"And there's pansies, that's for thoughts."—Hamlet.
"And there's pansies, that's for thoughts."—Hamlet.
"There'll be a comforting fire;There'll be a welcome for somebody;One in her neatest attire,Will look to the table for somebody."Swain.
"There'll be a comforting fire;There'll be a welcome for somebody;One in her neatest attire,Will look to the table for somebody."Swain.
It was in the gathering dusk of the afternoon when Waveney found herself in the neighbourhood of Cleveland Terrace. They had driven fast, and yet to the eager girl the way had seemed strangely long. As they approached the house, Althea shivered a little, as though her fur-lined cloak had suddenly lost its robin-like cosiness. The steely winter's sky, the raw dampness of the atmosphere, the gloom of the half light, which made all objects appear out of due proportion, and gave them a hazy indistinctness, made her feel depressed and uncomfortable.
As the carriage stopped, the door was quickly opened, though not by the footman, and a familiar voice in the darkness said,—
"Thank you, Miss Harford, a thousand times, for bringing the child home. Waveney, my darling, 'a happy Christmas to you!' Run out of the cold, dear, it is beginning to snow." But Waveney kept her place.
"I must say good-night first, father. Were you watching for me? Do you know you have not wished the dear ladies a happy Christmas yet?" Then Althea's gentle, melancholy voice interrupted her.
"Dear child, there was no need to remind your father of an idle form. I am quite sure we have his good wishes for the sake of the auld lang syne. You are bareheaded, Mr. Ward. Do please go in;" and her slim, gloved hand was stretched out to him.
Everard bowed over it as he pressed it warmly.
"You will always have my best wishes," he said, very gravely. "Good-night, Miss Harford, good-night, and thank you, Miss Althea." And then he swung open the gate and went up the little courtyard, with Waveney clinging to his arm.
Althea looked after them with wistful eyes. What a stream of light met them! What did the narrow passage and steep, ladder-like stairs matter, or the frayed and dingy druggetting, when that starlight glow of home radiance beamed so brightly. And indeed, when Waveney felt Mollie's arms round her neck, and her warm cheek pressed against hers, her heart was comforted and at rest.
"Where are you taking me, sweetheart?" she asked, softly, as Mollie dragged her past the studio door.
"You must come upstairs and take off your things first," returned Mollie, panting from her exertions. "We shall have tea in the dining-room to-night, because there are muffins and crumpets, and I must see to them." Then Mollie threw open the bedroom door, and stood still in silent enjoyment to see Waveney's start of surprise at the sight of a splendid fire burning in the grate.
"Oh, Mollie!" she said, quite shocked at this extravagance, "have we ever had a fire here before, except when we had the measles?" Then Mollie laughed and shook her head.
"I daresay not, but I was not going to let you sleep in this cold vault for three nights when you have been used to a lovely fire in your Pansy Room. Why, Wave, you absurd child, how grave you look! Father won't have to pay one penny for it. I put two shillings into the housekeeping purse out of my own money, and we will just have a beautiful fire every night; and won't we enjoy ourselves!"
"It feels lovely," returned Waveney, kneeling down on the rug, for she was chilly from the long drive. "No, don't light the gas, dear, the firelight is so pretty." Then Mollie put down the match-box reluctantly.
"I wanted to show you something," she returned, in a low voice; "but perhaps if you make a blaze you will be able to see it. Oh, what is that?" as Waveney mutely held out a long brown paper parcel. "Is that another present? No, please don't open it; you must look at this one first." And then Mollie, with outward gravity, and much inward excitement, laid a beautiful Russian leather writing-case on the rug for Waveney's inspection.
Never had Waveney seen such a case, so dainty, so complete, so perfectly finished. The initials "M. W." were on everything—the silver paper-knife and penholders, and on the tiny card-case and inkstand; and every card and sheet of paper was stamped with Mollie's address.
Waveney was silent from excess of admiration, and also from a strong feeling of emotion. Only a lover, she thought, could have planned all those pretty finishes and details. Surely, surely Mollie's eyes must be opened now!
"Mollie, dear, I really don't know what to say," she answered, at last, when the silence became embarrassing. "It is really too beautiful for any one but Cinderella." Then a little conscious smile came to Mollie's lips, and her cheeks wore their wild-rose flush; and yes, certainly, there was a new wistfulness in her eyes.
"Was it not splendid of Mr. Ingram!" she said; but her voice was not quite steady. "It was so kind that I could not help crying a little, and then father laughed at me. I can't understand father, Wave. When I asked him if I ought to write and thank Mr. Ingram, he got quite red, and said that I must know my own feelings best. It was so odd of father to say that."
"Did Mr. Ingram write to you, Mollie?"
"No," returned Mollie, with her cheeks a still deeper rose. "There was only a slip of paper, with Monsieur Blackie's good wishes. But Wave, he is not coming back for a long time—he told me so. He said society had claims on him, and that he had a house-party impending, and other engagements; but I did not like to question him."
"Well, then, I suppose you had better write—only just a short note, Mollie; and pray, pray do not be too grateful. If he gives you presents, it is to please himself as well as you. But you do not know his address, you silly child."
"No," returned Mollie, with a sigh; "that is one of his mysteries. He calls himself a nebulous personage. 'If you ever want to write to me,' he said, the last time he came, 'if your father breaks his leg, for example, or my friend the humourist plays any of his tricks and requires chastisement, and the strong arm of the law, you can ask my cousin Althea to send on the letter for you.' Is that not a funny, roundabout way?"
"Rather," returned Waveney, drily, feeling as though she were on the edge of a volcano. "I think, Mollie dear, that under these circumstances it would be better not to write, but just wait and thank Mr. Ingram when he comes." And though Mollie looked a little disappointed at this decision, she agreed, with her usual loyalty, to abide by it.
When the new dress had been duly admired and Miss Althea praised to Waveney's entire satisfaction, they went downstairs to begin their Christmas merry-making in earnest.
Noel, who was always the Lord of Misrule on these occasions, had insisted with much severity on the usual programme being carried out.
So they had snapdragon in the dark dining-room after tea, and Mollie as usual burnt her fingers, and then they went up to the studio and acted charades and dumb Crambo to an appreciative audience—Mr. Ward, who occupied the front row, and Ann and Mrs. Muggins, who represented the pit.
