is so wide," she replied, in her earnest voice. "All this space with nothing between you and the sky makes one feel so free and happy. The sunsets are always so beautiful here, and if it were not for the loneliness I should love to watch the darkness, like a big black ogre, swallow up all the lovely light."
It was a pity Waveney could not see Mr. Chaytor's smile.
"Shall we stand and watch it now?" he said, indulgently. "You have a safe escort, so we need not fear your ogre. Only you must not take cold." But Waveney only thanked him, and said that she was late already, and that they had better go.
What a walk that was! and how Waveney remembered it afterwards! If Mr. Chaytor had laid himself out to please and interest her, he could not have succeeded better. Books, pictures, accounts of his old summer wanderings! And yet not for one moment did Waveney feel that he was talking down to her level. It seemed the spontaneous outpouring of a well-bred, intellectual man, glad to impart information to a congenial companion. But if Waveney was charmed and interested, certainly Mr. Chaytor was gratified. Miss Ward's bright intelligence, her racy and picturesque remarks, her frankly confessed ignorance, were all delightful to him; since the old Manor days he had seen so few girls, and none of them had attracted him in the least. There was something unique, out of the common, about Miss Ward; he felt vaguely that he would like to know more of her.
Perhaps it was this feeling that made him say presently "I am afraid you have forgotten your little friend Betty"—for he knew all about that meeting on the Embankment. Betty had given him a most realistic and graphic account. "And the little lady did warm my hands so, Uncle Theo,"—and here Bet rubbed away at his hands until she was red in the face—"and all the time she did talk, and her great big eyes were laughing at me."
"Bet has a good memory for her friends, and she often talks about you!" continued Thorold. "She is a fascinating little person, even to me, though I do not profess to understand children. She is full of surprises. You never get to the end of her. My sister fairly worships her!"
"Yes, I know," returned Waveney, softly; "and I am so very glad—glad for your sister, I mean. I should love to see Betty again. I am not like you, Mr. Chaytor; I have been a child-worshipper all my life. Oh, I know they are naughty sometimes, but they are so much nearer the angels than we are, and they are not such a long way off from heaven."
"'Heaven lies about us in our infancy!' Are you a student of Wordsworth, Miss Ward?" But she shook her head.
"I have read some of his poems," she returned, modestly. "But I am afraid I know very little good poetry."
"That is a pity; but one can always mend a fault. At Easter I propose having a course of reading from Tennyson and Mrs. Browning. Ah, here we are at the Red House."
"You will come in and have a cup of tea after your long walk," observed Waveney. "Miss Doreen is in town, but I know Miss Althea is at home." Then, after a moment's hesitation, Mr. Chaytor assented and followed her into the house.
"My dear child, how late you are!" observed Althea, rather anxiously, as Waveney opened the library door. "I was getting nervous about you!"
"I am afraid I am rather late," confessed the girl; "but, fortunately, I met Mr. Chaytor, and he has come in with me for some tea." Then there was no lack of welcome in Althea's face and voice. Fresh tea was ordered, and another supply of hot buttered scones, a big pine-log thrown on the fire; and as Thorold sat in his luxurious chair, with a glass screen between him and the blaze, with his little walking companion opposite him, and Althea's warm smile on them both, he had never felt himself more comfortable, or at his ease.
"Rainy and rough sets the day—There's a heart beating for somebody;I must be up and away,Somebody's anxious for somebody."Swain.
"Rainy and rough sets the day—There's a heart beating for somebody;I must be up and away,Somebody's anxious for somebody."Swain.
Mr. Ingram had once compared the English climate to unregenerated womanhood, and had declaimed on this subject in his own whimsical fashion at Cleveland Terrace, much to the delight of his young friend the humourist.
"It is womanhood pure and simple, and unadulterated by civilisation," he continued, blandly, as he twisted his Mephistophelian moustache. "It is the savage mother, and no mistake, with all her crude grand humours. Sometimes she is benevolent, fairly brimming over with the milk of loving kindness. She has her sportive moods, when she bubbles over with smiles and mirth—a May day, for example—when she walks through the land as meekly as a garlanded lamb."
"Hear, hear!" observed Noel,sotto voce; but Mollie, who was deeply impressed, frowned him down.
Mr. Ingram paused, as though for well-deserved applause. He felt himself becoming eloquent, so he took up his parable again.
