Читать книгу Mollie's Prince - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 18

Table of Contents

"The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but, I think, now 'tis not to be found."

Love's Labour's Lost.

"A merrier man,

Within the limits of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour's talk withal."

Act II.

While Waveney was doing her very best to make a favourable impression on the Misses Harford, an interview of a far different character was taking place at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace.

Mollie, who was conscientious and strictly truthful, having been taught from childhood to abhor the very whitest of white lies, was trying laboriously to carry out a certain programme drawn up by Waveney. She was not to cry or to think of anything disagreeable, and she was only to look at the clock twice in an hour, and there was no need for her either to be always standing on the balcony and straining her eyes after every passer-by. It was sheer waste of time, and it would be far better to finish one of her pretty menu-cards; and Mollie, who was docile and tractable, had agreed to this.

"It shall have a spray of golden brown chrysanthemums," she said, quite cheerfully; and when Waveney left the house she arranged her painting-table and selected the flowers from Corporal Mark's nosegay.

But, alas!

"The best-laid schemes of mice and men

Gang aft agley."

Scarcely had Mollie wetted her brush before Ann the heavy-footed came up with an inflamed face and red eyes.

"The pain was horrible," as she expressed it, "and was not to be borne. Would Miss Mollie spare her for half an hour, and she would get Mr. Grainger's young man to pull the tooth out?"

"Oh yes, Ann, certainly," returned Mollie, who was tender-hearted. But when Ann had withdrawn with a snorting sob, she mused with some perplexity over all the ills to which maids-of-all-work were liable.

Ann had looked so strong when they had engaged her, and yet she was always complaining of something. She was addicted to heavy colds in her head, and to a swollen face, sometimes diversified by an earache. She was a good-tempered, willing creature, but her infirmities were great, and more than once Waveney had advised Mollie to send her away.

"But she is so honest," Mollie would plead, "and she is so devoted to Mrs. Muggins," and so Ann had been suffered to remain. Noel took her off to the life. He would tie up his face with a wisp of flannel and sit hugging the cat for ten minutes at a time.

"Was it a poorty leddy, then, and did she want the poor little chickabiddies?" Ann would choke with suppressed laughter when she came in to lay the table. "Ain't it natural, Miss Mollie? and it is just what I did say to Mrs. Muggins."

Mollie was studying the chrysanthemum pensively when Annie put her head in again.

"The fire must not get low, Miss Mollie, because of the cake."

Then Mollie jumped up in dismay.

Ann was going out, and leaving that precious cake—Noel's birthday cake—and it was such a nice one! She had made it herself, and it had beautiful pink-and-white icing on the top. That her cake should be spoilt was a thought not to be endured for a moment. She knew what Ann's fires were—black, smoky concerns. As Mollie rushed into the kitchen the front door bell rang, and Ann, with her hat on, admitted a visitor.

"A gentleman, Miss Mollie, and I have shown him up in the studio." But Mollie, whose face was in the oven, did not hear this; her whole attention was absorbed by her cake—menu cards were forgotten. She stirred the fire, put on coals, and then sat down on the rug to watch the oven.

Meanwhile, the visitor walked briskly into the studio. He was a small, dark man, and his dress was somewhat Bohemian; he had a brown velveteen coat, and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, and he had bright, clear eyes, that saw everything worth seeing, and a good deal that ordinary folk failed to see—not that people always found this out. He had plenty of time for observation, and when he had grown a little weary of his solitude, he made a tour of the room. He stood for some time by Mollie's painting table. The menu cards struck him as very pretty and graceful in their design.

"My good little Samaritan is artistic, I see," he said to himself; "but there was no need for her to put on her best frock because a stranger called. But vanity and women are synonymous terms." And after this atrocious sentiment—which all women would utterly repudiate—he looked curiously at a framed picture standing on the floor.

"'Canute and his Courtiers.' Yes, I see; rather stale, that sort of thing. 'Canute' decidedly wooden, ambitious, but amateurish—wants force and expression." And then he shook his head. "Hulloa, what have we here?" and he stepped up to the easel.

It was a roughly executed sketch in crayon and was evidently a boy's work; but in spite of considerable crudeness, it was not without spirit.

A young lady was stepping down from an omnibus, and a queer little man in a peaked hat, and a huge moustache, was handing her out. He was grinning from ear to ear, and in his other hand was a sixpence.

"Your eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie," was written under the picture.

The visitor seemed puzzled; then a light dawned. Finally he threw back his head and laughed aloud. "We have a humourist here," he said to himself; and to restore his gravity, he began walking up and down the room; but every time he passed the easel he laughed again. "This is clearly not my little Samaritan," he said to himself. He had brought in a beautiful bouquet, and had laid it down on the round table. Every few minutes he took it up and looked at the door.