"Laws, miss, ain't it beautiful and like-life?" observed Ann, the heavy-footed, for the twentieth time. But Everard's eyes were a little misty. If only Dorothy could have seen them! he thought. And then his imagination flew off at a tangent to his old friend, Althea Harford. All the evening her soft, melancholy voice had haunted him. "For the sake of auld lang syne" she had said, and her tone had been full of pathos. "She has never forgotten. I think she is one of those women who never forget," he thought; but he sighed as he said it.
To Waveney those three days were simply perfect, and every hour brought its enjoyment. On Sunday afternoon a snowstorm kept them prisoners to the house, and there was no evening church, so they sang carols by the fire instead, and Ann sat on the stairs with Mrs. Muggins on her lap, and an old plaid shawl of her mother's to keep her warm, and listened as devoutly as though she were in the vestibule of heaven.
"Which is my opinion, Miss Waveney," she observed afterwards, "as the Sadducees and Pharisees could not have sang more sweetly, not with all their golden harps neither."
Waveney looked puzzled for a moment; but Ann's idiosyncrasies were too well known in the household, and after a moment of silent reflection she said,—
"I see what you mean, Ann. You were thinking of the cherubim and seraphim, and it is a fine compliment you are paying us." And then she went off to share the little joke with Mollie and Noel; and the peals of laughter that reached Ann's ears somewhat perplexed that stolid maiden.
On Monday they woke to a white world, and then there was snow balling in the back garden, and then a long walk down Cheyne Walk and across the bridge to Battersea Park. And Mollie went with them, on her father's arm; and when she got tired, which she did far too soon, Noel took her home, grumbling at every step, and Waveney and her father went on. It was Everard's greatest pleasure to walk with his girls, but no companion suited him like Waveney; her light, springy step hardly seemed to touch the ground—and then she was so strong and active, and nothing seemed to tire her. Mollie's sad limp always made his heart ache.
As they stood looking at some floating ice in the river, Everard asked a little abruptly if Mollie had written to Mr. Ingram.
Waveney shook her head. The question rather surprised her.
"Why, no, father," she replied, slowly; "we do not know Mr. Ingram's address, so I persuaded Mollie to wait until he calls."
"Well, perhaps you are right," returned Mr. Ward, doubtfully. "But Waveney, child, I am getting a little bothered about things. I like the fellow, I like him better every time I see him—he has real grit in him, and he is a gentleman; but I never saw a girl courted after this fashion."
"What do you mean, father?" asked Waveney, a little timidly; for she and Mollie were not at all up to date, and their shyness and reticence on this subject were quite old-fashioned.
"Why, any child can see that Ingram worships the ground Mollie walks on," returned Mr. Ward, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "When she looked at him, with her big, innocent eyes, he stammered and changed colour more than once. Oh, the man is in earnest, I would take my oath of that; it is Mollie's side of the question I want to know; she ought not to encourage him by taking his presents unless she means to have him."
This was plain speaking, but Mr. Ward was getting desperate. His motherless girls had no protector but himself. It was pretty to see how Waveney blushed on Mollie's account.
"Father, dear," she stammered, "I can't be quite sure but I think Mollie is beginning to care a little for Mr. Ingram. She certainly misses him; he is very keen and clever, and I fancy that he understands her so well that he will not hurry things. I mean"—explaining herself with difficulty—"that he will not speak until he is certain that her heart is won."
"That is my opinion, too," returned her father; and then he looked at her with tender curiosity. "Where did you gain your knowledge of men, little girl?" But Waveney had no answer ready for this question.
That night, as they sat on the rug in the firelight, like two blissful salamanders, Mollie said, in a flurried and anxious voice,—
"Wave, darling, I want to consult you about something, and you must give me all your attention; you know," clearing her throat, as though it were a little dry; "we have decided that I had better not write to Mr. Ingram."
"Oh, yes, Mollie, we decided that long ago." Waveney spoke in a calm and judicial voice, but Mollie only grew more flurried.
"But I must do something to please him," she returned, in quite a distressed tone. "Think of all the pleasure he has given me, Wave. I have got such a lovely idea in my head. I have finished themenu-cards, and I want to paint one of these white velum pocket-books for Mr. Ingram—a spray of purple pansies would look so well on it. And I will have it all ready for him when he comes next. Don't you think he would be pleased, Wave?"
"Of course he would be pleased, sweetheart; he would carry it next to his heart, and sleep with it under his pillow." But this nonsense was received rather pettishly.
"I wish you would be serious when a person asks advice," returned Mollie, with a little frown. "You would not like any one to say those silly things to you." Then Waveney was on her best behaviour at once, and the naughty, mischievous sparkle faded out of her eyes.
"Don't be cross, Mollie darling," she said caressingly. "I do think your idea very pretty, and I should think Mr. Ingram will be very pleased, he does admire your painting so. Why have you selected pansies, I wonder?" Then, at this very simple question, Mollie looked a little confused. "They are his favourite flowers," she almost whispered; "he says you can never have too much heart's-ease in this world." And this answer fully satisfied Waveney.
The next morning they started off to Sloane Street to purchase the pocket-book, and Mollie expended the last of her earnings; and the moment Waveney left her, to return to Erpingham, she sat down to her little painting table and worked until the short winter's afternoon closed in.
Waveney did not see it until it was finished, and then her admiration fully satisfied Mollie. It was a charming design, and a pansy with a broken stalk, dropping from the main cluster, had a very graceful effect.
"Father likes it; he says I have never painted anything better!" observed Mollie, with modest pride; and Waveney cordially endorsed this.
Privately she thought the dainty pocket-book was more fit for some youthful bride. "Mr. Ingram could not possibly use it," she said to herself; "he will put it under a glass case, or lock it up in a drawer. And if Mollie ever writes love-letters to him, he will keep them in his pansy-book." And then she smiled to herself as she thought of his delight when Mollie, with many blushes and much incoherence, should hand him the book; she could almost see the flash of pleasure in his eyes. But as her lively imagination pictured the little scene, she was far from guessing under what different circumstances Ingram would receive his pansy-book.
"Whatever we gain, we gain by patience."S. Teresa.
"Whatever we gain, we gain by patience."S. Teresa.
"Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now."The Merry Wives of Windsor.
"Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now."The Merry Wives of Windsor.
About three weeks after Christmas Althea was sitting alone in her library.
The great room felt strangely empty that morning. There was no curly head to be seen bending over the writing table in Cosy Nook; no girl secretary to answer the silver chiming of Althea's little bell. Waveney and Doreen had gone up to town for a day's shopping, leaving Althea to enjoy the rest that she so sorely needed.