"But the savage mother knows how to sulk and frown, and her tear-storms and icy moods are terribly trying. There is no coquetry about her then; it is the storm and stress of a great passion." And with this grand peroration Mr. Ingram gave his moustache a final twist, and, as Noel phrased it, brought down the house.
Waveney thought of Monsieur Blackie's parable—for of course it had been duly retailed to her in Mollie's weekly budget—when the weather changed disastrously before Christmas. The Frost King no longer touched the earth with his white fingers; the wintry sunshine had faded from the landscape; the skies were grey and threatening, and the raw cold made one's flesh creep. "Hardly Christmas weather," Althea observed, regretfully, as she looked out from the library window at the blackened grass and sodden, uninviting paths. Only under the wide verandah of the Porch House a crowd of birds were feeding. Waveney was, as usual, watching them.
"I am afraid it will rain before evening," returned Doreen. "The barometer is going down fast. I do so dislike a wet Christmas." And to this Althea cordially agreed.
But no amount of impending rain could damp Waveney's pleasurable expectations, for she had a delightful programme before her. That year Christmas day fell on Saturday, and as Althea and Doreen always dined with Mrs. Mainwaring, Althea proposed driving her to Cleveland Terrace.
"Aunt Sara would be delighted to see you, dear!" she said—"indeed, you were included in the invitation. But I told her that you would far rather be with your own people."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," returned the girl, gratefully. But her joy was unbounded when Althea suggested that she should not return to the Red House until Tuesday afternoon. "I shall need all my helpers then," she finished, smiling; and Waveney understood her. The Christmas programme had been duly unfolded to her. There was to be a grand tea and entertainment for Althea's girls at the Porch House, a festive evening at the Home for Workers, a supper for the Dereham cabmen, and another for the costermongers; and on Twelfth Night the servants at the Red House always entertained their relations and friends in the Recreation Hall. "In fact," as Doreen expressed it, "no one would have time to sit down comfortably until the feast of Epiphany had passed." But, though Doreen spoke in a resigned tone of a weary worker, it might be doubted if any one enjoyed more thoroughly the bustle and preparation.
The day before Christmas was a busy one for all the inmates of the Red House. Doreen was at the Home all day superintending the Christmas decorations, and Althea spent most of her time at the Porch House, where a band of voluntary helpers were making garlands of evergreens, and framing Christmas mottoes in ivy under her skilful direction.
Waveney would willingly have helped in the work, but Althea had other employment for her. Some of her pensioners lived on the other side of the river, and Waveney, who often acted as her almoner, went off early in the afternoon to order parcels of groceries and other good things, and to carry them to two or three old women who lived in the almshouses.
The old women were garrulous, and detained her with accounts of their various ailments, so it was quite dark before the little gate of the almshouse garden closed behind her. For some time she had heard the pattering of the rain against the window-panes, and knew that she would have a long, wet walk home.
"Aye, but it is a wild night," observed Mrs. Bates, lugubriously, as she stirred her bright little fire afresh, "and it makes one shiver to one's very bones, that it do."
"But your warm shawl will be a comfort," returned Waveney, cheerfully. "Well, I must go now. 'A happy Christmas to you,' Mrs. Bates, and I hope your rheumatism will soon be better." And then Waveney unhasped the upper half of Widow Bates's door, and peered out into the darkness.
It was not inviting, certainly. The cold, sleety rain was falling in torrents. A wild night, assuredly, and one that meant mischief. But Waveney wore a stout waterproof cloak that Althea had lent to her, and thought she would be proof against any amount of rain or sleet. True, her umbrella was just a little slit, but she would soon have it re-covered.
A narrow, winding passage, resembling a cathedral close, led to High Street. A few old-fashioned houses fronted the garden wall of the Vicarage. Here it was so dark that Waveney was rather startled when she heard a child's voice close to her elbow.
"Oh, please, I am quite lost, and will you take me home?"
There was something familiar in the voice, but in the darkness it was impossible to see the child's face; but Waveney's ear was never deaf to any childish appeal.
"Oh, you poor little thing," she said, kindly, "where do you live, and what is your name?"
"I am dad's little Betty," returned the child. She spoke in a tired, dreary little tone, "and I live across the water, past the church, with Uncle Theo and Aunt Joa." Then, in spite of the wet, Waveney stooped down and put her arm round her.
