"Thine were the weak, slight handsThat might have taken this strong soul, and bentIts stubborn substance to thy soft intent."Watson.
"Thine were the weak, slight handsThat might have taken this strong soul, and bentIts stubborn substance to thy soft intent."Watson.
For the first time in his life Thorold Chaytor's conscience felt ill at ease; and, though his nature was by no means introspective or over-scrupulous, he tormented himself and suffered keen twinges of remorse, for what he called his unpardonable want of self-control.
Thorold's sense of honour was exceptionally high; in spite of his cold, reserved manner, he was extremely sensitive; the thought that he had been over-mastered and carried away by passion, even though it had been momentary, humiliated and shocked him.
In some of his ideas Thorold was somewhat behind his generation, and different from other men. He held old-fashioned and somewhat obsolete views on the subject of love, and his reverence for women savoured of the old days of chivalry.
In his hard-working life he had been brought little into contact with them. He had no time for society. An evening at the Red House with his old friends, Althea and Doreen, was the only relaxation he had allowed himself. But, in spite of his self-repression, Thorold Chaytor was intensely human, and, like other men, he yearned for the joys of wife and child.
"Man is not made to live alone," he would say to himself, drearily, as he sat late at night by his solitary fireside; and, though no visionary, the thought of some fair young face would haunt him persistently. "I wonder if I ever shall have a wife?" he would say to himself, as he looked into the red, glowing caverns before him. "I shall be hard to please. I should like her to be a younger and prettier Althea. Oh, she is a noble creature, Althea! She would have been a treasure to any man, but I fancy—I have always fancied—that she gave away her heart to Everard Ward. Well, who knows what may happen, when I have earned my fortune?" And then he smiled a little bitterly, as he opened his books again. Thorold's strong, intense nature took nothing lightly. If he loved, it was with his whole heart and soul. Alas! for him, the small, pale face and dark,spirituelleeyes of his little Undine were now all the world to him. From the first he had recognised her sweetness and intelligence.
How he had longed to hold her to his heart, and comfort her with the assurance of his great love! How his nerves had thrilled with passionate tenderness as he ministered to her, as though she were a little helpless child! And all the time his heart had, with mute reverence, worshipped her.
"I must not think of myself or my own happiness," he said to himself, as he walked down the hill in the darkness that night. "My days have been always joyless, and what does a little more pain matter? It is of her I am thinking. God forbid that I should cloud her bright young life with any of my cares or perplexity. My little Waveney, I would suffer a hundred-fold more willingly than see you bearing my burdens."
Poor Thorold! In his generous self-renunciation he was making a grievous mistake, though he little guessed it; for woman's nature wasterra incognitato him. Generosity and self-abnegation are not solely masculine virtues, and there are women to whom any form of self-sacrifice for the sake of a beloved object is simply joy and happiness; who care nothing for waiting and poverty, if they can only lean on some strong arm and be at rest.
But Thorold was not wise enough to know this, so he formed a singular resolution. He would see Waveney again. He would watch her closely. Ah! he loved her so dearly that he felt he could almost read her thoughts. If she received him with her old frankness of manner, if there were no trace of consciousness in look or tone, he would know that his impulsive speech had not reached her ear, and he would content himself with being more guarded for the future.
But if, as some subtle instinct told him, there should be some undefinable change in her, some new veil of shyness, he would be certain that she had heard him too well, and in this case it was his full intention to make her understand in some way the difficulty of his position. "It is impossible for me to marry for a great many years. I am too heavily handicapped." Some such words as these he would say, and then he would leave her, but not until he had apologized to her with all the humility of which he was capable. And when he had arrived at this quixotic resolution Thorold was more at peace.
They would not meet just yet, for Waveney was unable to leave her room for some days, and spent most of her time, as Althea informed Thorold when he came in one evening, in sleeping like a baby.
"And she looks like one," observed Doreen, who had just come down from the Pansy Room. "I was watching her just now before she woke up, and I never saw such a baby face. I think it must be her short, curly hair that gives one the impression. I wonder why it has never grown long? Mollie Ward has such lovely hair!"
"Waveney told me once that it had never grown since some childish illness," returned Althea, "but that she did not mind it, as it gave her so little trouble. Why, Thorold, you are never going?" as he rose from his chair. "What nonsense! You must stay to dinner. You have not dined with us for an age."
"Not this evening," he returned, hurriedly, "or I should have to sit up all night working. I am glad to hear that Miss Ward is better," he continued, rather formally; "but she seems very weak, still. I suppose you have had Dr. Hilton."
"Oh, no, it was not necessary," returned Althea. "Waveney is not really ill. She is only worn out, body and mind. A few days' rest and feeding up, and plenty of Nurse Marks' cosseting will soon put her to rights. And now her mind is at rest about Mollie, she will soon be her cheerful little self again."
"I hope so," was Thorold's sole answer. And then, seeing that he was in one of his grave, silent moods, Althea did not press him to stay—only accompanied him to the door, and bade him a friendly good-night.
"Poor old Thorold, he does not look quite happy," observed Doreen, as her sister re-entered the room. "I wonder if he has anything on his mind?" And though Althea made no reply to this, the same thought had crossed her mind more than once.
When Waveney heard that Thorold had called to inquire after her the previous evening, she merely observed that it was very kind. But an hour or two later she insisted on dressing herself, and making an attempt to go downstairs.
Althea remonstrated at first; but Waveney was so bent on trying her strength, that she thought it wiser to let her have her way, and actually forbore to triumph when Waveney, with rather a piteous face, subsided weakly on the couch.
"Perhaps I had better wait until to morrow," she panted; "dressing has tired me so." And then, as Althea brought her another pillow, and covered her up snugly, she continued in a weak voice, jestingly, "I feel as though I had the corporal's wooden legs, instead of my own. They do move so stiffly; but then, wooden legs don't ache. Never mind; anything is better than the heartache." And to this Althea cordially agreed.
Everard Ward paid them another visit while Waveney was still in her room. When he came again he found her cosily established in the library, and, though looking still rather weak and pale, in excellent spirits.
For every day the good news was verified, and Mollie made slow but steady progress to recovery. Only once had there been a return of anxiety, when, for one long half-hour, Mollie's weakness was so great that Nurse Helena feared sudden collapse. Everard did not tell Waveney this. But he kept her well acquainted with every little detail of the sick room—what nourishment Mollie took, and how many hours she slept, and even a speech or two, repeated by her nurses.
Once she sent her dear love to Waveney. And another time she asked if Mr. Ingram ever came to the house, and had looked both pleased and surprised when she heard he had been daily. "Twice or three times a day" would have been no exaggeration of the truth. But Nurse Helena wisely kept this to herself. For, of all things, she dreaded any agitation or excitement for her patient.
When Waveney grew stronger she drove daily with one or other of the sisters. And when the February sunshine tempted her, she took short strolls over the Common, with Fuss and Fury.
One Sunday afternoon, when Althea and Doreen were occupied as usual, Waveney put on her hat and went out. There had been rain the previous night, and the garden paths were damp. And at luncheon Althea had recommended her to take a little walk, in the direction of the golf links, as it would be higher and dryer there.
"Do not go too far, and tire yourself," had been her parting words. "Remember Thursday." As though Waveney could have forgotten it, for a moment! For that day she was to see her dear Mollie again.
It was a lovely afternoon. The air was soft and balmy, and full of the promise of spring, and thrushes and blackbirds were singing for joy, because the dark, wintry days were over.
Waveney could have sung with them, out of very gratitude and happiness. Oh, how sweet life was! After all, Mollie was getting well, and——But here Waveney flushed and walked on more rapidly; for there were certain thoughts that made her heart beat too quickly.
"I am very faithless," she was saying to herself, as she came in sight of her favourite seat. It was in a little hollow, and in the summer the larches and willows made a pleasant shade. There was a pond near, where children loved to sail their little boats, or throw sticks in the water for some excited dog.
In her letters to Mollie, she had called it "her green parlour."
She would have rested there for a few minutes, but she saw it was occupied by a gentleman, so she walked on slowly. The next moment, however, she heard her name pronounced, and Thorold Chaytor stood beside her.
"You are tired. You wanted to sit down," he said, abruptly, as they shook hands. "Please come back and rest a moment. It is so warm and sheltered in the hollow."
"I was not really tired," returned Waveney, nervously; but she avoided looking at him as she spoke. "It is rather a favourite seat of mine, and the view is so pretty."
"Yes, I was admiring it just now," replied Thorold; "but you will sit down for five minutes, will you not?" Then Waveney, shy and confused, accompanied him a little reluctantly across the grass. But as Thorold walked silently beside her, under his quiet manner there raged a perfect tempest of conflicting feelings.
His sudden and unexpected appearance had taken Waveney by surprise, and her startled blush, and confusion, betrayed her agitation at the meeting. Her new timidity, the faltering of her voice, and her avoidance of his eyes, all told the same tale to Thorold: she had understood, and she was not indifferent to him!
A spasm of joy shot through Thorold's heart at this thought; then he remembered his resolution, and crushed down his rising happiness.
"I must think of her, and not of myself," he said to himself, as he took the seat beside her.