The severe round of Christmas feastings, the lavish dispensing of cakes and ale, would have tried a robust constitution, and even Doreen complained of unwonted fatigue; but Althea, highly strung and sensitive, had to pay the usual penalty for over-exertion by one of her painful eye attacks, which lasted for three or four days, leaving her weak and depressed.
It is strange and sad how mind and body react on each other in these attacks. A grey haze, misty and impalpable, seemed to veil Althea's inner world, and blot out her cheerfulness. The free, healthy current of her thoughts was checked by dimly discerned obstacles. A chilling sense of self-distrust, of rashly undertaken work, made her heart heavy.
"It is brain-sickness," Doreen would say, to comfort her. "It will pass, my dear."
"Yes, it will pass," returned Althea, with passive gentleness. "I know that as well as you do, Dorrie; but for the time it masters me. Althea ill and Althea well seem two different persons. Is it not humiliating, dear, to think we are at the mercy of our over-wrought nerves? A trifling ailment, a little bodily discomfort, and, if we are at heaven's very gate, we drop to earth like the lark."
"Into our nest," returned Doreen, with a smile. "You have chosen too cheerful a simile. Larks soar perpetually, and they sing as they soar."
"I think I am more like a blind mole at the present moment," replied Althea, pushing up her shade a little, that she might see her sister's face. "Dorrie, I am ashamed of myself. I deserve any amount of scolding. I try to count up my blessings, to think of my girls' happy faces, but I am fast in my Slough of Despond, and not all your efforts will pull me out."
"Very well, then, we must leave you there," returned Doreen, composedly; but she gave Althea's hand a loving little squeeze as she said this. Her heart was full of tenderness and sympathy, but she was too sensible to waste words fruitlessly.
These sick moods were purely physical, and would yield, she knew well, to time and rest. They were trials to be borne—part of Althea's life-discipline—the cloud that checkered their home cheerfulness; for these melancholy moods seemed to pervade the whole house.
Althea felt much as usual that morning, though she had not quite recovered her looks. Her face seemed longer and more sallow, and there were tired lines round her eyes. When a woman has passed her youth, mental suffering leaves an indelible mark; and Althea looked old and worn that day, and more like Queen Elizabeth's Wraith than ever.
"I am very idle," she was saying to herself, "but I feel that not one of the books that ever were written would interest me to-day. I have no spirit or energy for travels, history is too full of war and bloodshed, and biography would weary me; a novel—well, no I think not; I am not in the mood for other people's love-stories. I wish some one would write a novel about elderly people," she went on—"middle-aged, prosaic people, who have outlived their romance. How soothing such a book would be! I could almost write it myself. There should be plenty of incident, and very little moralising; and it would be like one of those grey winter days, when the sunlight is veiled in soft vapour, and every window one passes is red with the firelight of home."
The fancy pleased her, and she smiled at her own conceit; but it faded in a moment when the door-bell rang.
"A visitor at this time in the morning!" she thought, and a little frown of annoyance gathered on her brow; but it vanished when Mitchell threw open the door and announced Lord Ralston.
"Why, Moritz!" she exclaimed, and her voice was full of surprise and pleasure, "this is indeed a welcome sight. How long is it since you last honoured our poor abode? Draw that chair up to the fire and give some account of yourself. Even Gwen seems to have forgotten our existence since baby Murdoch made his appearance!"
"Ah, you may well say so," returned Moritz, with a dismal shake of his head. "Gwen is incorrigible. I give you my word, Althea, that the beatitude of that young woman is so excessive and so fatuous that it resembles idiocy. She fairly drivels with sentiment over that infant, and he is as ugly and snub-nosed a little chap as Gwen was herself. He has even got her freckles; and she calls them beauty-spots;" and Lord Ralston's voice expressed unmitigated disgust.
Althea laughed.
"I do not suppose that Madam endorses these sentiments. I should like to hear Mrs. Compton's opinion of her grandson."
"Well, she vows he is a fine child, and he has got Jack's eyes. But, all the same, I heard her tell Gwen that a plain baby often became a handsome man. So we can make our own deductions from that. 'Murdoch has his good points,' she went on, 'and he will improve.' And, would you believe it? that idiotic Gwen became as red as a turkey-cock.
"'There is no improvement wanted,' she said, indignantly. 'My precious baby is perfect. He is beautiful in his mother's eyes, whatever his cross old grandmother chooses to say!' And then she hugged the little chap and cried over him, and all the time Madam sat beaming on them both, with her fine old face tremulous with happiness.
"It is Ruth and Naomi over again," finished Moritz. "Madam still finds fault with Jack sometimes, but never with Gwen, and the way Gwen toadies her passes belief."
"Gwendoline is very happy, certainly. Never was there a better-matched couple than she and Jack Compton." Althea spoke in a tone of warm interest. She had forgotten her distaste for other people's love-stories at that moment, and the thought of her young cousin's happiness was pleasant to her. "Dear Gwen, I am so fond of her. I am glad that one man had the sense to fall in love with her, in spite of her plain face; but you know, Moritz, that I always thought Gwen's ugliness quite charming."
"Yes, but I could not have done it in Jack's place," returned Moritz, rather thoughtfully. "I am too great an admirer of beauty." And then he changed the subject a little abruptly. "Jack and Gwen and their son and heir have been staying with me at Brentwood. I had a house-party for Christmas and the New Year, and I wanted Gwen to play hostess. It was an awful bore, and I got pretty sick of it, but they had both been lecturing me on the duties I owed to my fellow-creatures. Well, I have played my Lord Frivol long enough, and now I am plain Mr. Ingram again."
"What, still masquerading? Isn't it time for you to unmask?" But he shook his head.
"No, not yet; but there is method in my madness. We have not quite completed our little comedy, but I think the closing scene will be effective." He shut his eyes as though to picture the scene, and then opened them abruptly. "I have not been to Cleveland Terrace for an age. In fact, I only came up from Brentwood this morning, and on my way up here I passed Doreen and Miss Ward."
"Oh, then you knew I was alone?"
"To be sure I did. That is why I appear in my true character. I suppose"—his voice changing perceptibly—"that Miss Mollie and her father and my friend the humourist are well?" But Moritz did not look at Althea as he put this question, and so did not see the little smile on her lips.
"They were quite well when Waveney went home on Sunday. She said Mollie was a little pale and tired; but then, she had been taking too long a walk. She spent a night here on the evening of our girls' entertainment. It was quite amusing to see how they all admired her. She was the May Queen in one of thetableaux. It was the prettiest thing imaginable."