"Why, it is my little friend, Betty," she said, in a puzzled tone. "Why are you out alone this dreadful night? Oh, you poor darling, your frock and jacket are quite soaking. Come, come, we must go home as fast as possible. Give me your hand, dear, and come closer to me, so that my umbrella may shelter you."
"Is it my little lady?" asked Betty, in a perplexed voice. "She did speak to me so kindly once on the seat by the river; but I have never, never seen her again."
"But we shall see each other presently, when we get to the shops," returned Waveney, cheerily. "Betty, darling, tell me, why are you out by yourself?"
"I wanted to meet dad," returned Betty, with a little sob. "Aunt Joa was out, and I was so lonely all by myself, and Jemima was busy and told me to run away, and I was aching dreadful because it was Christmas Eve and dad did not come; and I thought"—and Bet sobbed afresh—"it would be such fun to see him pass me, and then I should call out loud, 'Here's Bet, dad, and I have come to meet you;' but there was no dad at all."
"Yes; and then you missed your way?"
"It was so dark," returned Bet, plaintively, "and there were trees, and I fell down and hurt myself, and then I got frightened. Are you frightened in the dark, too?"
"No; I am only frightened of doing wrong things, Betty dear. I am afraid you have been very naughty, and that poor Aunt Joa will be anxious. Can you walk faster, darling?" But Bet, tired and miserable, felt as though her poor little legs were weighted with lead. But for the umbrella Waveney would have carried her; it hurt her to hear the child sobbing to herself quietly in the darkness. It was a cruel night for any child to be out. Mr. Ingram's "savage mother" was in her fiercest mood, and seemed lashing herself up to fresh fury.
There was scarcely a foot-passenger to be seen on the bridge, but a few shivering men and women were in the town making their Christmas purchases.
Bet cheered up a little when the bridge had been crossed. "We shall soon be there now," she sighed. "Do you know my home, little lady?"
"Yes, dear; and I know your Aunt Joa, too, and your Uncle Theo."
"And dad?"
"No, darling, not dad. But I daresay I shall know him some day. See how pretty all those lights look! Yes, this is the house," as Betty pulled at her hand. And the next moment they were standing on the doorstep.
To Waveney's surprise, Mr. Chaytor opened the door. He regarded them with amazement. Waveney's old umbrella had not fulfilled its mission, and the velvet on her hat was soaking, and so was her hair. But she was nothing to Betty. In the lamplight she looked the most abject little child possible. She was splashed with mud from head to foot, and her plait of fair hair was so wet that Mr. Chaytor hurriedly withdrew his hand.
"Why, she is wet through!" he said, in a shocked voice. Then Waveney hurriedly explained matters.
"I am afraid Betty has been rather naughty," she said, quickly. "She went out by herself in the hope of meeting her father. And then she lost herself, and got frightened. She was just by Aylmer's Almshouses when she spoke to me."
"Aylmer's Almshouses, across the river!" he exclaimed, quite horrified. "Why, I thought she was with my sister! What are we to do, Miss Ward?" looking at her with all a man's helplessness. "Joanna may not be back for an hour, and Jemima has gone to the General Post-Office. And the child is dripping with wet from head to foot."
Waveney was quite equal to the emergency.
"I think, if you will allow me, I had better take her upstairs," she returned, quietly, "and get off her wet things. And if you could get her something hot to drink—milk, or tea—anything, so that it is hot." Then Mr. Chaytor looked relieved.
"I could make her a cup of tea," he returned, "if you are sure that will do. The kettle is boiling now."
"Thank you, very much," was all Waveney answered. "Now, Betty dear, will you show me the way to your room?"
"I sleep in Aunt Joa's room," replied Betty, making brave efforts to restrain her tears. Her poor little lips were blue with cold, and her teeth were chattering. And her fingers were so numb that they could not turn the handle of the door, and Waveney had to come to her help.
It was a large, pleasant room, furnished simply, and a bright fire gave it an air of comfort. A child's cot stood beside the bed. There were some fine old prints on the walls, and the silver and ebony brush on the toilet-table, and the quilted silk eiderdown on her bed, spoke of better days.
Waveney took off her dripping waterproof and hat, and then she set to work, and in five minutes Betty's wet things lay in a heap on the floor, and she was wrapped up in her aunt's warm flannel dressing-gown, and ensconced in the big easy-chair. Then Waveney sat down on the rug and rubbed the frozen little feet.
"Betty," she said, coaxingly, "I do wish you would be a good child and go straight to bed." But Betty puckered up her face at this, and looked so miserable that Waveney did not dare to say more.
