Читать книгу Mollie's Prince - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 22

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"A hero worshipped and throned high

On the heights of a sweet romance,

A faithful friend who was 'always the same'

Till the clouds grew heavy and troubles came.

But this is life, and this is to live,

And this is the way of the world."

Gertrude Carey.

Waveney sat on the bench feeling very forlorn and deserted until her father came back to her. He had evidently pulled himself together, for he looked at her with his old kind smile, though perhaps his lips were not quite steady.

"Come, little girl, don't fret," he said, tenderly. "Least said is soonest mended, and we must just go through with it."

"But, father, are you sure you do not mind?" she returned, eagerly. "We are very poor, but I would rather please you, dear, than have ever so much money—you know that, do you not?"

Waveney's eyes were full of tears, and her little hands clasped his arm appealingly. Mr. Ward's laugh was a trifle husky.

"I know I have two good children," he returned, feelingly. "Look here, my child, things have got a little mixed and complicated, and I find it difficult to explain matters. It is my 'poverty and not my will consents,' don't you know—and we must just pocket our pride and put a good face on it."

"Do you mean that I am to go to Miss Harford? Are you very sure that you mean that, dad?"

"Yes, certainly"—but his face clouded. "Did you not tell me that Miss Althea suffered with her eyes, and needed a reader and companion? We were good friends once, so why should I put an affront on her by refusing her my daughter's services?"

Waveney sighed; she felt a little oppressed: her father took a reasonable and practical view of the case, but his voice was constrained; he was a proud man, and at times he chafed sadly at his limitations. He could not forget that he had come of a good old stock; he used to tell his girls to carry their heads high, and not allow themselves to be shunted by nobodies.

"Your mother was a gentlewoman," he would say, "and your great-grandmother had the finest manners I ever saw; she was a Markham of Maplethorpe, and drove in a chariot and four horses when she went to the county ball. It was your grandfather who ruined us all; he speculated in mines, and so Maplethorpe was sold. I saw it once, when I was a little chap: I remember playing on the bowling green."

Everard Ward thought he was doing his duty in teaching his girls to consider themselves superior to their neighbours, but sometimes Waveney would joke about it. She would come into the room with her little nose tip-tilted and her head erect, and cross her mittened hands over her bosom. "Am I like my great-grandmother Markham?" she would say. "Stand back, Mollie; I am going to dance the minuet;" and then Waveney would solemnly lift her skirts and point her tiny foot, and her little performance would be so artless and full of grace that Mr. Ward would sit in his chair quite riveted.

"Father, I wish you would tell me how you first came to know the Misses Harford?" asked Waveney, rather timidly.

Mr. Ward had relapsed into silence, but he roused himself at the question.

"It was in my Oxford days, child. I was quite a young fellow then. There were a good many pleasant houses where I visited, but there was none I liked so well as Kitlands.

"Mrs. Harford was alive then; she was rather an invalid, but we all liked her. I always got on with elderly women; they said I understood their little ways. I knew your Fairy Magnificent, too; she was a great beauty. We young fellows used to wonder why she had never married again."

"Oh, father, this is very interesting. My good little Fairy Magnificent."

Then he nodded and smiled.

"When Mrs. Mainwaring came down to Kitlands there would be all sorts of gaieties going on—riding parties and archery meetings in the summer, and dances and theatricals in the winter."

"Once we acted a pastoral play in the park—As You Like It. It was very successful, and the proceeds went to the county hospital. I remember I was Orlando."

"Was Miss Althea Rosalind?"

"No, your mother was Rosalind. She acted the part charmingly; it was her first and last appearance. Althea"—his voice changed—"was Celia; her sister Doreen insisted on being Audrey, because she said she looked the part to perfection."

"Then mother knew them, too?" observed Waveney, in surprise.

"Well, no, dear, one could hardly say that. We were in great distress for a Rosalind, and the Williams heard of our difficulty, and they said they knew a young lady who had studied the part for some private theatricals that had never come off. I had already met your mother at the county ball, and I was very glad to see her again. Rosalind"—he laughed a little—"and Orlando clenched the business."

"But, father, why have you dropped such nice friends?" It was evident that Mr. Ward had expected this question, and was prepared for it.

"Well, you see, my child, when I married your dear mother I was supposed by my friends to have done a foolish thing. It was difficult enough to hold our heads above water, without trying to keep in the swim. People quietly dropped us, as we dropped them. It is the way of the world, little girl." And then in a would-be careless tone, he quoted,—

"A part played out, and the play not o'er,

And the empty years to come!

With dark'ning clouds beyond and above,

And a helpless groping for truth and love,

But this is life and this is love,

And this is the way of the world."

It was a habit of Mr. Ward's to quote poetry; he often read it to his children; he had a clear, musical voice. But Waveney was not content to have the subject so summarily dismissed.