"I wish I had seen it;" and Lord Ralston's eyes were dark and bright. If Althea had not guessed his secret long ago, she would have guessed it now. With one of those sudden impulses which were natural to her, she put her hand gently on his arm.
"Moritz," she said, in her sweet, womanly way, "does Gwen know. Have you made her your confidante?"
Just for a moment Moritz drew himself up a little stiffly—as though he resented the question; but the kindness in Althea's eyes disarmed him, and perhaps his need of sympathy was too great.
"There was no need to tell her," he returned, in a low voice; "she found it out for herself. Gwen is very acute about such things."
"And she approves?"
"Oh, we have not come to that point yet"—speaking in his old, airy manner—"but she was very much interested, and as good as gold. She laughed at me a little for what she called my fantastic chivalry; but, all the same, she seemed to like it."
"But, Moritz, why are you so afraid of appearing in your true colours? I do not see that Viscount Ralston is a less interesting person than Mr. Ingram."
"Perhaps not," he returned, drily; "but we all have our whims. I am an Idealist, you must remember that, and I have a wish to stand on my own merits as a man, and not to make myself taller by posing on my pedestal of thirty thousand a year. It may be a foolish whimsie, but it is a harmless one, and affords me plenty of innocent amusement."
Althea smiled, but she knew it was useless to pursue the argument. Moritz and Gwendoline were both utterly unmanageable when they had a crotchet in their head. They cared nothing about the world's opinion, and as for Madam Grundy, or any other madam, they had simply no regard for them. Already Viscount Ralston was considered a most eccentric person, and sundry matrons had admonished their daughters on no account to contradict him. "He is a little odd, certainly," one of them remarked, "but I am told he is really clever and original, and that sort of thing wears off after a time. Your father is very much taken with him, so you may make yourself as agreeable as you like to Lord Ralston."
"And when may I ask him to marry me?" returned the daughter, to whom this Machiavellian speech had been addressed; for Lady Ginevra had plenty of spirit, and was clever enough to read between the lines. "Mother was terribly put out," she informed her younger sister afterwards. "She lectured me for ten minutes on what she called my coarseness and vulgarity; but, as I told her, I prefer vulgarity to hypocrisy. 'You and father want me to marry Viscount Ralston,' I told her, 'because he has Brentwood Hall and a fine house in town and thirty thousand a year, and it does not matter one bit if I care for him or not; if he holds out the sceptre to me I am to touch it.' But, thank heavens, Jenny, these are not the Dark Ages, and though mother frowned and stamped her foot, there was no 'Get thee to a nunnery!'" And Lady Ginevra laughed and went off to put on her habit, for it was the hour when she and her father rode in the park.
Althea had a word to say before she let the subject drop.
"At the theatre you spoke of needing my help, Moritz. I hope you will let me know when my assistance is wanted."
"Oh, I was going to speak to you about that," he returned, quickly. "You see, my dear cousin, that there are circumstances in which a man is bound not to be selfish. Miss Mollie"—how his voice always softened as he said the name!—"is so simple and childlike; she knows so little of the world, and her life has been so retired, that I dare not hurry matters. She must learn to know and trust me before I can venture to make my meaning plain."
"Yes, I can understand that."
"Gwen quite agrees with me, but all the same I think—at least, I hope—that Monsieur Blackie's probation will soon be over, but Gwen and I have all our plans in readiness. What do you say to a picnic party at Brentwood about the middle of next month?"
"My dear Moritz, are you crazy? Really, an Idealist in love is a terrible being. A picnic in the middle of February! Do you want the three grim sisters, snow and hail and frost, to be among your guests?"
"Pshaw! nonsense!" he replied, impatiently. "There are lovely spring-like days in February. Besides, with the sort of picnic I mean, weather will not signify. You had better hear my programme first, Althea."
"Oh, go on," she returned, in a resigned voice. "I will try to forget my common-sense while I listen to you."
But he only twirled his moustache triumphantly.
"The party will be small and select; just you and the two Misses Ward and Gwen and myself."
"And not Noel?" in some surprise.
"Noel! Oh, dear, no! My friend the humourist would be decidedlyde trop. He is too acute and wide-awake a youth, and Monsieur Blackie would be found out in a moment."
"But I thought Lord Ralston was to be our host!" Althea spoke in a puzzled tone. Then Moritz patted her in a soothing manner.
"Keep calm, I entreat you," he said, gently. "In the presence of great thoughts we should always keep calm. Lord Ralston is my intimate friend, please understand that. We are like brothers, he and I, and it is for the corner of his picture-gallery, at Brentwood, that King Canute was bought; Miss Ward and her sister will be interested to see it again. And as Brentwood Hall, with its Silent Pool, is a show place—a picnic there will be the most natural thing in the world."
"And the master is absent."
"Yes, he is absent—but he may return at any moment;" and here there was a strange glow in Moritz's eyes. "We must leave town early," he went on, briskly, after a moment's pause—"and I think we could reach Brentwood by midday. Gwen has promised to meet us at the Hall, and we shall have plenty of time to see the picture-gallery, and more of the rooms before luncheon. I shall coach the servants carefully, so there will be nocontretemps. After luncheon there will be the conservatories and the Silent Pool, and then tea in the blue drawing-room; it will be light until half-past five, so you may as well tell Doreen not to expect you home until eight. Oh, I forgot one important part of the programme: Gwen means to carry you off to Kingsdene, either before or after tea, to see baby Murdoch and Madam; she is staying with them at present."
It was evident, from Althea's amused look, that the picnic at Brentwood would meet with her approval, and she was just about to give a cordial assent when Mitchell entered to tell her that luncheon was ready; and at the same time she handed her a telegram.
"It is for Miss Ward, ma'am," she said; "and the boy is waiting."
"Then I suppose I had better open it," returned Althea. "There was some talk of their going to Cleveland Terrace to have tea with Mollie, if they finished their shopping in time. Perhaps this is to say that she is out or engaged." And then Althea opened the yellow envelope. But her countenance changed as she read the telegram.
"Do not come," was all it said. "Mollie is ill—will write." It was from Everard Ward.
"The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together."—All's Well that Ends Well.
"The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together."—All's Well that Ends Well.
"For this relief much thanks."—Hamlet.
"For this relief much thanks."—Hamlet.