"It's my dad's birthday, and Christmas Eve," she said, in a heart-broken voice. "Dad would not enjoy his tea one bit unless I buttered his toast and gave him his two lumps of sugar."
"Well, then, you must tell me where to find you some dry, clean clothes," returned Waveney, with a disapproving shake of her head. But just then there was a tap at the door, and when she said, "Come in," to her surprise, Mr. Chaytor entered with two large cups of steaming tea in his hands.
"Jemima is still playing truant," he said, apologetically, "so I was obliged to bring the tea myself." And then he set down the cups on a little table, piling up Joanna's small possessions in a most ruthless fashion, to make room for them.
Perhaps the novelty of the situation bewildered him, or something in the little fireside scene appealed to him; for he stood beside Betty's chair for two or three minutes without speaking. Betty, in her scarlet dressing-gown, was certainly a most picturesque-looking little object, but Thorold's eyes rested longer on the girlish figure on the rug, at the busy ministering hands, and the damp, curly hair, still glistening with wet.
"Do please drink your tea, before it cools," he said, pleadingly. "When Jemima comes back, I shall send her up to help you, and clear all the wet things away." And then he went downstairs, and set on the kettle again to boil; and all the while the memory of a bare little foot resting on a girl's soft, pink palm, haunted him. "It is the eternal motherhood," he said to himself, "that is in all true women. No wonder Bet loves her. How could she help it?—how could she help it?" And then the door-bell rang, and Jemima entered with profuse apologies at her tardiness.
She was sent upstairs with a supply of hot water and towels, and as soon as Betty had finished her tea, her face and hands were washed, her hair dried and neatly tied with a ribbon. Then she was dressed in clean, fresh garments.
"I have got my best frock on, and I feel quite nice, and like Christmas Eve," exclaimed Betty, with a quaint little caper. "Oh, I am sure dad must have come, and Aunt Joa, too. Do let us go downstairs."
"Let me wash my hands first, darling," pleaded Waveney. "And oh, dear, how untidy I look!" and Betty stood by the toilet-table watching with critical eyes while Waveney tried to bring the unruly locks into order.
"Aunt Joa has such long, long hair," she observed. "When she sits down it almost touches the floor. But yours is nice baby hair, too—it is like little rings that have come undone; but it is pretty, don't you think so?"—feeling that Waveney must be the best judge of such a personal matter. Jemima giggled as she picked up the little muddy boots.
"Law, Miss Bet," she said, reprovingly, "how you do talk! No little ladies that I ever knew said such things. There's your pa, he is downstairs and a-waiting for his tea." But Bet heard no more.
"Come, come," she said, pulling Waveney by the dress. "Dad is downstairs, and the curls don't matter one bit." Then Waveney reluctantly followed her; her hat and gloves were drying; she could not possibly put them on for another half-hour, and she could hardly stay ruminating in Miss Chaytor's bedroom.
Joanna had not yet returned; she was evidently weather-bound at some friend's house, but a good-looking, weather-beaten man, in a rough grey coat, stood with his back to the fire. Bet ran to him at once.
"Oh, dad, I did so want to be ready for you, but I got wet and the little lady was helping me to dress up again."
"Yes, I know, Bet;" and then her father kissed her a little gravely, and held out his hand to Waveney.
"I am very grateful to you, Miss Ward. My brother has been telling me of your kindness to my little girl; she has been a very naughty child, I am afraid." Then Bet looked up in his face, and her lip quivered.
"Was it really bad of me to go out and meet you, dad?—really and truly?"
"Yes, darling, really and truly." And then Tristram took her on his knee. "What would dad have done without his little Betty?—and she might have been lost or run over."
"Oh, I would have found my way back," returned Bet, with a wise little nod of her head. "But I won't never do it again." And then her little arms went round his neck, and she rested her head against the rough grey coat; for her childish heart was full to the brim. "Miss Ward," observed Thorold, in rather a pleading voice, "as my sister is absent, may I ask you to pour out the tea." Then Waveney, blushing a little at the unexpected request, took her place quietly at the tea-tray.
"I am Sir Oracle,And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"Merchant of Venice.
"I am Sir Oracle,And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"Merchant of Venice.
"Beggar I am, I am even poor in thanks."Hamlet.
"Beggar I am, I am even poor in thanks."Hamlet.