The household was certainly a peculiar one. An extraordinary young female, with her face tied up in flannel, had shown him upstairs after telling him that Miss Ward was in. He had been waiting nearly twenty minutes. Should he ring the bell? But there was no bell—not a semblance of one. Then he thought he would leave the flowers and the sixpence, with his card. Yes, perhaps that would be best. And then he hesitated. It was very absurd, but he rather wanted to see the little girl again; there was something so bright and piquant about her. Perhaps she was keeping out of the way on purpose. Perhaps Monsieur Blackie—and here he laughed afresh—was not to her taste. No sooner did this idea come into his head than, with manlike perversity, he determined to persevere.

He walked downstairs and into the dining-room. Here fresh amusement awaited him in the inscription, "Noel Ward, his Study."

"My friend the humourist again," he said softly; and then he pricked up his ears, for in some back premises he could distinctly hear a very clear, sweet girlish voice. He stole into the passage to listen.

And this is what he heard:—

"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty,

Let the toast pass;

Drink to the lass—

I'll warrant she prove an excuse for the glass."

"School for Scandal," muttered the stranger. "A very good song and very well sung. I should like to clap. Let me see: that is what they used to do in the Arabian Nights entertainment—clap hands, enter beautiful Circassian slave, with a golden dish full of jewelled fruits. I will knock instead at the mysterious portal."

"Oh, is that you, Ann!" exclaimed a voice, cheerfully. "However did you get in? Fetch me some coals, please. And oh, I forgot your poor tooth. Was it very bad?"

"Pardon me," observed the young man, hurriedly. Then, at the strange voice, Mollie turned round.

Once, many years ago in a foreign gallery, Ingram had stood for a long time before a little picture that had captivated his fancy; it was the work of an English artist, and a very promising one, and was entitled "Cinderella." A little workhouse drudge was sitting on a stool in the chimney corner of a dark underground kitchen; a black, cindery fire was casting a dull glow; a thin tabby cat was trying to warm itself. The torn, draggled frock and grimy hands of the little maid-of-all-work were admirably rendered, but under the tangled locks a pair of innocent child's eyes looked wistfully out. A story book, with the page opened at Cinderella, lay on the lap.

Ingram thought of this picture as Mollie turned her head and looked at him, and, man of the world as he was, for the moment words failed him.

He was standing in a dull little kitchen—a mere slip of a place—looking out on a long straggling garden, very narrow, and chiefly remarkable for gooseberry-and-currant bushes; and sitting on the rug in front of the fire, like a blissful salamander, was a girl with the most beautiful face that he had ever seen.

Then poor Mollie, blushing like a whole garden full of roses in her embarrassment, scrambled awkwardly to her feet.

"Oh, dear! I thought it was our Ann. Will you tell me your name, please? Father is out, and we do not expect him home until eight."

"My business was with your sister," returned Ingram, regaining his self-possession as he saw the girl's nervousness. "Your servant let me in exactly five-and-twenty minutes ago, and as I thought the household was asleep I was endeavouring to discover a bell; and then I heard singing,—

"'Let the toast pass;

Drink to the lass,'

Awfully good song that."

"Oh, dear," faltered Mollie—she would have liked to sink through the floor at that moment, to avoid that bright, quizzical glance; "that was father's song, not mine. Oh, I know now who you are. You are the gentleman whose pocket was picked yesterday."

"Exactly. Monsieur Blackie, at your service;" and then Mollie turned cold with dismay. Ann had let him in, and he had been in the studio, and Noel's absurd sketch was on the easel. He had recognised himself. And Mollie's confusion and misery were so great that in another minute she would have disgraced herself for ever by bursting into tears; only Ingram, fearing he had taken too great a liberty, hastened to explain matters.

"You see, Miss Ward, I was anxious to pay my debts, and thank your sister. If I remember rightly, I told her that I should call."

"Oh, yes; at least, Waveney was not sure that you would, and she had to go out."

"I should like to have seen her. Perhaps another time you will allow me——" Ingram reddened and hesitated.

"She may not be long. She has gone to Berkeley Square on business. Ah," as the bell rang, "that is Ann, so please will you go upstairs."

Mollie was not quite equal to the situation; she wanted to get rid of Monsieur Blackie, but he did not seem inclined to go; and Ingram took a mean advantage of her inexperience.

"I have left my hat upstairs," he said, hypocritically, "and there are some flowers which I brought for your sister, and I think they ought to be put in water." This appealed at once to Mollie.

"Oh, certainly," she said; and as she limped down the passage before him, a pained look came in Ingram's eyes.

"Oh, what a grievous pity," he thought, "that lovely face to be allied with such a cruel infirmity."

