CHAPTER XIX.
A CHECK FOR THE BLACK PRINCE.
"Simplicity of all things is the hardest to be copied."--STEELE.
"How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us."--HAMLET.
Before many days had passed Waveney had settled down happily at the RedHouse; and though she still missed Mollie, and had to combat frequentpangs of home-sickness, her environment was so pleasant, and her work socongenial, that it would have seemed to her the basest ingratitude notto be thankful for her advantages.
Sweet temper, and high principles, are important factors in a girl'shappiness. Waveney knew she was walking in the path of duty, and thatshe had done the right thing in severing herself from the home life. Asense of independence and well-doing sweetened her daily duties, and atnight, after she had prayed for her dear ones, she would sleep as calmlyand peacefully as a tired child.
"I think Waveney is happy with us," Althea said, once, in a satisfiedvoice; and, indeed, at that moment the girl's clear notes weredistinctly audible, singing to herself in the corridor, as she had beenaccustomed to sing in the old house in Chelsea. Waveney's duties werenot very irksome. When Althea's eyes troubled her, her young companionwould spend the morning and the greater part of the evening reading toher or writing from her dictation; and in this way Waveney gained agreat deal of valuable information.
"It is a liberal education to talk to my dear Miss Althea," she wouldsay to Mollie. "She is so clever, and knows so much, and yet she thinksso little of herself. I believe I love and admire her more every day."
"But you like Miss Doreen, too?" observed Mollie, tentatively.
"Oh, yes, I am quite fond of her, and she is always as nice as possible.But she could never come up to Queen Bess; she is more earthly andcommonplace. But, there, I am not expressing myself properly. MissAlthea is human, too, but she is so much more sympathetic andpicturesque."
"But the old ladies at the Home like Miss Doreen best," retorted Mollie.
"Yes, dear, old ladies are her specialities, and girls are MissAlthea's. You would think, sometimes, to hear her talk, that she was agirl herself, and knew exactly how they felt. Some of them almostworship her, and no wonder."
"I wish I could see her," sighed poor Mollie. "I love her, too, forbeing so good to you"--for her unselfish nature knew no taint ofjealousy. When Althea's eyes were in good order, Waveney merely wrote afew letters, or copied some extracts neatly and then her duties in thelibrary were over.
Sometimes she would walk across to the Home and read for an hour to theblind lady, Miss Elliot, or she would do little errands in the town forone or other of the sisters. Sometimes she would carry the weeklybasket of flowers that Althea always sent to Joanna. But she neverthoroughly enjoyed her visits. She told Mollie that Miss Chaytor was arather depressing sort of person.
"I daresay she is good and amiable," she observed; "she must havevirtues, or Miss Althea would not be so fond of her. But she looks asthough she has been out too long in a bleak wind, and has got nipped andpinched. I think if she would only speak more briskly and cheerfully,that she would feel better; she wants prodding, somehow, like the oldcoster-monger's donkey;" and Mollie laughed at this.
Waveney certainly had her good times. Althea had presented her with abeautiful racket and a pair of tennis shoes, and on Thursday afternoonsshe and Nora Greenwell played tennis on the new asphalt court behind thePorch House. She also joined Mr. Chaytor's Shakespeare readings; theywere to get up _The Merchant of Venice_ next, and to her secret delightthe part of Jessica was allotted her.
Mr. Chaytor took no special notice of her; she sat amongst the othergirls, and listened to his instructions. Sometimes, when Thorold hadfinished some masterly declamation, he would look up suddenly from hisbook. Waveney's little pale face and curly head were just opposite tohim; the deep, _spirituelle_ eyes seemed glowing with golden light.Where was she? Not in the Recreation Hall, but on some marble stepsbelonging to a Doge's palace. The dark water was washing almost to herfeet; gondolas were passing and repassing in the moonlight; grey-beardedmen, in velvet doublets and ruffs, were standing in a group, under thedeep archway; and Portia, in her satin gown, was walking with proud andstately step, followed by her train.
"It is your turn, Miss Ward," observed Thorold, quietly. And then, asWaveney started and flushed, he bit his lip with an effort to suppress asmile. He knew, by a sort of intuitive sympathy, where her thoughts hadstrayed. Her absorbed attention pleased and flattered him; he began tofeel interested in so promising a pupil. "Miss Greenwell reads better,"he thought; "but I doubt if she grasps the full meaning and beauty of apassage as Miss Ward does." And on more than one evening the little paleface, and dark, vivid eyes seemed to haunt him. Strangely enough he hadused Doreen's comparison. "She is like Undine," he said to himself; andsomehow, the name seemed to suit her.
Waveney's Sundays were always her happiest days; they were red-letterdays and high festivals to her, as well as to Mollie; but each time shewent home she thought Mollie looked lovelier, and on each occasion shefound relics of the Black Prince.