When Althea had read the brief message, she told Mitchell very quietly that there was no answer required, and that she might give the boy some refreshment and send him away; and then, as the maid left the room, she handed the telegram to Moritz.
It troubled her kind heart to see the pain in his eyes as he read it. He was quite pale, and his lips twitched under his moustache.
"What does it mean?" he asked, in rather a stifled voice. "I thought you said that she was well. If she is ill, why is her sister to be kept away? You see what he says: 'Do not come.'"
"Yes, I see," returned Althea, very gravely. "It must be something sudden; but I hope, for poor dear Waveney's sake, that it is nothing infectious. Let me think for a moment—one cannot grasp it at once. This is Wednesday, and on Sunday Mollie was well—only a little pale and tired; and yes, I remember, she had a slight headache, and so Waveney persuaded her not to go to church."
"A headache and pale and tired! Good heavens, Althea, it is clear as daylight! She was sickening for something." Moritz's tone was so tragical, and he paced the room so restlessly, that, in spite of her very real anxiety, Althea could hardly repress a smile.
"Dear Moritz," she said, gently, "there is no need to take such a gloomy view. Our pretty Mollie is human, and must be ill sometimes like other people. Perhaps it is a bad cold or influenza, or it might even be measles—they are very much about."
For Moritz's "unregenerate woman" had been singularly captious since the New Year, and close muggy days had paved the way for all kinds of ailments to which flesh is heir.
There was a great deal of sickness at Dereham, and Althea had been both wise and careful in refusing to allow Waveney to go as usual amongst her pensioners.
"Of course it may be anything," returned Lord Ralston, impatiently,—for even his easy temper was not proof against the bitterness of his disappointment,—he had so hungered and thirsted, poor fellow, for a sight of Mollie's sweet face. All these weeks he had been doing his duty nobly, and now he had looked for his reward. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," he had said to himself that very morning. Would "this bud of love" which he had been nurturing so tenderly, have blossomed into "a beauteous flower" when they met again? Over and over again he had asked himself this question; but Mollie was ill, and all hope of an immediate answer was over.
"It may be anything," he repeated. "But who is to look after her? There is only her father and that half-witted maid-of-all-work. There used to be some friend who nursed them when they were ill, but she is living somewhere in the country with an invalid lady. We must get a nurse. Do you know where their doctor lives?"
But Althea shook her head.
"No; but we can find out. Moritz, I think the best plan will be for me to go over to Cleveland Terrace, and then I can tell Waveney exactly how things are; I will leave a line for Doreen and beg her to say nothing until my return." Then a look of intense relief crossed Moritz's face.
"It is a good idea," he said, eagerly; "and I will go with you." And Althea made no objection to this.
"It is a pity the carriage is out," she said, regretfully; "but George shall get us a cab. Now we will go and have some luncheon, and then I will get ready." But with both of them the meal was a pretence. Apprehension and worry deprived Moritz of all appetite, and Althea was so nervous and fluttered at the idea of encountering Everard in his own home, that she could scarcely eat a morsel.
She rose as soon as possible, and left Moritz to finish his repast; but he preferred pacing the room. In spite of his vivacity andgaieté-de-c[oe]ur, his jaunty airs and cheerfulness, he was easily depressed. Any form of illness that attacked those he loved, preyed on his mind. When Gwendoline's little son was born, he was so anxious and despondent that Jack Compton, in spite of his own natural solicitude for his young wife's safety, laughed at him and told him "that he looked as melancholy as a gib cat." "The old chap was in the doldrums and no mistake," he said to Gwen afterwards. "I tell him I played the man twice as well as he. But he is a good old sort, too." And then, with awe and wonder, the young father regarded the small and crumpled and exceedingly red morsel of humanity, lying snugly within Gwen's arm.
As they drove up to Cleveland Terrace they saw an unmistakable doctor's brougham before the door of Number Ten. Lord Ralston's swarthy complexion turned rather livid at the sight, but Althea only remarked, with composure, that they had come just at the right time.
Noel opened the door to them; he had seen them from the window; his face brightened perceptibly. "Father has gone up with Dr. Duncan," he said; "but they will be coming down directly; you had better come up into the studio. There is a fire there." And Noel led the way. Althea glanced quickly round the room as she entered. It was shabby, there could be no doubt of that, but there was an air of comfort about it. And then she subsided wearily into a corner of the big, cosy-looking couch; but Moritz marched off to the inner room and stood with his back to them, gazing at poor Mollie's little writing-table with an aching heart.
"Noel, what is the matter with your sister?" asked Althea, in a low voice; but Noel could not tell her. She had seemed queer and feverish the previous day, he explained, and his father had advised her remaining in bed. She had had a bad night, and her throat was painful, and he had been forbidden to go near her. This was Dr. Duncan's first visit. They had sent for him in the morning, but he had been unable to come until now.
It was evident that Noel could not enlighten them much, so Althea forebore to question him further, and waited silently until they heard footsteps descending the stairs; but as they passed by the studio door Althea heard the doctor say,—
"I will look in later and see what you have done about the nurse."
Noel heard it, too, for he looked rather startled.
"A nurse!" he muttered. "Poor old pater, that will bother him a bit." And then Everard came quickly into the room.
"Noel, I want you!" he said, rather sharply. "Duncan says——" but here he stopped in sudden surprise as Althea's tall figure rose from the couch.
"Mr. Ward," she said, quietly, "Waveney was out, so I opened your telegram, and I have come to see if there is anything I can do for Mollie. My cousin, Lord—I mean Mr. Ingram, has brought me." Then Everard, with rather a sad smile, held out his hand to the young man.
"You are both very kind," he said, simply, "but there is nothing you can do for the dear child. Mollie is very ill, and Dr. Duncan wishes her to have a good nurse at once. I am going to send Noel off to the Institution. He has given me the address—it is diphtheria, and her throat is in a dreadful state, and there is no time to be lost."
"Let me go," returned Moritz, earnestly. "I will take a hansom and be there in no time. Mr. Ward, I shall esteem it as a favour and a mark of true friendship if you will send me instead of Noel." But before Everard could reply to this urgent request, Althea's gentle voice interposed.
"Mr. Ward, please listen to me a moment. I know what this illness means—I have had it myself—Mollie will need two nurses; there would be no one to take care of her by day while the nurse rests, and any neglect would be an awful risk. Please let Moritz go and settle the business. There need only be one to-night, but the day-nurse must relieve her to-morrow morning. Let him have the address, and Noel can go with him; and then you must let me go up and see Mollie." And then Everard, in a dazed fashion, held out a folded piece of paper.