What a strange Christmas Eve it was! Waveney felt as though she were in a dream, as she sat there demurely pouring out the tea, with Betty beside her, counting the lumps of sugar in each cup.
"Two for daddie, and one big one for Uncle Theo? Oh, that is not big enough, is it, Uncle Theo? And oh, dear!"—in a reproachful voice—"you did put in the milk first."
"I shall know better next time," returned Waveney, smiling; and then she watched Betty spreading her father's toast with butter. The child's concentrated earnestness, her absorbed gravity, amused her; but Tristram evidently took it as a matter of course. What a cosy room it was! Waveney thought. The crimson curtains were drawn, and a bright fire burnt in both the fireplaces—an unwonted extravagance—in honour of Christmas Eve; the circle of easy-chairs round the farthest fireplace looked snug and inviting.
Thorold did not talk much during tea-time—he left the conversation principally to his brother; but he often looked at the little figure that occupied Joanna's place. His fastidious eyes noticed the neat, dainty movements and the changes of expression on the bright, speaking face, and the lovely dimple when Waveney smiled or laughed. A man could hardly be dull with such a companion, he thought; and then, at some sudden suggestion, some overwhelming possibility, a dull flush rose to his temples, and he went to the window to inspect the weather.
"I am sorry to say that it is still raining, Miss Ward," he said, quietly, "and I am afraid we are in for a wet night; but I will get you a cab——"
"A cab!" interrupted Waveney, in a dismayed tone. "Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Chaytor, you must do nothing of the kind. I am as strong as a lion, and I never take cold—at least, scarcely ever. And what does a little rain matter?"
"You are a Stoic," he returned, somewhat amused at this; but she seemed so horrified at his suggestion that he said no more—being a man of deeds, not words. So when Waveney took possession of an easy-chair, and Betty brought her her baby doll to admire, she felt comfortably convinced that she would be allowed her own way; but she had reckoned without her host.
Waveney chatted happily to the child, while Tristram watched them with the lazy enjoyment of a tired man; and she never wondered why Mr. Chaytor was absent so long until he re-entered the room in his ulster.
"The cab is here, Miss Ward," he said, coolly; "and you will find your things in my sister's room. Jemima says they are quite dry."
Then Waveney only flashed a look of reproach at him, and walked meekly out of the room.
Of course he was right, she knew that, and that the idea of the long, lonely walk, in the pelting rain, was absurd in the highest degree. But as Waveney went upstairs she was not sure that she liked the quiet way in which Mr. Chaytor asserted his will; it made her feel like a little school-girl in the presence of a master. He had not taken the trouble to argue the point with her, or to prove to her that she had made a mistake, but had just gone out and brought the cab; and so Waveney, who, in spite of her sweet temper, was a trifle self-willed and obstinate, felt secretly aggrieved, and even offended. And she entered the parlour with so dignified an air that Thorold, who could read her face, smiled to himself.
Betty ran to her with a sorrowful exclamation.
"Oh, must you go, Wavie, dear?" she said, dubiously.
"Why, Bet," observed her uncle, rather shocked at this familiarity, "aren't you taking rather a liberty with your kind friend?"
"She told me her name," returned Bet, in eager defence, "and she did say that I might call her what I liked. I know it was Wavie, or something like it."
"Very like it, indeed, darling," replied Waveney, kneeling down and putting her arms round the child; "and it is prettier than Waveney, and I shall always want you to call me so. Now good-night, my little Betty." And then, as Betty clung to her and kissed her, Thorold looked at them rather gravely.
"I am ready now," observed Waveney, resuming her stiff manner. "I suppose it will be no use telling you, Mr. Chaytor, that I can very well go by myself."
"No," he returned, looking at her with very keen, bright eyes. "I am afraid your words would be wasted. You see, Miss Ward, I have a conscience, and my conscience tells me that I ought to see you safe in Miss Harford's hands." But to this Waveney vouchsafed no reply. She jumped into the cab and settled herself in her corner, and left Mr. Chaytor to dispose of himself as he would; and when he placed himself opposite to her, she only looked out intently at the lighted shops.
Even the rain could not quite damp the festivity. The snow-white turkeys and geese, garlanded with holly, made a brave show; and the butcher's shop was full of shabby customers. Waveney's soft heart yearned as usual over the babies and little children. Then she turned her head, and met Mr. Chaytor's amused glance—it was so kind, it spoke of such complete understanding, that she felt a little ashamed of herself.