The grapes had long ago been eaten, but a generous box of Parischocolate had replaced them, and there were always fresh hot-houseflowers in the red bowl. Mollie, who was becoming hardened, scarcelyblushed as she pointed them out, and informed Waveney quite coolly thata hare or a brace of pheasants were hanging up in the larder.
"Sir Reynard at his tricks still," thought Waveney. And one evening shedid give her father a hint. "Dad," she said, a little nervously, for shefelt her task a delicate one, "Mr. Ingram is very kind to dearMollie--he is always bringing her things, and of course she is pleased;but I do not think he ought to come so often when she is alone."
Everard started and looked at her. His little girl had plenty ofpenetration and sense, as he knew.
"No, dear; I suppose you are right," he said, slowly. "I will talk toMiss Mollie, and she must give Mr. Ingram a hint. The little Puss hasencouraged him, I suppose." And then he frowned, and said, a littleanxiously, "You don't think the fellow is making up to her, eh,Waveney?"
"Father, dear, how can we tell? Mollie is such a great baby in thesesort of things; I think she fancies that she is not grown up yet, butshe is nineteen. Dad, I think he must like her a little; but he oughtonly to come to the house when you are at home. Won't you try and findout all about him?"
But Mr. Ward shook his head; he hardly knew how that was to be done.
"He is a gentleman," he returned, rather gravely, "and he is a goodfellow--I am sure of that; and he has plenty of means. I like Mr.Ingram; he is a little eccentric, but he is honourable andstraightforward. I would take my oath of that. Well, well, I will giveMollie a good strong hint." And Mr. Ward kept his word.
So a day or two later, when Mr. Ingram walked into the studio with somefresh flowers and a beautifully bound volume of Jean Ingelow's poemsunder his arm, that Mollie had innocently remarked that she longed toread, Mollie seemed hardly as pleased as usual to see him; she eventurned a little pale when he presented the book with one of his jokingspeeches.
"Oh, thank you; you are very kind," she stammered, fluttering the pages."And you have written my name in, too!" Mollie spoke hurriedly andbreathlessly; she had not even asked him to sit down.
Mr. Ward's hint had certainly been a strong one.
Mr. Ingram looked at the girl a little keenly; then he took a chair andseated himself comfortably.
"What is it, Miss Mollie?" he said, gently. "You have something on yourmind. Oh, you cannot deceive me," as Mollie blushed and shook her head."I can read you like a book, and for some reason poor Monsieur Blackieis in disgrace."
"Oh, no, no!" protested Mollie, quite shocked at this. "You could notthink me so ungrateful!"
"There can be no question of gratitude between you and me," returned theyoung man, gravely; and he looked a little pained. Then, as Mollie'ssweet, wistful face seemed to plead forgiveness, he recovered himselfwith an effort.
"I am only troubled because I am afraid of hurting you," she went on;"and I am sorry, too, because I do so enjoy your visits. We know so fewpeople, Mr. Ingram; but father said----" But here Mollie utterly brokedown. And why ever was Mr. Ingram looking at her in that way? Was heangry or unhappy?
"You do not surely mean, Miss Mollie, that your father has forbidden myvisits?" And now it was Mr. Ingram's turn to look pale.
"Oh, no, no!" gasped Mollie, "how could you think of anything sodreadful? Only father would like to see you sometimes and----" Then thestern look of gravity was no longer on Ingram's face.
"My dear Miss Mollie," he said, kindly, "please do not distress yourselfso. Let me finish that sentence for you. Your father does not in theleast object to my visits, but he would like me to pay them when he isat home, and he wishes you to tell me this."
"Oh, yes. Thank you; but how could you guess so cleverly?" and Mollielooked as though a world of care had rolled off her. But only aninscrutable smile answered her.
"Sir Oracle has spoken," he said, trying to resume his old manner."Now, Miss Mollie, I may be an Idealist, but I can be practical, too.Will you kindly tell me on which afternoon I am likely to find yourfather."
"Only on Saturdays for certain."
"Very well, then, will you tell Mr. Ward, with my compliments, thatunless his house be on fire nothing will induce me to ring his door-bellon Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, unless by specialinvitation. But on Saturday I will do myself the pleasure of calling."
"Is that a message to father?" asked Mollie, a little puzzled at histone. But Mr. Ingram only laughed and rose from his chair.
"I am rather a riddle to you, am I not?" he said, taking her soft littlehand. And then his manner suddenly changed. "Miss Mollie," he continued,"do you remember the first time I saw you? You were sitting in theashes, like Cinderella. I have called you Cinderella ever since."
"Oh, not really, Mr. Ingram! But, of course, I remember the day, for Iwas never so startled in my life. When the door opened I thought it wasAnn, and, oh dear, how frightened I was for a moment!"
"It was like a picture," went on Ingram, and his eyes looked grave andintent. "The kitchen was a little dark, but a ray of sunshine was fullon your face, and you were singing. Do you remember, Miss Mollie?" AndMollie hung her head, as though she were rather ashamed of herself.