"I am glad to see you are so much better," he began, after a long pause, that neither knew how to break. "But you are not quite strong yet; your step has lost its old spring." Then he interrupted himself, as though he feared to say so much. "But all that will pass."
"Yes, it will pass," she returned, trying to speak naturally, and looking at him for the first time. The soft brilliancy of her eyes almost dazzled Thorold. He nearly forgot his resolution, as he looked into their brown depths. "Do you know, Mr. Chaytor, that on Thursday I am actually to see my Mollie. I am counting the hours, and so is she."
"And that makes you very happy?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Oh, yes; so grateful and happy! Father has seen her, of course; and he says I must be prepared to find her very weak. Is it not a pity she has lost her lovely colour? But Nurse Helena says it will come back. She seems such a kind woman. When I send little notes to Mollie, she answers them so nicely, and gives all Mollie's messages."
Waveney had forgotten her nervousness in this engrossing topic; but Thorold's answer was a little vague.
"And you will never be faithless again?"
"No!" she returned, flushing at this; "I will try to be more trustful in future." And then, more kindly, "Mr. Chaytor, you were so good to me that miserable evening, I have so often wished to thank you, and tell you that I am not unmindful of your great kindness." Then he checked her.
"Miss Ward, you owe me no gratitude; any one would have done what I did. It is your forgiveness I ought to ask, for I am afraid that in my sympathy and pity I forgot myself."
He said this with such difficulty, and in such a constrained tone, that Waveney looked at him in astonishment. Then, as she saw his expression, her head drooped a little.
"I do not know what you mean," she said, under her breath.
"I cannot explain myself," he returned, hurriedly; "would to heaven that I could. But I think from your manner that you do not misunderstand me. Miss Ward, there is something I want to tell you about myself if you will pardon my egotism. We are good friends, I trust, and if possible I want you to think well of me."
Waveney listened silently to this, but she bit her lip to conceal a smile. Was it likely that she of all persons would think ill of him?
"I am unfortunately placed," he continued. "All my life circumstances have been too strong for me. Other men can please themselves, but I have never been free to choose my own path. Duties and responsibilities have crowded on me from mere boyhood. Fresh ones have come to me within the last few months."
Then Waveney understood that he was speaking of his brother and little Bet, and her attention became almost painful.
"I can see no end of it all," he went on—and there was despair in his voice. "It must be years—perhaps many years—before I can think of marrying. I ought to have remembered this—I ought not to have forgotten myself." Then he rose abruptly, and his face was very pale. "Miss Ward, you have been very good to listen to me so patiently, but I must not keep you here any longer; it will not be safe for you."
He was standing before her as he spoke, but for a moment she made no reply, only sat with bent head, and her hands folded tightly together in her lap. But as he stooped and put out his hand, as though to help her to rise, she suddenly looked up in his face.
"Thank you," she said, quite simply. "You need not fear that I should ever misunderstand one so good and kind;" and then she flushed up, and rose quickly from the bench. "It is too late to go on now, and Miss Harford will be expecting me. Please do not come any farther. There is no need to spoil your walk. Give my love to your sister and little Bet—dear little Bet."
"Are you sure? Do you not wish me to accompany you?" he stammered; but she shook her head with a semblance of gaiety.
"Oh, no. I shall be at the Red House in five minutes. Good-bye, good-bye."
Waveney was in such a desperate hurry that she forgot to shake hands. She almost ran down the little path between the furze-bushes.
The thrushes and blackbirds had ceased their songs, and the sunshine had faded from the landscape, but in Waveney's heart there was a strange, new joy.
"He loves me, he loves me," she was saying to herself, "though he will not tell me so for a long time. Oh, how good he is! how patient and self-sacrificing!" And then her eyes were dim as she remembered the suppressed pain in his voice. "I have never been free to choose my own path." Was that not true, absolutely true? and could any man have done his duty more nobly? And yet this hero, this king among men, actually loved her! And now Waveney's eyes were full of tears.
"Our doubts and our fears we are leaving;Before us the future uprears,Where angels a rainbow are weavingOf smiles and of tears."Helen Marion Burnside.
"Our doubts and our fears we are leaving;Before us the future uprears,Where angels a rainbow are weavingOf smiles and of tears."Helen Marion Burnside.
During Waveney's indisposition Everard Ward had been constantly at the Red House, and these visits had been full of consolation to both father and daughter. Althea's kindly welcome and womanly gentleness had, from the first, put him at his ease. Both she and Doreen had cordially pressed him to repeat his visits, as they gave Waveney so much pleasure. Once, when the sisters were out, and Waveney was making tea for him in the library, she asked him suddenly why Mr. Ingram never called at the Red House.
"I do not think it is quite kind and cousinly," she said, rather seriously.
Everard seemed a little embarrassed by the question.
"Why, you see," he replied, in rather a hesitating way, "Ingram is so fully engaged. He is up at our place regularly every morning and evening. He does not seem able to exist away from it. Mollie ought to consider herself a lucky little girl," he continued, thoughtfully, "for I never saw a man more deeply in love. He is a fine fellow—Ingram—the best-hearted fellow I know; and I only hope"—and here he looked at Waveney rather searchingly—"that our dear Mollie values him as he deserves."
"I think Mollie is beginning to care for him," returned Waveney; "at least, I fancy so. But, of course, one can only guess at her feelings. You see, he has given her so much pleasure. And she has learnt to depend on him so much for companionship and sympathy, that it would be strange if she were to harden her heart against him, at last. But, father,"—her voice deepening with emotion,—"do you think he is quite good enough for our sweet Mollie? He is very kind and amusing—our dear little Monsieur Blackie, but——" Everard interrupted her abruptly.
"Pshaw, what a ridiculous name! I think it is quite time that you and Noel dropped it. Monsieur Blackie, indeed! Absurd! I cannot imagine why you have all taken such a liberty with him." Everard spoke in such a ruffled tone that Waveney stared at him in surprise.
"But, father, dear, he likes it. He is as proud of the name as possible. In his little notes to us he always signs himself 'Monsieur Blackie.'" And then she added, rather wickedly, "You know, dear, the name does suit him so perfectly. If he were tall, and handsome, and dignified, we should have found him quite a different name."
But this explanation did not seem to please Everard. "Nonsense, child!" he said, quite sharply. "What do looks matter? A good heart, and a generous nature, are worth far more. Some of the greatest men in the world were short of stature. Nelson and Napoleon—oh! and many others. But girls are so silly and sentimental, they prefer some Adonis six feet high, with an empty purse and head."
Waveney laughed merrily at this. Then a sudden thought came to her.
"Father," she said, rather gravely, "it is easy to see that Mr. Ingram will have no difficulty with you, and that you are his best friend. Has he"—and here she hesitated, and flushed—"has he spoken to you yet? I mean, has he told you that he loves Mollie?"
"My little Waveney, that is not a fair question," returned Everard, quickly. "But I suppose that there is no harm in telling you that I am most certainly in Ingram's confidence. Now, no more questions; he has begged me to respect his secret. Yes"—rising from his seat, and speaking with repressed excitement—"he has my best wishes for his success. Now I must go, dear child, for I have promised to dine with him and Noel."
When Everard had gone, Waveney sat down by the fire; the conversation had given her plenty of food for thought. Her father was in Ingram's confidence; it was evident that he fully approved of him as a prospective son-in-law—that Ingram's generosity and kindness of heart had won him over completely. "I like him," she said to herself, "and I think I could get fond of him as a brother; but in Mollie's place"—and here Waveney shook her head. The vision of a grave, strong face, with keen, thoughtful grey eyes, seemed to rise before her; a quiet, cultured voice vibrated in her ears. Well, Mollie was welcome to her Black Prince. To her there was only one man in the world, and his name was Thorold Chaytor.
This little talk had taken place two or three days before her interview with Thorold that Sunday afternoon. After that she thought less about Mr. Ingram. She was reading her own version of the old, old story, which most women read once in their lives; and though the opening chapter was headed "Waiting and Patience," it was none the less sweet and engrossing to the reader. There was something heroic to her in Thorold's silence and self-renunciation. "He is great because he has learnt to conquer himself," she thought. "Most men are dominated by their own passions and prefer inclination to duty." And then, like a true woman, she reverenced him the more.
It was the longest week that Waveney had ever passed, and it seemed as though Thursday would never come.
Althea had promised to have luncheon with Mrs. Mainwaring that day, so she proposed to drive Waveney over to Cleveland Terrace about noon. She had already made her preparations for the interview by sending Mollie the prettiest and daintiest blue dressing-gown. Mollie, who was still very weak, had shed tears over the gift; but Nurse Helena had only laughed at her, and made her try it on.
Everard was in the studio, touching up a picture that one of his pupils had painted, when Waveney entered. She was rather pale and breathless. How shabby and bare the dear old room looked to her, after her long absence! And yet, in spite of its dinginess, how she loved it!
"Oh, father, how nice it is to be here again!" she said, softly, as she stood near him. And Everard smiled and patted her cheek.
"Ingram left those flowers for you," he said, pointing to a charming bouquet on Mollie's little painting-table. "He was so sorry that he could not wait and see you, but he had to meet an old friend at his club." But before Waveney could make any reply to this, or look at her flowers, a pleasant-looking woman in nurse's garb entered. She had a gentle face, and kind eyes, and Waveney went up to her at once and took her hand.
"You are my sister's Nurse Helena," she said, quickly. "Thank you for all your care of Mollie. May I see her soon?"
"Certainly. Will you come with me now? Miss Ward heard the carriage stop, and she sent me down to bring you up at once. I need not caution you," she continued, as they went upstairs, "to be very quiet, as my patient is still weak. She is on the new couch that Mr. Ingram sent for her use, and I think you will say she looks very comfortable." Waveney was far too agitated to answer. As Nurse Helena opened the door, she heard Mollie's dear, familiar voice say, in weak accents, "Wave, darling, is it really you?" and the next moment she was kneeling by the couch, and she and Mollie were clasped in each other's arms, and Mollie's thin white cheek was wetted by her sister's tears.
"Wave, dear, you must not cry so," whispered Mollie, in a troubled voice. "I am better, and Nurse Helena says that I get stronger every day." Then Waveney, ashamed of her want of self-control, and remembering the nurse's injunction, brushed away her tears and tried to smile.
"I have wanted my old sweetheart so badly," she faltered, and with difficulty she repressed a sob; in spite of her pallor, Mollie looked lovelier than ever—almost too fragile and beautiful, Waveney thought, with that faint flush of excitement on her wasted cheeks, and the violet lines under the large eyes.
"Not more than I have wanted you, darling," returned Mollie, softly. "Wave, I want to see your dear face more clearly. Look, Nurse Helena has put that seat close to me, so that I can hold your hand, and we can talk comfortably. She is going to leave us alone for a quarter of an hour, and I have promised to be good and not tire myself." Then, as Nurse Helena closed the door, "Oh, Wave, it is almost worth all the pain and weariness, to have such happiness as this!"
"It is almost too good to be true," returned Waveney, tenderly. "Dear Mollie, it has been such a dreadful time. If I could only have borne the pain for you! But to know you were suffering, and that strangers were nursing you, and I could do nothing—nothing——" and a faint shudder crossed her as she remembered those days of anguish and suspense.
"Hush, darling," replied Mollie; but there were tears in her eyes. "We will not talk about that sad time now. Do you think I did not know what my Waveney was feeling? That night I was so bad, and I thought that perhaps I should die, I prayed that I might see you once more, and that we might bid each other good-bye. There, don't fret," for Waveney was kneeling beside her again, with her face hidden in the pillow. "I only want to tell you how good Nurse Helena was to me, and how she comforted me. I was very miserable the next day, though I believe I was really better; and when Nurse Helena asked me what was troubling me, I told her it was because I was so wicked that I felt I could not be happy in heaven, if my Waveney were breaking her heart about me here, and that with such feelings I was not fit to die. And she said, in such a comforting way,—
"'But you are not going to heaven yet, my child, so you need not trouble your head about leaving your sister. As for feeling wicked—well, we are none of us angels, but it is my belief that our Heavenly Father will not be angry with us for loving those He has given us to love.' Oh, she is such a sweet woman, Wave! If you only knew her you would like her as much as I do. Nurse Miriam was very kind, too, but she is not as nice as Nurse Helena."
"I love her already for being so good to my darling," returned Waveney; and then she tried to smile. "Mollie, dear, there is some one else to whom we owe gratitude."
Then a swift, undefinable change passed over Mollie's face.
"I know whom you mean," she returned in a low voice; "and father has told me how good he has been. It was Mr. Ingram who sent Sir Hindley down, and he made him come three times. Nurse Helena says his fees are tremendous, and that he is the greatest throat doctor in the world. And then he is paying for the nurses. I found that out the other day. And every day something comes—game, and wine, and fruit, and flowers, and yesterday this lovely couch. Oh, Wave, somehow it oppresses me to think of it all, for how is one to repay such kindness?"
"We will think about that, dear, when you are stronger. Oh, we shall have so much to talk about and to plan, so you must make haste and get well, for I cannot do without my sweetheart any longer."
Then Mollie smiled, well satisfied.
"Oh, dear, how nice it will be!" she said, in rather a tired voice. "Do you know, Wave, Miss Althea sent me a message by father the other day. She has promised to spare you to me whenever I want you, and when I go to the sea you are to come, too."
This was news to Waveney.
"I have heard nothing about it. Are you quite sure?" she asked, doubtfully.
"Quite sure," returned Mollie, decidedly; "but it was only settled last night. He—Mr. Ingram, I mean"—and here Mollie spoke rather hurriedly and nervously, "was talking to father. He said change of air was necessary after such an illness, and that the doctor wished it, and that I should never get strong without it. And then father gave in, and it was decided that I should go as soon as possible, and that you and Nurse Helena were to come, too. Oh, there she comes," as the nurse opened the door, "but I am sure our quarter of an hour is not up yet."