"Miss Ward, have you forgiven me yet for doing my duty like a man?"
Waveney struggled with a smile, but she had not quite recovered herself, so she said, rather coldly,—
"I don't see that my forgiveness matters a bit!"
"Is not that rather crushing?" he returned. "Especially as it matters very much to me. I wish you would be friendly enough to tell me the real cause of offence. You could not reasonably expect that I should let you swim through this"—the rain beating an accompaniment to his words. "I would not have let my sister do it"—his voice softening into involuntary tenderness. Never had she seemed so lovable to him, even though her childish waywardness was making him smile.
"It was not the cab I minded so much," stammered Waveney, tingling with shame and confusion to her finger-ends, and glad of the darkness that hid her hot cheeks; "only you did it without telling me"—Waveney did not dare say what she really thought: that he had managed her like a child—"and it makes me unhappy, it does indeed, Mr. Chaytor, to bring you out this dreadful night, when you are so tired and have been hard at work all day."
"I never felt less tired in my life! And you are giving me great pleasure, in allowing me to perform this little service for you." Then Waveney blushed again, but this time for pleasure, for Mr. Chaytor's voice convinced her that he was speaking the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
"Now we have had our first and last little difference," he went on, cheerfully, "and shall be better friends than ever." And there was no outward dissent to this; only a mutinous sparkle in Waveney's dark eyes showed a silent protest.
"Would it be their last difference?" she thought; for she was a shrewd, sensible little woman, and had her own opinions on most things; but at least she had the grace and honesty to own that on this occasion she had been in the wrong.
What a short drive it was, after all! Almost before Waveney had seen that they were at the top of the hill they were driving through the lodge gates.
Althea came out into the hall to meet them in her heliotrope velveteen and lace ruff. She looked more like Queen Bess than ever.
"My dear child, I have been so anxious about you! But of course I hoped you had taken shelter. Thank you for bringing her home, Thorold. Will you come in, or is your cab waiting? We have our usual mulled wine and Christmas cake, which you ought to taste for the sake of the old lang syne."
"May I give the cabman some? Poor old fellow, he is so cold!" But it was a mere form of words. He need not have asked the question. On Christmas Eve not an errand boy or a carol singer left the Red House without being regaled with Christmas fare—"cakes and ale," as Althea and Doreen called it.
Thorold carried out a great mug of hot spiced wine and a mighty wedge of cake to the driver; then he took his by the hall fire, as he said he was too wet and dirty for the library. Waveney found him there alone when she came downstairs. Fresh pensioners were claiming the sisters' attention. He looked warmed and refreshed, and recommended her to follow his example.
"See what a treat you have given me, Miss Ward!" he said, smiling. "There is no mulled wine like this anywhere. The flavour brings back my dear old home to me."
"Do you mean the old Manor House?" she asked, softly.
"Yes," he returned, dreamily. "It is the season for old memories, is it not? At Christmas and New Year's Day the ghosts of the past stalk out of their dim recesses; but they are dearly loved visitants, and we do not fear them. Do you know what the Germans call 'heimweh?' Have you ever experienced it?"
But he need not have asked, for at the unexpected question the girl's head drooped to hide her tears. How could he know, how could any one know, how that brave young heart ached ceaselessly for her home and Mollie. Mr. Chaytor was quite shocked at himself.
"Dear Miss Ward," he said, gently, "you must forgive me again, you see; but I spoke without thinking."
Then Waveney shook her head and looked at him with a touching little smile.
"You have done nothing—it is only I who am silly to-night; but oh! I am always so wanting father and Mollie. But I shall see them to-morrow. Mr. Chaytor, I must go now; but thank you so much for all your kindness and for bringing me home. I am not ungrateful, really." And Waveney's wet eyes looked so sad and beautiful as she raised them to his face that Mr. Chaytor thought of them all through his drive home.
When Waveney woke the next morning she found the rain had ceased; but it was still too dark to discover anything further. They drove to church for the early service, and the warm, lighted church, with its Christmas decorations, and crowded with worshippers, reminded her of the dearly-loved church where she and Mollie had knelt side by side for so many years.
Breakfast was ready for them on their return, and they had the usual noisy welcome from Fuss and Fury. But Waveney was a little perplexed when Althea told her, with a smile, that she must eat her breakfast as quickly as possible, as they had plenty of business before them. "It is a comfort the rain has stopped," she continued, with an irrepressible shiver, "for we cannot possibly have the carriage out again, until we drive to town. How thankful I am that Aunt Sara gave me that fur-lined cloak last Christmas!" she went on, addressing her sister. "It keeps out the cold as nothing else does. I feel as cosy as that robin does in his red waistcoat."