"Two nurses! I shall be in the workhouse," they heard him mutter. But no one took any notice.
"Althea, you are a trump," whispered Moritz, as she followed him into the passage. "Tell me anything she needs, and I will get it. Two nurses!—she shall have a dozen nurses. If the doctor approves, we will have a second opinion; we will have the great throat doctor, Sir Hindley Richmond, down." But what more Moritz would have said in that eager, sibilant whisper, was never known, for Althea gave him an impatient little push.
"Go—go; there is no use in talking. I shall not leave until the nurse arrives." And then she went back into the studio.
She had forgotten her nervousness now, her reluctance to enter Everard's house; her face glowed with kindly, womanly sympathy, as she approached him.
"I am so sorry for you," she said, gently; "and I am sorry for dear Mollie, too, for it is such a painful complaint. But with good nursing I hope she will soon be well. Is Dr. Duncan a clever man?"
"Oh, yes, I believe so," returned Mr. Ward, dejectedly; "but his charges are very high. Miss Harford, I am afraid we must manage with one nurse. I have not the means. I am a poor man." But Althea turned a deaf ear to this. It was far too early in the day to proffer help. He must not be told yet that he had good friends, who were only too thankful to be allowed to bear his burdens. For Mollie's sake, for Waveney's sake, and for poor Moritz's sake, there must be no indulgence of false and misplaced pride. He must be managed adroitly and withfinesseand female diplomacy—no masculine blundering must effect this.
"How did Mollie catch it?" she asked, to turn his thoughts from the question of expense. But Everard could not answer this question. Mollie had not seemed well since Sunday, he said; she had been restless and irritable, and complained of feeling ill. She had been so feverish in the night that he thought it must be influenza, and he had sent for Dr. Duncan; but, early as it was, he had already started on his rounds, and had only just come. He would pay another visit later in the evening. Althea listened to this in silence; then she said, rather gravely,—
"Mr. Ward, what are we to do about Waveney? It will break her heart to be kept from Mollie; and yet——" Then he turned upon her almost fiercely, and there was an excited gleam in his eyes.
"I will not have it. Tell Waveney that I forbid her to come near the house. Good heavens! would she add to my troubles? Is it not enough to have one child ill?" Then his eyes filled with tears, and the hand he put on Althea's arm shook a little. "Dear Miss Harford, be my friend in this; keep Waveney safe for me." And something in his tone told Althea that, dearly as Everard loved all his children, this was the one who came closest to his heart.
"Do not fear," she returned, tenderly. "You can trust me, and Waveney loves you far too well to disobey you; but"—here she sighed—"it will certainly break her heart. Mollie is her other and her dearer self."
"Yes, poor darling, I know that; but she must be brave. Tell her, from me, please, that I will write twice a day if that will comfort her. She shall know everything. There shall be nothing hidden from her."
"Yes, I will tell her," returned Althea, sorrowfully. "And when my cousin returns, we will arrange about Noel; he must not stop here." Then there was an unmistakable look of gratitude in Everard's eyes.
"You think of everything," he said, in a broken voice. "I was troubling sadly about the poor lad. Now I am afraid I must leave you, as Mollie has no other nurse." But he was both touched and surprised when Althea rose, too.
"Let me go with you," she said, quickly; "I am not the least afraid. I had the complaint very badly myself before we left Kitlands."
"I fear we are both doing wrong," returned Everard, hesitating. "Your sister will be very angry with you." But Althea shook her head very decidedly at this, and he was too bewildered and miserable to argue the point.
The sick room looked bare and comfortless to Althea's eyes, in spite of the bright fire burning cheerily in the grate. The big iron bedstead, with its old and obviously patched quilt; the dark stained wood furniture, and the narrow window seats, with faded red cushions, were hardly a fit shrine for Mollie's dainty beauty. Mollie lay uncomfortably on her pillows; she looked flushed and ill, and her beautiful eyes had a heavy, distressed look in them. She held out her hands rather eagerly to Althea, but the next moment she drew them back.
"Oh, I forgot," she said, in a thick voice; and it was evidently a great effort to speak. "You must not come near me: Dr. Duncan said so. Tell my darling Wave that she must keep away if she loves me, and ask her not to fret. Oh, I cannot talk;" and here poor Mollie flung herself back on the pillows, and her hot, restless fingers tried to put back the heavy masses of rough tangled hair.
How Althea longed to brush it out and sponge the fevered face and hands! But at her first hint Everard frowned and looked anxious. "Not for worlds," he said, decidedly. "The nurse will be here directly. The Institution is hardly a mile from here, and Ingram will take a hansom." He spoke in a low voice, but Mollie heard him.
"Oh, father, is Mr. Ingram here?" she whispered. "How sorry he will be to hear I am ill!" And then a sudden thought struck her, and she beckoned to Althea rather excitedly. "Miss Harford," she said, in her poor, hoarse voice, "will you do something for me? In that small right-hand drawer behind you, you will see a little parcel; it is directed. Please give it to Mr. Ingram from me."
Althea secretly marvelled at this, but held her peace. When the dainty white parcel was in her hand, she said, gently,—
"Yes, dear Mollie, he shall have it directly he returns. But now your father does not wish me to stay. Good-bye. God bless you, my child." And Althea's tone of faltering tenderness arrested Everard's attention.
"It would not be safe. I dare not let you do anything for her," he said, very softly, as he opened the door. "I will stay with her until the nurse comes. But please, go down and rest." And Althea, who was trembling with some strange emotion, obeyed him without a word.
"Control, give, sympathise: these three must be learnt and practised: self-control, charity, and sympathy."Oriental Saying.
"Control, give, sympathise: these three must be learnt and practised: self-control, charity, and sympathy."
Oriental Saying.
Althea was glad of a few minutes' quiet to recover herself, for she felt agitated and shaken. The sight of that comfortless sick-room, and Everard's worn face and haggard eyes, oppressed and saddened her.
A perfect passion of pity for him and his motherless girls swept over her as she closed the door. She had left the room in answer to a wistful, pleading look from him; her presence there evidently troubled him, and he was unwilling for her to run any risk. It was kind, it was friendly of him, she thought. Everard always had a good heart; but at that moment her impulsive, highly wrought nature only yearned to show her sympathy in action. In spite of her sensitive nerves, she was constitutionally brave, and had no fear of any form of illness. "We shall only die when our time comes," was a favourite saying of hers, and neither she nor Doreen shirked anything that met them in their daily path of duty.
