Читать книгу Mollie's Prince - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 11

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"And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away."

Longfellow.

As soon as Mollie had left the room, on household cares intent, Waveney lighted a small, shaded lamp that stood on the table. It was a warm evening, and both the windows were thrown up. The moon had just risen, and the vine-leaves that festooned the balcony had silver edges. As Waveney turned up the lamp she said, cheerfully, "Now we can see each other's faces," and then she sat down again and slipped her hand in her father's arm.

"Tell me all about it, dad, directly minute." And then a smile came to Mr. Ward's tired face, for this was one of the family stock jokes that were never stale, never anything but delightful and fresh, and whenever one of his girls said it, it brought back Waveney in her baby days, a tiny despot in red shoes, with a head "brimming over with curls," stamping her little feet and calling out in shrill treble, "Directly minute! Miss Baby won't wait nohow."

"There is nothing good to hear, little girl," returned Mr. Ward, with a strained laugh. "When you spell failure, spell it with a big F, my dear; that's all." But another skilful question or two soon drew forth the whole story.

He had had a harassing, disappointing day. The dealers who had sold one or two of his smaller pictures refused to give "King Canute" house-room. They could not possibly dispose of such a picture, they said; it was too large and cumbersome, and there were serious defects in it. One or two of the figures were out of drawing; the waves were too solid, looking like molten lead. There was no finesse, no delicacy of execution, the colouring was crude; in fact, the criticism had been scathing.

"They were so rough on me that my back was up at last," went on Mr. Ward, "and when Wilkes said I might leave it if I liked, and he would try and get a customer for it, I saw he was only letting me down a bit easier, and that he did not believe it would sell, so I just called a cab and brought it back."

Waveney winced. All this cab hire could not be afforded. And then, what were they to do? But the next moment she was stroking the worn coat-sleeve tenderly, and her voice was as cheerful as ever.

"Dad, it is a long lane that has no turning—remember that; and it is no use fretting over spilt milk. To-morrow we will get Noel to hang up dear old King Canute in that blank space, and if the stupid, cantankerous old dealers will not have anything to say to him, Mollie and I will admire him every day of our lives. Molten lead, indeed!" jerking her chin contemptuously.

But Mr. Ward, who had been too much crushed to revive at once, only shook his head and sighed. In his heart he knew the dealers were right, and that the work was not really well done. The stormy sunset looked blotchy and unreal, and the solidity of the water was apparent, even to him. The whole thing was faulty, mawkish, amateurish, and futile. He had been in a perfect rage against himself, the dealers, and all the rest of the world as he clambered into his cab.

He had had a rap upon the knuckles once too often. Well, he had learnt his lesson at last; but what a fool and dunce he had been!

"Take your punishment, my boy," he had said to himself, grimly. "Write yourself Everard Ward, U.A., unmitigated ass; and wear your fool's cap with a jaunty air.

"You wanted to paint a big historical picture! to be something better than a drawing-master. Oh, you oaf, you dotard, you old driveller, to think that you could set the Thames on fire, that you could do something to keep your memory fresh and green. Go back to your water-colour landscapes, to your water-wheels and cottages, your porches smothered in woodbine; you are at the bottom of your class, my lad, and there you will be to the end of the chapter." And then—for his imagination was very vivid—he saw himself, an elderly man, in his shabby great-coat, going out all weathers to his schools—a little shrunk, a little more hopeless, and his girls, his twin blessings—but here the hot tears rose to his eyes, and he bit his lips. Oh, it was hard, hard—and it was for their sakes he had worked and toiled.

Just then Mollie came with a little tray. There was a tall, curious old china cup on it which was known in the family as "Dives," and was considered one of their choicest treasures. When any one was ill, the sight of Dives, filled to the brim with fragrant coffee or delicious chocolate, would bring a smile to pale lips. As she placed the tray beside her father, Mollie's face wore a triumphant air, as though she would have said, "If any one could beat that cup of coffee or make better toast, I should like to see her, that's all."

"Thanks, dearest," returned her father, gently; "but you have scorched your face, my sweet Moll."

"Oh, that is nothing," returned Mollie, hastily, putting up her hands to her hot cheeks; she had been through all sorts of vicissitudes during the last half-hour. The water would not boil, or the fire burn properly, though she and Noel had put a whole bundle of sticks into it, and at every stick he had asked her a fresh conundrum.

"Have you told dad about Monsieur Blackie?" she asked; and then Waveney smiled.

"No, but I will, presently, when father has had his supper. Come out on the balcony a moment, Mollie. Is not the moonlight lovely!"

"Yes, I do love these 'white nights,'" returned Mollie, ecstatically. "We used to call them silver nights when we were wee children. Those roofs look as though they were covered with snow. And just see how nice our shabby old courtyard looks; those privets are quite grand. What an old dear the moon is, Wave! She covers up all little defects so nicely, and glorifies all common things."

But Waveney did not hear this little rhapsody, neither had she called Mollie out to watch moonlight effects.

"Moll, just listen to me a moment: you must not say a word to father about Harley Street—not one word."

Mollie looked at her blankly.

"And why not, Wave?"

"Oh, dear, not for worlds," returned Waveney, earnestly. "He is so low, so unlike himself to-night; he had so set his heart on that poor old thing being a success, but they have all been throwing stones at him, and he is so hurt about it. Don't you know what Noel always says: 'You must not hit a man who is down.' Those are school ethics, but it is true. Dad is just like the brere rabbit to-night,—'him lies low,'—and we must just talk to him and make him laugh."

"But Wave, surely"—and Mollie, who was nothing but a big, beautiful, simple child, looked quite shocked—"surely you cannot mean to see that lady without speaking to father!"

"But I do mean it, Mollie. Of course I want to tell father—I always long to tell him everything,—but it would be rank selfishness to-night; it would be the last straw, that terrible straw that breaks the camel's back. And I know just what he would do; he would not smoke his pipe and he would not sleep a wink, and he would be like a wreck to-morrow when he goes to Norwood. No: when it is settled it will be time enough to tell him;" and, as usual, Mollie submitted to her sister's stronger will. "Waveney was the clever one," she would say; "she saw things more clearly, and she was generally right;" for Mollie thought nothing of herself, and was always covered with blushes and confusion if any one praised her.

So Waveney had her way, and as Mr. Ward smoked his pipe she told him all about Monsieur Blackie; and then Noel shut up his lesson-books and came up stairs, and the three young people sang little glees and songs unaccompanied. And presently Mr. Ward laid down his empty pipe and joined too.

And the girls' voices were so fresh and clear, and the man's tenor so sweet, that a passer-by stood for a long time to listen.

Every now and then an odd boyish voice, with a crack in it, chimed in like a jangling bell out of tune. "Oh, Noel, please do not sing so out of tune; you are as flat as a pancake, and as rough as a nutmeg grater, isn't he, Moll?" and then Waveney made a face at the unfortunate minstrel.

"Don't come the peacock over me," began Noel, wrathfully, for any remark on his cracked voice tried his temper. "Hit one of your own size, miss."

"Hush, hush, Noel!" observed his father, good-humouredly. "You will do well enough some day. 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'—let us sing that, my pets." And then the voices began again, and the listener underneath the window smiled to himself and walked on.

It was late, and Mollie was yawning before the little concert was over; but when Mr. Ward went to his room that night the weight of oppression seemed less heavy. Yes, he had been a fool, but most men made mistakes in their lives, and he was not so old yet—only forty-four, for he had married young. He would leave off straining after impossibilities, and take his friends' advice—paint pot boilers in his leisure hours, and devote his best energies to his pupils. "Cincinnatus went back to the plough, and why not Everard Ward?" And then he wound up his watch and went to sleep. But long after the heavy-footed Ann had climbed up to her attic, breathing heavily, and carrying the old black cat, Mrs. Muggins, in her arms, and long after Mollie had fallen into her first sleep, and was dreaming sweetly of a leafy wood, where primroses grew as plentifully as blackberries, a little white figure sat huddled up on the narrow window-seat, staring out absently on the moonlight.

Waveney could see the dim roofs of the Hospital; the old men were all now asleep in their cabin-like cubicles—some of them fighting their battles over again, others dreaming of wives and children.

"After all, it must be nice to be old, and to know that the fight is over," thought the girl, a little sadly. "Life is so difficult, sometimes: when we were children we did not think so. I suppose other girls would have said we had rather a dull life; but how happy we were! what grand times we had that day at the Zoological Gardens, for example! and that Christmas when father took us to the pantomime! I remember the next day Mollie and I made up our minds to be ballet-dancers, and Noel decided to be a clown;" and here Waveney gave a soft little laugh. "Dear father, it was so good of him not to laugh at us. Most people would have called us silly children, but he listened to us quite seriously, and recommended us to practise our dancing sedulously; only he would not hear of shortening our skirts—he said later on would do for that. Oh, dear, oh, dear, was it not just like him? And of course by the next Christmas we had forgotten all about it."

But even these reminiscences, amusing as they were, could not long hinder Waveney's painful reflections. The idea of leaving home and going out into the world was utterly repugnant to her; she had told Mollie in playful fashion that it was the rack and the thumb-screw and the faggots combined; but in reality the decision had cost her a bitter struggle, and nothing but the strongest sense of duty could have nerved her to the effort.

Waveney's nature was far less emotional than Mollie's, but her affections were very deep. Her love for her father and twin sister amounted to passion. When she read the words, "Little children, keep yourselves from idols," she always held her breath, made a mental reservation, and went on.

"If only people liked Father's pictures!" she sighed, and then another pang crossed her, as she remembered his tired face, how old and careworn he had looked, until they had sung some of his favourite songs, and then his eyes had become bright again.

"Dear old dad, how he will miss me!" But when she thought of Mollie the lump in her throat seemed to strangle her: they had never in their lives been parted for a single night.

"And yet it is my duty to go," thought poor Waveney. "We are growing poorer every day, and it will be years before Noel can earn much. I am afraid the schools are falling off a little. Oh, yes; there is no doubt about it, and I must go;" and Waveney shed a few tears, and then, chilled and depressed, she got into bed; and Mollie turned over in her sleep and threw out her warm young arms.

"It was delicious," she murmured, drowsily; "and oh, Wave, why are you so cold, darling? What have you been doing?" But Waveney only shivered a little and kissed her.

The next morning both the girls rose in good time to prepare the early breakfast. Noel always left home at half past eight—long ago an unknown friend of Mr. Ward's had offered to pay his son's school fees, and, acting on advice, he had sent the boy to St. Paul's. He was a clever lad, and in favour with all his masters; he liked work and never shirked it. But his pet passion was football; he was fond of enlarging on his triumphs, and gloried in the kicks he received. It was understood in the family circle that he was to get a scholarship and go to Oxford; and of course a fellowship would follow.

"'The veiled Prophet' will expect it, my dear," Mollie would say, at intervals, when she was afraid he was becoming slack; for under this figure of speech they always spoke of their unknown benefactor. The whole thing was a mystery. The solicitor who wrote to Mr. Ward only mentioned his client vaguely—"an old friend of Mr. Ward's is desirous of doing him this service;" and in succeeding letters, "My client has desired me to send you this cheque;" and so on.

The girls and Noel, who were dying with curiosity, often begged their father to go to Lincoln's Inn and see Mr. Duncan—the firm of Duncan & Son was a good old-fashioned firm; but Mr. Ward always declined to do this. If his old friend did not choose to divulge himself, he had some good reason for his reticence and it would be ungrateful and bad form to force his hand.

"He is a good soul, you may depend on that," was all they could get him to say; but in reality he secretly puzzled over it. "It must be some friend of Dorothy's," he would say to himself. "There was that old lover of hers, who went out to the Bahamas and made his pile—he married, but he never had any children; I do not mention his name to the youngsters—better not, I think; but I have a notion it is Carstairs; he was a melancholy, Quixotic sort of chap, and he was desperately gone on Dorothy."

"Dad's a bit stiff about the Prophet," Noel once said to his sisters, "but if I am in luck's way and get a scholarship, I shall just go up to Lincoln's Inn myself and interview the old buffer;" and this seemed so venturesome and terrifying a project that Mollie gasped, and said, "Oh, no, not really, Noel!" and Waveney opened her eyes a little widely.

"You bet I do," returned Noel, cocking his chin in a lordly way. "I shall just march in as cool as a cucumber, and as bold as brass. 'I have come to thank my unknown benefactor, sir,' I would say with my finest air, 'for the good education I have received. I have the satisfaction of telling you that I have gained a scholarship—eighty pounds a year—and that, with the kind permission—of—of my occult and mysterious friend, I wish to matriculate at Balliol. As I have now attained the age of manhood, is it too much to ask the name of my venerable benefactor?'"

"Oh, Wave, is he not ridiculous?" laughed Mollie; but Waveney looked at her young brother rather gravely.

"Don't, Noel, dear; father would not like it." But Noel only shrugged his shoulders at this. He had his own opinions about things, and when he made up his mind it was very difficult to move him. Never were father and son more unlike; and yet they were the best of friends.

Mr. Ward always had a hard day's work on Tuesday. He had two schools at Norwood, and never came home until evening. The girls always took extra pains with the breakfast-table on the Norwood days, and while Mollie made the coffee, boiled the eggs, and superintended the toast-making, Waveney made up dainty little pats of butter and placed them on vine-leaves. Then she went into the narrow little slip of garden behind the house and gathered a late rose and laid it on her father's plate.

Waveney was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time. She laughed and talked with Noel, while Mollie sat behind her coffee-pot and looked at her with puzzled eyes.

"How can Wave laugh like that when she knows, she knows!" she thought, wonderingly; but at that moment Waveney looked at her with a smile so sweet and so full of sadness, that poor Mollie nearly choked, and her eyes brimmed over with tears.