Waveney ate her breakfast a little silently; she was wondering why there was no greeting word from home. Perhaps the postman had not come.
"Have you finished, Waveney?" asked Doreen, a little abruptly. "By-and-bye, if you have, we may as well go to the library, or we shall never get our parcels undone before it is time to start for church."
Waveney opened her eyes rather widely at this; but when she entered the room, she stared in amazement. The centre-table seemed a mass of plants, and brown paper parcels of every size and description were heaped on every available space.
To her surprise Althea quietly drew back the curtain of Cosy Nook, and motioned her to enter.
"You can amuse yourself there for a little while," she said, brightly, "while Doreen and I open our parcels. You will see Aunt Sara has not forgotten you." And then, with a kindly nod, she withdrew.
It was a pity that no interested observer saw the girl's start and blush of delight, for there, just opposite her, was a dress, flung across a chair, and a paper pinned on one sleeve. "Waveney, from her loving friend, Althea Harford."
Althea had pleased her own taste in the choice of that frock. It was a dark sapphire blue velveteen of the same shade as the cloak, and was perfectly plain, except for a dainty little ruff of yellowish lace; and nothing could have suited Waveney's pale, little face better.
She stood for a long time with folded hands, in mute admiration of that marvellous garment; she knew now why her white dress had disappeared so mysteriously for a day or two. It wanted doing up, Nurse Marks told her. But when it had been returned, Waveney could see very little difference. The poor, little frock looked sadly frayed and shabby; no wonder Miss Althea thought she needed a new one. But the kindness and the generosity of the gift were beyond everything, and there was a lump in Waveney's throat as her fingers touched the soft pile of the velveteen.
Doreen's present was a box of handkerchiefs, with Waveney's initials prettily embroidered by one of the workers at the Home, and Mrs. Mainwaring, with characteristic kindness and good taste, had contributed a beautiful little muff.
But Waveney's pleasure reached its climax when her eyes discovered a neat, little umbrella, with a note from Mollie attached to the ivory handle. "Please do not think me extravagant, darling," it began, "because I really can afford to give myself a big treat this year. Themenu-cards have sold splendidly. Mr. Ingram says his sister has given him a commission for three more sets, so I shall be quite rich. I have bought myself a new jacket and hat, and father says that he certainly means to get me a tweed dress for Christmas, so I shall be as smart as you. He is only sending you gloves, but I know you will like them.
"And I have bought the umbrella out of my own earnings. You cannot think how proud I am of that! The poor old Gamp you were using would not keep a sparrow dry, it was so worn out, and I could not bear to think of you getting wet through. A happy Christmas to you, my darling! and no more at present from your loving Mollie."
Noel's present was wrapped up with the gloves; it was only a small manuscript book, neatly bound with blue ribbon, and in Noel's flourishing school-boy hand was written,—
"The further adventures of Monsieur Blackie, by a Humourist, and dedicated with the author's compliments to old Storm-and-Stress."
Ten minutes later, when Althea peeped through the curtain, she found Waveney still hugging her umbrella, while she looked over the pen-and-ink sketches with eyes twinkling with amusement. "Do you think it will fit?" she asked, softly. Then the girl started to her feet, her face crimson with emotion.
"Oh, Miss Althea, how am I to thank you?" she exclaimed. "You are too kind, oh, far too kind to me." And then, almost tearfully, "I have nothing to give you in return."
"Nothing! I thought I saw a pretty penwiper among my parcels, but I suppose I must have dreamt it; and I had an impression that Doreen showed me a needle-book."
"Oh, but they were only trifles."
"My dear, no gift, however small, from one who loves us, is a trifle, and I shall value your present. We have all we want, dear child, and the kindness of our friends almost embarrasses us. When you come back I must show you the beautiful things some of the girls have made for me, but there is no time to look at them now, for the church-bells are ringing." And then, as they went upstairs, Waveney laden with her treasures, the crowning touch was put to her day's pleasure. "I am so glad you like your frock, dear," remarked Althea; "it is certainly seasonable for winter evenings. You will find a parcel in your room directed to Mollie; it contains a similar dress for her." And the flash of joy in Waveney's eyes certainly repaid her.