Mollie was very ill, there was little doubt of that, and she would probably be worse. The sight of the sweet, flushed face, and the remembrance of the poor, thick voice would haunt her, she knew; and there was Waveney——But at this point the sound of a hansom driving up rapidly dispersed her gloomy thoughts, and the next moment Lord Ralston entered the room.
"We have got her!" he said, triumphantly,—"Nurse Helena, the best and cleverest nurse in the Institution; and she will be here in ten minutes. I saw the matron, and there is another one coming at eleven to-morrow. I shall go round to Dr. Duncan's house presently, and have a talk with him. We must have Sir Hindley Richmond down, I am determined on that."
"Why not wait for to-morrow?" returned Althea, quietly. "You are so impetuous, Moritz. There is no need for you to see Dr. Duncan to-night. Poor dear Mollie is very ill—I have just seen her; but good nursing and the proper remedies may do wonders. Wait until to-morrow—it will be far better; and tell me what has become of Noel."
"He is up in his room putting up his things. I am going to take him round to Eaton Square directly. I shall stay there myself for the next week or two. And you really saw her, Althea? Is she—does she look very bad?" Moritz's anxiety was so intense he could hardly bring out the words.
"She is evidently in great pain," she returned, slowly. "It is impossible to judge at this stage. But she was able to speak to me. Moritz, she asked me to give you this; it was put away in a drawer, and she told me where to find it!" and Althea handed him the little white parcel.
"For me! are you sure it is for me?" he asked, breathlessly. But Althea, with a faint smile, only pointed to the direction, for, in Mollie's sprawling handwriting, was very lightly inscribed: "Mr. Ingram, with Mollie Ward's good wishes." Nothing could be more correct or proper. Then why did Lord Ralston's eyes brighten so strangely, and why did a sudden smile of tender amusement come to his lips? Because his keen scrutiny had detected something that Althea had not perceived—two half-obliterated letters before the "good": "lo"—he could make that out plainly. "With Mollie Ward's love"—that was what she had meant to write, until her maidenly scruples, and perhaps some sudden self-consciousness, induced her to change the inscription.
Moritz walked off into the inner room with his treasure. Would Mollie guess how her lover's heart beat almost to suffocation as he looked at the white vellum book with its clustering pansies?
"Little darling," he kept saying over and over to himself, "she must have known they were my favourite flowers." And then he looked at the first page and saw his name prettily illuminated. "Pansies, that's for thoughts," was the motto under it; and one or two pansies were drooping loosely underneath.
It was a dainty remembrance. Mollie had evidently not spared either time or thought for her friend. It was to be a token of her gratitude for all the pleasure Monsieur Blackie had given her, and for all his lavish gifts. But even Mollie could not guess, in the faintest degree, the intense joy that pansy pocket-book gave Ingram.
As he replaced it in its cover his eyes were dim, and his honest heart was recording its vows. If Mollie lived, her life's happiness, as far as human power could effect it, should be his task and joy. "My own darling, you are beginning to love me," he thought; "and now——" and then there was a stab of pain through the young man's heart, for how could he tell how long it would be before he saw "the angel laughing out of Mollie's eyes" again? When he went back into the other room he found Noel there. The nurse had arrived and had gone up to see her patient. And presently Everard came down to them.
He seemed a little surprised when Althea told him that Noel was going to stay with her cousin. "Moritz wants him, and they will be company for each other," she said. "It will be easier for him to go from there to St. Paul's by-and-bye." And as this was reasonable, Mr. Ward offered no objection. Then, at her suggestion, he sat down and wrote a few tender, urgent words to Waveney.
Althea took her leave after this. She had made another fruitless attempt to dissuade Moritz from going to Dr. Duncan; he was utterly unmanageable. "I mean to make a clean breast to him," he said, recklessly. "If he is a sensible man, he won't want any explanation. I shall tell him that Mr. Ward has influential friends, and that they wish a second opinion. Why, good heavens, Althea"—working himself up to a pitch of nervous excitement, "how do we know what that poor child needs, and that only money can buy?" And then Althea, with a vivid remembrance of that bare, dingy-looking room, wisely held her peace.
As she drove off she wondered vaguely, but without much interest, how Moritz was to keep up his masquerading at Eaton Square. Noel was a sharp-witted lad, as he had himself said, and there had been no opportunity of coaching the servants. An old retainer of the family, who had been the old viscount's butler, took care of the house when it was not occupied, and his wife and one or two maids kept a few rooms always in order. Moritz, who was a thorough Bohemian, had a habit of running up to town for a night or two as the fancy seized him, and he seldom announced his intention beforehand. More than once Mrs. Barham had been at her wits' end to make his lordship comfortable, but she soon got used to his odd ways, and now, when Moritz arrived at his town house, he was sure of finding his dining-room and library and a couple of bedrooms in first-rate order. Althea need not have wondered if she had listened to the brief conversation that took place between Moritz and Noel on their way to Eaton Square.
It was rather late, for Moritz, like an obstinate man, had had his way; he had left Noel in the cab and had seen the doctor alone. Though Dr. Duncan was a sensible man and no toady, he was much impressed by Lord Ralston's impetuous generosity. He could not deny, he said, that there were many things that his patient required, though he had forborne to name them, as he knew Mr. Ward had small means. Sir Hindley Richmond! Oh, certainly, he had no objection to meet him; but there was no need for that at present. He would keep it in mind; and Mr. Ward must be consulted. And then, after a little more talk, and a promise on the doctor's part to respect his confidence, the interview ceased. Moritz felt a little happier when he jumped into the hansom again. He thought Dr. Duncan had spoken hopefully of the case; and then, as he looked at the list in his hand, he foresaw a delightful morning's work before him.
To rush from shop to shop, to pay the highest price possible for each article, to order in fabulous quantities of the needed commodities, would be purest joy to him. If Mollie recovered she would find herself stocked for a year or two with eau-de-cologne and other good things.
"What an age you have been!" grumbled Noel. The poor lad was too cold and hungry and miserable to mind his manners. "Wasn't the old chap in?"
"Oh, yes, he was in," replied Ingram, vaguely. And then he pushed up the little trap-door and told the man to drive to Number Fourteen, Eaton Square. "I hope Mrs. Barham will be able to give us something to eat," he continued. "You see, she does not expect us, and there may be nothing in the house."