"Oh, yes, that old song of father's." And then, rather pettishly, "But Idon't want to remember that."
"I shall never forget it. I wish I were the Fairy Godmother instead ofMonsieur Blackie. And then there is the Prince. What are we to do aboutthe Prince, Miss Mollie?"
"Oh, I don't know," murmured Mollie, confusedly; for Mr. Ingram's mannerwas rather baffling that afternoon. But how amused he would be if heknew that Waveney often called him the Black Prince. "There never areprinces in real life," she finished, demurely.
"Oh, I would not be too sure of that," he returned, coolly. "Life isfull of surprises. Why, I heard of a fellow last year--he was only adairy-man, and a rich uncle who had made his pile in Chicago, and was amillionaire, died, and left him all his money. He told me in confidencethat for the first month he was nearly out of his mind with worry, forhe and his wife had not a notion what to do with it. I gave him a lotof advice. I told him to give his children the best education possible,and to live comfortably without trying for grandeur; and he was asensible fellow, and followed my advice. He has a good house, and amodel farm, and his breed of Alderney cows is the finest in the country;and I have a great respect for him and his wife, and often go and seethem."
Mollie was much impressed with this story; she was sorry when Mr. Ingramtook his leave. He had paid such a very short visit, and she knew herfather's message was the cause. But he had quite recovered his spirits,for, as he went downstairs, she could hear him singing to himself in alow, melodious voice:
"'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.'"
Waveney was far happier in her mind when she heard from Mollie that Mr.Ingram's visits were always to be paid on Saturday afternoons; and evenMollie owned that she preferred this.
"You see, Wave," she explained, "it is a little awkward entertaining Mr.Ingram all by myself. If I were like you I should not mind it so much;but I never can talk properly, and he is so dreadfully clever."
"Well, he has travelled and seen the world; but he is not clever likeMr. Chaytor, Mollie. That man is a perfect well of knowledge." But thiscomparison did not seem to please Mollie.
"I think Mr. Ingram clever," she persisted, "and so does father. He saidlast evening that he was a thoroughly well-informed man. Oh, Wave, Iforgot to tell you something. I asked him yesterday how long he meant tostay in Chelsea, and he looked quite surprised at the question. He saidhe had not been staying there for weeks, and that he was at his diggingsas usual, but that he generally spent a night or two in town every week.'When I am up in town, I always sleep at my club,' he said. Now,Waveney, is it not odd that he has never told us where he lives? And Idid not like to ask him." And Waveney assented to this.
The following Sunday, when Waveney went home, she found Mollie in astate of great excitement.
It was a cold, November afternoon, and a dull moisture seemed to pervadeeverything. The pavements were wet and greasy, the horses' coatssteamed, and the raw dampness was singularly penetrating. As the twogirls hurried along, arm-in-arm, Mollie poured out her storybreathlessly.
"Oh, Wave, you will never guess; such a wonderful thing is going tohappen! Mr. Ingram has got a box at St. James's Theatre for Wednesdayfor _Aylmer's Dream_, and he has actually invited father, and Noel, andme; and father says we may go."
"_Aylmer's Dream_," returned Waveney. "I heard Mr. Chaytor talking aboutthat to Miss Althea. He told her that she and Miss Doreen oughtcertainly to see it--that Miss Leslie's representation of the crazedLady Aylmer was the most perfect piece of acting; and Mr. Sargent as SirReginald Aylmer was almost as fine."
"Yes, I daresay," interrupted Mollie, impatiently; for she had no wishto discuss the merits of the play beforehand. "But do listen to me,Wave, dear; Mr. Ingram will fetch us in a carriage, and he has promisedto go early, so that I may see the curtain draw up. I shall wear mywhite dress. But what am I to do for a nice wrap?" Mollie's voice was alittle troubled, and for the moment Waveney did not answer. She realisedat once the difficulty of the situation.
"I shall not draw my salary until Christmas," she said, presently. "Thatwill be a month hence; and we must not ask father for any money."
"No, certainly not."
"Well, then, we must just make the best of it," went on Waveney. "Yourblack jacket is impossible, and so is your waterproof. So there onlyremains 'Tid's old red rag of a shawl'"--a title they had borrowed froma charming tale they had read in their childhood.
"Oh, Waveney, dear, mother's old red shawl!" and Mollie's voice wasdecidedly depressed. "What will Mr. Ingram say?"
"He will say--at least, he will think--that you look sweet. How could hehelp it, darling? Mother's shawl is warm, and in the gaslight it won'tlook so very shabby--you can throw it off, directly you get into thebox. Father must buy you some new gloves; and, with a few flowers, youwill do as well as possible." But though Mollie tried to take thischeerful view of the case, she did not quite succeed, and "Tid's old ragof a shawl" lay heavily upon her mind.
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