"It is just twenty minutes," observed Nurse Helena, composedly. "Just five minutes too long, I can see, by your face. Miss Ward, will you bid your sister good-bye, please? I should like her to be quiet for a little before her dinner."
"Yes, you must go, Wave," observed Mollie, with ready submission; "but you are to have dinner with father before you go back, and I am to see you again on Sunday." And then the sisters kissed each other silently. But as Waveney turned on the threshold for a last look, Mollie waved her hand. "Oh, it has been so nice," she said, feebly, "and I am so happy." But, almost before Waveney was downstairs, Mollie was asleep.
"Well," observed Everard, with a questioning smile, "have you talked Mollie into a fever?"
"I am afraid we did talk rather too much," returned Waveney, penitently, "for Mollie looked very tired when I left. But, father, how weak and thin she is! I could not help fretting when I saw her. But she looks sweeter than ever, dear thing, and Miss Althea's blue dressing-gown is lovely! She was quite a picture with that Indian silk rug over her feet, and all those beautiful flowers beside her."
"Ingram again," returned Everard, with a groan. "Do you know, he is actually going to Eastbourne next week to take lodgings for her and Nurse Helena, and nothing I can say will stop him."
"Mollie says I am to go, too," observed Waveney, anxiously.
"Yes, dear, Miss Harford proposed that, and I think she is right in saying that you need a change, too; you are looking thin and pale, my child."
"Oh, I am very well," she replied, hastily; and then Ann, the heavy-footed, came up to tell them that dinner was ready. After that, as Waveney was too restless to stay in the house, they went out for a walk, and strolled in Old Ranelagh gardens, and then down the lime walk and along the embankment to Cheyne Walk; and then, as it was growing dusk, they walked on quickly to Sloane Square, and Everard put her in the train.
"Good-bye until Sunday, father, dear," were her last words, as the train moved off. But that night, before Waveney fell asleep happily in her Pansy Room, Nurse Helena's homely words recurred to her.
"Well, we are none of us angels, but it is my belief that our Heavenly Father will not be angry with us for loving those He has given us to love."
"Thank God for that," she murmured, "and that it is no sin that I love my Mollie so intensely." And in the dying firelight Waveney folded her little hands together, and with a grateful heart said herTe Deum.
"So we grew together,Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,And yet a union in partition,Two lovely berries moulded on one stem."Shakespeare.
"So we grew together,Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,And yet a union in partition,Two lovely berries moulded on one stem."Shakespeare.
Although March set in fierce and blustering as a lion, it might have been as mild as any lamb to Waveney; for when one is young, and the blood courses freely in the veins, even a nipping east wind and grey skies are not the intolerable hardships that older people feel them, especially when a well-spring of joy is bubbling up in the heart.
Mollie was getting well—that was the key-note of Waveney's happiness. And though Althea shivered and looked depressed, as she gazed out at the uninviting prospect, and even Doreen shrugged her shoulders and made uncomplimentary remarks on the weather, Waveney only laughed and looked provokingly cheerful.
"I don't mind the long walk one bit," she returned, in answer to a pitying observation from Althea. "I shall walk as fast as possible and keep myself warm; and as for the dust, don't you know the old saying, that 'a peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom'?" But Althea smiled a little sadly as Waveney ran out of the room to put on her hat and jacket.
"How happy the child is!" she said, with an involuntary sigh. "After all, Dorrie, when one is growing old, it is pleasant to have a bright young creature about the house. Don't you remember when Aunt Sara first suggested that I should have a companion, that you looked rather blank, and said that our old cosy life would be quite spoiled?"
Althea spoke in rather a depressed voice, and Doreen looked at her anxiously.
"Yes, I remember," she replied, quietly. "The idea quite worried me. I was almost cross with Aunt Sara for mentioning it. But I am glad now that Waveney came to us," she continued, thoughtfully. "She is a dear little thing, and one can't help loving her; and then, you have found her such a comfort."
"Indeed, I have," was Althea's reply; "she is such a bright, intelligent little soul, and she has so much tact and sympathy. I am afraid I almost begrudge her to Mollie, especially as——" But here she checked herself.
"You are not feeling quite well, dear," observed her sister, affectionately. "I hope your eyes are not troubling you." But Althea shook her head.
"Not particularly. No, don't fuss, Dorrie, there is nothing really the matter; only the east wind is my enemy. How is one to feel happy without sunshine and warmth? Do you remember that March we spent in the Riviera, and those orange groves, and the bed of Neapolitan violets under our window? How delicious it was!"
"But, Ally, dear," remonstrated Doreen, "why do you speak in that regretful voice? You know Aunt Sara wanted you to spend the winter with her at Mentone, but you refused at once."
"Of course I refused," returned Althea, indignantly. "Do you think I was going to leave you alone all the winter? Besides, there was my work. What would have become of my Porch House Thursdays, and my classes and Library teas? Oh, no, Dorrie. What is the use of 'putting one's hand to the plough, and looking back?' Work has its responsibilities. As long as my strength lasts I want to do my own little bit as well and as perfectly as I can." And then Mitchell came in for the coachman's orders, and Althea went off to read the letters in the library.
Waveney spent half her time at Cleveland Terrace. As Mollie grew stronger, she yearned incessantly for her sister's companionship, and, as Althea once remarked to Everard, "it seemed useless and cruel to keep them apart." And Everard fully concurred in this opinion.
"But you are very good to spare my little Waveney to us so much," he said, gratefully, "and we ought not to take advantage of your kindness. The child was here three or four times last week. I am afraid she is neglecting all her duties for Mollie." But though Althea was too truthful to deny this, she assured him that she was perfectly willing to spare her young companion.
"I don't think I ever saw two sisters so devoted to each other," she continued. "It is really beautiful to see their love for each other."
"It has always been the same," returned Everard, in a moved voice. "Even when they were mere babies, Mollie would refuse to touch her cake unless Waveney had half. Dorothy had to put them to sleep in the same cot, or Mollie would have cried half the night. It was the prettiest sight, she used to tell me." And then he broke up rather abruptly. "I am an old fool about my girls," he said, with a little laugh; "but, you see, I have had to be mother as well as father for so many years." But Althea made no answer to this. She only bade him good-bye very kindly. It was the first time he had mentioned his wife to her. Dorothy! How his voice had softened as he mentioned the beloved name.
That morning when Waveney made her little speech about a peck of March dust, she found a delightful surprise awaiting her at Cleveland Terrace.
Her father was not at home. She knew well it was his day at Norwood, so she went hastily past the studio door without peeping in as usual; but the next moment she saw Nurse Helena on the threshold beckoning her.
"Will you come in here for a minute, Miss Ward?" she said, rather mysteriously. And Waveney, with some surprise, retraced her steps, and then, as she followed her in, a little cry of delight broke from her, for there was Mollie pillowed up cosily on the old couch, and smiling at her in the most triumphant way.
"Oh, you darling!" exclaimed Waveney, in perfect ecstasy at the sight. "Do you mean that you have actually walked downstairs?"
"Yes, and all by myself, too," returned Mollie, proudly. "But do you know, Wave, I have been grumbling dreadfully. 'Grumps' is not a bit comfortable;" and she pinched the old moreen cushions rather pettishly. "But Nurse Helena promises that I shall have my lovely new couch down to-morrow. It will stand quite well in that corner between the window and fireplace, and I shall be able to see any one who comes to the gate. It is so stupid only to lie and look at the fire."
"Of course it is, you poor dear; but you will soon be watching the waves breaking on the beach, so cheer up, sweetheart." But it was evident that Mollie was not listening. Something else was occupying her thoughts. Her fingers played absently with Waveney's curly hair as she knelt beside her. Then she drew a note from under her pillow.
"Nurse Helena brought me this on my breakfast-tray," she said, flushing a little as she spoke; "but I have not answered it yet. I want you to tell me what I ought to do." Then Waveney, who had recognized Ingram's handwriting, read it somewhat eagerly.
"My dear Miss Mollie," was all it said—"Do you think you are well enough to see an old friend? I need not tell you what pleasure it will give me if you will allow me to come. You shall choose your own day and hour—any time from cockcrow to midnight will be equally convenient to"Yours most sincerely,""Monsieur Blackie."
"My dear Miss Mollie," was all it said—"Do you think you are well enough to see an old friend? I need not tell you what pleasure it will give me if you will allow me to come. You shall choose your own day and hour—any time from cockcrow to midnight will be equally convenient to
"Yours most sincerely,""Monsieur Blackie."
"Short and sweet," observed Waveney, smiling at the superscription; but Mollie was in no mood for trifling.
"What am I to say?" she asked, anxiously, and her eyes looked bright with excitement.
"My darling, that is for you to decide. Are you sure that you are quite strong enough to see Mr. Ingram? Shall we ask Nurse Helena what she thinks about it?"
"I have asked her," replied Mollie. "And she said that if I did not stay up too long, or tire myself with talking, that probably I should be well enough to see a visitor, the day after to-morrow."
"Well, dear, shall I write and tell him so? Shall I ask him to come in the morning, or the afternoon?"
"Oh, the afternoon, please. But Waveney,"—and here Mollie seemed on the verge of tears—"of course I want to see Mr. Ingram, but yet I do dread it so. What am I to say to him? And how am I to thank him, for all he has done? I feel quite overwhelmed by it all." And then, as Mollie was still very weak, one or two tears rolled down her cheeks; but Waveney kissed them away.
"Oh, you silly child!" she said, tenderly. "Fancy crying, just because a kind friend wants to come and see you! Why, it will do you all the good in the world! There is no one so amusing as Monsieur Blackie. Take my advice, Mollie dear. Be as kind to him as you like, but don't trouble your poor little head about making him grateful speeches. Wait until you are stronger. You may depend upon it," she continued, "that the Black Prince has simply been pleasing himself, quite as much as he has you. I expect generosity is just an amiable vice of his—a sort of craze, don't you know. He likes playing minor providence in other people's lives. It makes him feel warm and comfortable." But Mollie was quite indignant at this.
"You are very clever," she said, rather petulantly. "But you talk great nonsense, sometimes. An amiable vice, indeed! I should like father to hear that! Why, the other night he said, quite seriously, that Mr. Ingram had been a perfect godsend to us all. And Waveney"—and here Mollie's voice grew plaintive—"I do feel as though I owe my life to him. For if it had not been for Sir Hindley, and Nurse Helena, and Nurse Miriam I should never have got well—for father had no money, and what could we have done?" and here Mollie broke off with a sob.
"Darling, do you think I don't know all that?" returned Waveney, vexed with herself for her attempt at a joke. "I would not undervalue Mr. Ingram's kindness for the world. He has been our benefactor—yours, and mine, and father's, and Noel's. As for myself, I could grovel in the dust at his feet, out of sheer gratitude for all his goodness to my Mollie. What I meant to say was this: Mr. Ingram does not want our thanks. We are his friends, and he just loves to help us. So be as nice to him as you like, sweetheart, but don't embarrass him with grateful speeches, for you would certainly cry over them—and then he will get into a panic, and ring violently for Nurse Helena." And then Mollie laughed. And after that they talked with their old cheerfulness. Indeed, Waveney was quite wild with spirits. For Althea had told her, that morning, that she would give her a month's holiday, when Mollie went to Eastbourne.
It so happened that Waveney had promised to spend an hour at the Hospital with Corporal Marks on the very afternoon that was fixed for Mr. Ingram's visit. The old man was depressed and ailing. "Jonadab has never got over the sergeant's loss," as his sister used to say; and she reminded Mollie of this.
"It just fits in nicely," she observed; "for, you see, two is company, and three's none, and I should have been dreadfully in the way. But I shall be back in time to make tea for Mr. Ingram, and we will have a cosy little time together. Now I must go, dear, for I promised Miss Althea that I would not be late. So good-bye until the day after to-morrow."
"I wish it were to-morrow," whispered Mollie, feverishly. "I do so hate waiting for anything like that. I shall just think about it, and what I am to say, until I get quite nervous. There, don't talk about it any more;" and Mollie, who looked flushed and tired, pushed her gently away.
Waveney had promised to have luncheon with her father before she went to the Hospital, and when Wednesday came she went up to the studio to have a peep at the invalid.
"Why, Mollie!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room, "it is quite a transformation scene!"
And, indeed, the shabby old studio looked wonderfully bright and cosy. The round table had been moved to the other side of the room, and Mollie's pretty couch, and a low table that Ingram had sent for her use, were placed between the fireplace and window, and a bowl of Neapolitan violets was beside her. There were flowers everywhere, and as for Mollie,—"Oh, you dear thing! how sweet you look!" remarked Waveney, with a hug.
And, indeed, Mollie had never looked more lovely. Nurse Helena had fastened two little pink rosebuds in the lace at her throat, and their soft, delicate tint just matched Mollie's cheeks; she had a tiny goldvinaigrettein her hand, which she showed Waveney.
"It came this morning, with the flowers," she said, rather shyly.
Waveney looked at it silently. "M. W." was engraved on it.
"Is it not beautiful, Wave? But I wish—I wish he had not sent it."
When luncheon was over, Everard walked with Waveney to the door of the Hospital. He had a tiring afternoon's work before him. By tacit consent, neither of them spoke much of Ingram's visit.
"I hope it will not tire Mollie too much," was all Waveney said. And once Everard hazarded the observation that Ingram was sure to be punctual.
"That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,If, with his tongue, he cannot win a woman."Two Gentlemen of Verona.
"That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,If, with his tongue, he cannot win a woman."Two Gentlemen of Verona.