Noel's face grew rather long at this.
"Is it your house? Do you live there?" he asked, curiously.
"Yes," returned Ingram, "It is my house, but I am not often there. I have another house in the country." And then, rather abruptly, "Noel, lad, can you keep a secret—honour bright, you know, and all that sort of thing?"
Then Noel looked up in his face a little suspiciously, and there was a knowing twinkle in his eyes.
"Mum's the word," he said, quickly, "but I know what you are going to say. Your name isn't Ingram."
"Oh, yes, it is," returned the other, rather amused at this, "only I have another. It is the family name. My father was Colonel Ingram, and until eighteen months ago I was plain Mr. Ingram."
"And now?" and there was growing excitement in Noel's voice.
"Well, the only difference is an old cousin died, and so I became Viscount Ralston. Why, my boy," with a little chuckling laugh, "I was as poor as a church mouse before that—poorer than your father. I painted bad pictures that would not sell, and lived in a tin shanty, hold hard—don't interrupt me, for we shall be at my diggings directly. I want you to understand that for the present, at Cleveland Terrace and at the Red House, I am still Mr. Ingram. I have my reasons, and some day you shall know them; but I want you to promise that you will not betray me." Then Noel, feeling utterly bewildered, and not a little mystified, nodded an assent to this, and the next moment they stopped before one of the big, gloomy-looking houses in Eaton Square. A tall, grey-haired old man admitted them.
"I have taken you by surprise, Barham," observed Lord Ralston, carelessly; "and you see I have brought a friend."
"Yes, my lord," returned Barham, tranquilly. "And I am glad to say there is a fire in the library; but there is something wrong with the dining-room chimney, and the workmen have been there."
"All right. Just pay the cabman." And then Lord Ralston led the way to the library. It was a large room, and the firelight played fitfully over the carved oak furniture and red morocco chairs. The next moment the soft electric light enabled Noel to see his surroundings more plainly. Since his visit to the Red House his views had been considerably enlarged, and he at once told himself that this room beat Miss Harford's library hollow. Lord Ralston left him for a few moments. When he returned he said, with something of his old whimsical dryness,—
"I have just been interviewing my worthy housekeeper, and have left her metaphorically tearing her hair in the larder. She tells me that there is literally nothing in the house, so I suppose we may expect Barmecide's feast."
Noel nodded. He was well acquainted with the story of "The Barber's Sixth Brother," and quite understood the allusion. But the youthful pangs of hunger were so overmastering that he murmured something about bread-and-cheese, and then coloured up to the roots of his hair, fearing that he had taken a liberty.
"Oh, Mrs. Barham is a woman of resources; she will do better for us than that," was the indifferent reply. "But we must exercise our patience. I will take you up to your room now."
And Noel presently found himself ensconced in a most luxurious chamber, with a bright fire, and everything prepared for his comfort.
"It is like the 'Arabian Nights,'" muttered the lad, when his host had left him. "To think of my cheek—Monsieur Blackie, indeed!" And then Noel sat on the edge of the chair and chuckled. "A viscount! Great Scott! Lord Ralston! My word, how the pater and old Storm-and-Stress will open their eyes! To think that 'the wobbly one' will be my lady some day!" And here Noel gave a long, low whistle, proving that, in spite of that vulgarity, inherent in the English school-boy, the embryo barrister had his wits about him. "It does not take much eyesight to see a blank wall—especially when it is painted white, and the sun shines," he had observed once to Waveney. "Any fool can see that chap is dead nuts on Mollie"—which was forcible if a trifle coarse.
When Noel found his way back, with some difficulty, to the library, he saw a charming little dinner-table laid in readiness. Mrs. Barham evidently knew her business well. The fish and cutlets, and sweet omelette, were all excellent; and a wonderful dessert followed.
Lord Ralston was most kind and hospitable, but he was hardly as good a companion as usual; he seemed absent, and was continually falling into a brown study. When dinner was over, and coffee had been brought, he gave up all attempt to be sociable. He even invited Noel to help himself to a book, and for the remainder of the evening Lord Ralston sat in silence, with his eyes fixed on the beech-logs, which were burning and sputtering so merrily.
It was nearly dinner-time at the Red House when Althea reached home. Doreen, who was already dressed, was waiting for her in the library. Waveney was still upstairs.
There was a short and hurried explanation on Althea's part, and a few ejaculations of pity from Doreen. Then she followed her sister upstairs and sent Peachy away.
It was one of their pretty sisterly ways to wait on each other occasionally, and Althea, who was accustomed to this loving ministry, took it calmly and as a matter of course. Doreen wanted to talk to her, that was all.
"I am so sorry you had such a wretched afternoon," observed Doreen, affectionately. "Poor dear, you were hardly fit for it. How was Mr. Ward? I am afraid he will be dreadfully anxious."
"Anxious! I should think so from his looks. I should say he had had no sleep. Do you know, Dorrie, I have discovered something to-day; dearly as Everard loves all his children, it is Waveney who is the apple of his eye."
"He loves her better than his pretty Mollie? Oh, no, Althea."
"Yes, dear, I am sure of it, and I cannot say I am greatly surprised. Mollie is a dear, sweet child, but Waveney is more human andspirituelle, her nature has greater depth. Oh, there is the gong. Please help me to arrange this ruff. Dorrie, you must do all the talking at dinner. Waveney must have no hint of anything until we have finished—there is the shopping and your purchases; you must make the most of those."
"So you went out, after all?" was Waveney's first remark, when grace had been said; and her voice was rather reproachful. "And you promised that you would have a day's rest!"
"It hardly amounted to a promise, I think," returned Althea, with a forced smile. "One never knows what may turn up in the day's work, and I had to go out on an errand of charity. Well, how have you enjoyed your shopping expedition?" And this question launched Waveney at once into a lengthy description of all their purchases.
"It was too late to think of going to Cleveland Terrace," she finished, regretfully, "so we had tea at Fuller's instead. The cakes were delicious. Oh, how I longed for Mollie to be with us! She does so love buying pretty things."
"Oh, I forgot," interposed Doreen, abruptly. "Mrs. Craven was at Marshall & Snellgrove's, buying things for Augusta'strousseau. We had quite a long talk, in the mantle department. I have ordered a nice waterproof cloak, Althea; it is Harris tweed, and your favourite grey." And so on, discussing the merits of each article purchased until dinner was over, and, with an unmistakable look of relief, Althea rose from the table.