"Father, dear, do you really mean to say that the Harfords gave you up because you were poor?" and her tone was a little severe.

"No, dear, it was I who gave them up. By the bye, Waveney, I wonder why they left Kitlands?" and as the girl shook her head, he continued, thoughtfully, "It was a big place, and perhaps they did not care to keep it up after their mother's death; they always wanted to live nearer town. Well, have we finished our talk?" and then Waveney rose reluctantly. He had not told her much, she thought regretfully; but, all the same, her girlish intuition went very nearly the truth.

There was something underneath; something that concerned Miss Althea. Why had her father looked so pained when she had mentioned the name? But with a delicacy that did her honour she was careful not to drop a hint of her suspicions to Mollie.

Mr. Ward thought he had kept his secret well. He was impulsive and reckless by nature, but his care for his motherless girls was almost feminine in its tenderness. They were too precious for the rough workaday world, so he tried to hedge them in with all kind of sweet old obsolete fashions, for fear a breath should soil their crystalline purity.

"Father would like to wrap us up in lavender, and put us under a glass case," Waveney would say, laughingly, and it must be owned that neither she nor Mollie were quite up to date. They did not talk slang; they were not blasé; and they had fresh, natural ideas on every subject, which they would express freely. Waveney was the most advanced; Mollie was still a simple child, in spite of her nineteen years.

Mollie was very curious on the subject of her father's intimacy with the Harfords, but Waveney managed to satisfy her without making any fresh mysteries.

"It is all in a nutshell, Mollie," she said, quietly. "When father was a young man he went to a lot of nice houses, and Kitlands was one of them. They were rich people and very gay, and gave grand parties, and he had quite a good time of it; and then he and mother married, and they were poor; and then, somehow, all their fine friends dropped off."

"Oh, what a shame!" interrupted Mollie, indignantly.

"Well, the Harfords did not drop him, but somehow he left off going there; and he has never even heard of them for twenty years. I think it upset him rather to have his old life brought up before him so suddenly; it made him feel the difference, don't you see!" and Waveney's voice was a little sad, she could so thoroughly enter into her father's feelings. What a change from the light-hearted young man of fashion, acting Orlando and making love to Rosalind in the green glades of Kitlands, to the shabby, drudging drawing-master, with shoulders already bowed with continual stooping.

Waveney wrote her little note of acceptance the next day. It brought a kind answer from Miss Althea; she was very glad that Miss Ward had decided to come to them. She and her sister would do their best to make her feel at home. Erpingham was so near, and they so often drove into town, that she could see her people constantly. "Please give our kind remembrances to your father, if he has not quite forgotten his old friends," was the concluding sentence.

Waveney handed the note silently to her father; he reddened over the closing words. What a kind, womanly letter it was. The faint smell of lavender with which it was perfumed was not more fragrant than the warm-hearted generosity that had long ago forgiven the slight.

Had he really wounded her by his desertion, or had her vanity merely suffered? How often he had asked himself this question. They had only met once, a week before his wedding, and she had been very gentle with him, asking after Dorothy with a friendliness that had surprised him; for, manlike, he never guessed how even a good woman will on occasion play the hypocrite.

"She is a kind creature," he said, giving back the letter; but his manner was so grave that even Mollie did not venture to say a word.

The girls had a good deal on their minds just then. Waveney's scanty wardrobe had been reviewed, and Mollie had actually wept tears of humiliation over its deficiencies. "Oh, Wave, what will you do?" she said, sorrowfully. "And we dare not ask father for more than a few shillings!"

"No, of course not;" but Waveney's forehead was lined with care as she sat silently revolving possibilities and impossibilities.

What would the Misses Harford think of her shabby old trunk, that had once belonged to her mother? Then she threw back her curly head and looked at Mollie resolutely.

"Mollie, don't be silly. Life is not long enough for fretting over trifles. The Misses Harford know we are poor, so they will not expect smart frocks. I have my grey cashmere for Sundays, and I must wear my old serge for everyday. I will get fresh trimming for my hat, and a new pair of gloves, and——"

"And boots," ejaculated Mollie. "You shall have a pair of boots if I go barefoot all the winter; and your shoes are very shabby too, Wave."

"Yes, I know. I will talk to father and see what is to be done. If he would advance me a couple of pounds I could repay it at Christmas. Is it not a blessing that I have one tidy gown for evenings?"—for some three months before they had gone to some smart school party, and their father, being flush of money just then, had bought them some simple evening dresses. The material was only cream-coloured nun's-veiling, but Mollie had looked so lovely in her white gown that all the girls had been wild with envy.

The dresses had only been worn once since, and, as Waveney remarked, were just as good as new. "Shall you wear it every evening, Wave?" Mollie had asked in an awed tone; and when Waveney returned, "Why, of course, you silly child, I have no other frock. In big houses people always dress nicely for dinner; I found that out at Mrs. Addison's," Mollie regarded the matter as quite decided—her oracle had spoken.

Mr. Ward had advanced the two pounds without any demur, and the sisters made their modest purchases the following afternoon. As Waveney was re-trimming her hat, and Mollie painting her menu cards, Ann flung open the door somewhat noisily. "Mr. Ink-pen, miss," she announced, in a loud voice; and the next minute Monsieur Blackie entered. He looked trim and alert, as usual; his face beamed when he saw Waveney.

"It is the right Miss Ward this time," he said, shaking hands with her cordially. Then he looked at Mollie, and his manner changed. "Will you allow your maid to hang these birds up in your larder?" and he held out a superb brace of pheasants to the bewildered girl.

Mollie grew crimson with shyness and delight.

"Do you mean they are for us?" she faltered.

"Yes, for you and your sister, and your father, and my young friend the humourist. And please remember"—and now his smile became more ingratiating—"that they are from Monsieur Blackie. No, please do not thank me. They were shot by a friend of mine. I rather object to the massacre of the innocents myself, and I prefer doing it by deputy. By the bye, I find I have a new name—your maid is a humourist too. 'Ink-pen'—there is something charmingly original and suggestive about that. It makes Ingram rather commonplace."

"Oh, I think you have such a beautiful name!" returned Mollie, artlessly. "It is ever so much better than Ward."

Then Waveney nudged her.

"I think the pheasants ought to be hung up," she said, rather brusquely; and at this broad hint Mollie limped off, with very pink cheeks. "Whatever made you say that, Mollie?" was her comment afterwards.

"I don't think it is quite nice to tell gentlemen that they have beautiful names. I am sure I saw an amused look on Mr. Ingram's face."

But Mollie only looked puzzled at this.

"Ann is very stupid about names," remarked Waveney, as she took up her work again. "She always calls me Miss Waverley and Noel, Master Noll. Somehow she does not seem to grasp sounds."

"Was your sister christened Mollie?" he asked, quickly; and he looked at the menu cards as he spoke.

"Yes; it was mother's fancy, and I do so love the name," returned Waveney, in her frank way. "I daresay you would not guess it—people seldom do—but we are twins. Strangers always think Mollie is the elder."

"I should have thought so myself," returned Ingram; and then he took up one of the cards. Waveney thought he was a little nervous—his manner was so grave. "These are very pretty," he said, quietly. "I thought so the other day. The design is charming. May I ask if your sister ever takes orders for them?"

"Yes, indeed; a lady has commissioned Mollie to paint these. She is to have twelve shillings for the set."

"Twelve shillings!" and here Ingram's voice was quite indignant. "Miss Ward," he continued, turning round to Mollie, who had just re-entered the room, "it is a shame that you should be so fleeced. Why, the design is worth double that sum. Now there is a friend of mine who would willingly give you two guineas for a set of six. She is very artistic, and fond of pretty things, and if you are willing to undertake the commission I will write to her to-morrow."

Willing! Mollie's eyes were shining with pleasure. If she could only earn the two guineas! They should furnish sop for Cerberus—alias Barker. Waveney's earnings would not be due until Christmas, and the constant nagging of the aggrieved butcher was making Ann's life miserable.

"'Master says if meat's wanted it must be paid for, and he does not hold with cheap cuts and long reckonings.' Drat the man! I hates the very sight of him," remarked Ann, wrathfully, to her usual confidante, Mrs. Muggins—for with toothache, a swollen face, and an irascible butcher, life was certainly not worth living.

"Then I will write to my—to the lady to-morrow." Both Mollie and Waveney noticed the little slip. "I wonder if he is married," Waveney said to herself. But Mollie's inward comment was, "Very likely Mr. Ingram is engaged, but he does not know us well enough to tell us so."

Mr. Ingram was trying to regain his airy manner, but a close observer would have detected how keenly he was watching the two girls as he talked. Nothing escaped him—the new hat trimmings, and the faded hat; Waveney's worn little shoe, and the white seams in Mollie's blue serge.

Cinderella—he always called her Cinderella to himself—was no whit smarter than she had been the other day; her hair was rather rough, as though the wind had loosened it. And yet with what ease and sprightliness they chattered to him! Their refined voices, their piquante, girlish ways, free from all self-consciousness, delighted the young man, who had travelled all over the world, and had not found anything so simple, and artless, and real, as these two girls. It was Waveney to whom he directed his conversation, and with whom he carried on his gay badinage; but when he spoke to Mollie, his voice seemed to soften unconsciously, as though he were speaking to a child.