"Oh, what flowers!" exclaimed Mollie, burying her face in them; and then she glanced at the card shyly. "Moritz Ingram." What a nice name! Yes, he was rather nice, too. In spite of his droll looks, she liked his voice; but, all the same, if he would only go! He ought to go—and Ingram evidently shared this opinion, for he was hunting sedulously for his hat; and as his efforts were unavailing, Mollie was obliged to go to his help.

"I brought it upstairs," he kept saying. "'Manners makye man,' and I was always remarkable for my good manners. Why, even your sister took me for a Frenchman." And at this Mollie broke into a merry laugh, and Ingram's eyes twinkled sympathetically.

The next minute the door-bell rang again, and Mollie, who had just discovered the hat underneath the sofa—though how it got there, no one knew—was just going to dart to the door, when a cracked voice called out, "Cat's meat!" and the faint mewing of Mrs. Muggins was clearly audible in the distance and then Noel strolled in. He looked at Ingram in unfeigned amazement; then, being an acute lad, he grinned.

"Noel, this is Mr. Ingram, the gentleman Waveney saw in the omnibus yesterday."

"I recognised myself," returned Ingram, with an airy wave of the hand towards the picture, "though perhaps it is not a speaking likeness—a sort of cross between Mephistophiles and Daniel Quilp, with perhaps a soupçon of the Artful Dodger. I prefer to sit for my own portrait, don't you know."

Then Noel grinned again, rather sheepishly. For once he was reaping the just reward of his impudence.

"You are a humourist, my young friend," continued Ingram, blandly. "I am an Idealist. All my life—and I am exactly thirty seven—I have been seeking 'the impossible she.' That does not mean" (interrupting himself, as though he feared to be misunderstood) "any individual woman. Oh dear, no; originality is my favourite fetish."

Mollie looked bewildered, but she was rather impressed by this fine flow of words, but Noel's eyes brightened. "Was this not a man and a brother?"

"Women don't understand that sort of thing," he observed, confidentially; "they never laugh at the right jokes unless you label them;" and here Noel threw up his head and cocked his chin. "That is why I have taken to drawing—a picture pleases the poor things, and the funnier you make it, the more they like it."

"Indeed!" remarked Ingram, mildly. And then he looked at the handsome lad with unfeigned approval. "It is for your sister's benefit that you do these clever sketches? I am an artist myself—an embryo artist, I ought to say, for I have never sold a picture—but I recognise a brother in the art."

Then Noel, who detected irony in the smooth voice, looked a little sulky.

"It is not clever a bit," he growled; "it is beastly rot. I did it to get a rise out of Waveney—Waveney is the other one, you know."

"Did you say Waveney? I never recollect hearing the name before."

"No. It is a queer sort of name. Father had a great-aunt Waveney. When I want something short and handy, don't you know, I call her Storm-and-stress."

"Upon my word, Miss Ward, your brother is perfectly dangerous. If I stay here any longer I shall take the infection. I told you my special and particular fetish was originality. I seem to have met it here. Thank you"—as Mollie meekly handed him his hat—"I have trespassed on your kind hospitality far too long already. With your kind permission I will call again, in the hope of seeing your sister."

"What could I say?" asked Mollie, anxiously, when she related the account of the afternoon. The sisters were safely shut up in their own room—a large front room over the studio. Mr. Ward slept in the little room behind. "I could not say, 'No, please do not come, I am sure Waveney does not want to see you!'"

"Why no, of course not. You did quite right, Mollie dear. Did not dad say he showed his gratitude in a very gentlemanly way. And as for Noel, he has been talking about him all the evening."

"Yes, Noel took a fancy to him; and Wave, I do think he must be nice; he says droll things in a soft, sleepy sort of voice, and I am afraid I was rather stupid and did not always understand; but his eyes looked kind and gentle. I was not afraid of him after the first few minutes."

"Poor little Moll. Well, it was rather embarrassing to have to interview a live stranger all alone, and in the kitchen too!"—for Mollie had drawn a highly colored and graphic description of her first meeting with Monsieur Blackie.

Waveney had laughed mercilessly at first.

"Mollie Ward enacting the part of Cinderella or Cinder Maiden—enter the Black Prince with the glass slipper. Mollie, dear, I grieve to say it, but your feet are not as pretty as mine;" and Waveney, who was excited with her eventful day, kicked off her shoes, and began dancing in the moonlight, her tiny feet scarcely touching the floor.

And behold the spirit of mischief was in her; for, as Mollie sat on the bed and watched her with admiring eyes, she suddenly broke into a song; and this is what she sang:

"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,

Here's to the widow of fifty,

Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.

Let the toast pass,

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass."