Mollie's Prince: A Novel

The Project Gutenberg eBook, Mollie's Prince, by Rosa Nouchette Carey
A NOVEL.
Author of NELLIE'S MEMORIES , THE MISTRESS OF BRAE FARM , Etc.
PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1899.
Copyright, 1898, by J. B. Lippincott Company.
Thou knowest my old ward;—here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me. — King Henry IV. An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn. — King Henry IV.
In this age of transition and progress, when the pleasure-seeker, like the Athenian of old, is for ever searching for things new and strange; when old landmarks are ruthlessly demolished, and respectable antiquities are shelved in outer darkness; then to some conservative minds it is refreshing to stumble upon some old-world corner, fragrant with memories of the past, and as yet untouched by the finger of the destroyer.
Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea, is one of these spots—the cobwebs of antiquity seem to cling with the vines to the tall, narrow old houses, with their flagged courtyards, and high, iron gates and small, useless balconies. There is something obsolete, old-fashioned, and behind the age in the whole aspect of the place.
One could imagine some slim, demure damsel in a short-waisted gown, not long enough to hide the dainty shoes and sandals, with a huge bonnet disguising a pyramid of curls, tripping down the few worn steps and across the road, on her way to join her friends at Ranelagh.
Just opposite is Chelsea Hospital, with its scarlet and blue-coated pensioners, basking in the sunshine; grand old veterans who have grown grey with service, their breasts decorated with the medals they have won—some in a hale, green old age, others in the sear and yellow leaf, toothless, senile, tottering slowly but surely towards their long home.
One reads a whole page of history as one gazes at the worn, wrinkled old faces; ah! they have been young once, but now the battle of life is nearly over for them; the roll-call will only sound once more in their ears. Let them sit in the sunshine and tell their old stories, and fight their battles over again in the ears of some admiring recruit. How their dim eyes sparkle with senile enthusiasm! There were two of the black devils, but I bayoneted them one after another—spitted them like larks; and serve them right, too. That's where I got this medal; and here a fit of asthmatic coughing impedes the bloodthirsty narrative.