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 Red House; and though she still missed Mollie, and had to combat frequent pangs of home-sickness, her environment was so pleasant, and her work so congenial, that it would have seemed to her the basest ingratitude not to be thankful for her advantages.
Sweet temper, and high principles, are important factors in a girl's happiness. Waveney knew she was walking in the path of duty, and that she had done the right thing in severing herself from the home life. A sense of independence and well-doing sweetened her daily duties, and at night, after she had prayed for her dear ones, she would sleep as calmly and peacefully as a tired child.
"I think Waveney is happy with us," Althea said, once, in a satisfied voice; and, indeed, at that moment the girl's clear notes were distinctly audible, singing to herself in the corridor, as she had been accustomed to sing in the old house in Chelsea. Waveney's duties were not very irksome. When Althea's eyes troubled her, her young companion would spend the morning and the greater part of the evening reading to her or writing from her dictation; and in this way Waveney gained a great deal of valuable information.
"It is a liberal education to talk to my dear Miss Althea," she would say to Mollie. "She is so clever, and knows so much, and yet she thinks so 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 and commonplace. But, there, I am not expressing myself properly. Miss Althea is human, too, but she is so much more sympathetic and picturesque."
"But the old ladies at the Home like Miss Doreen best," retorted Mollie.
"Yes, dear, old ladies are her specialities, and girls are Miss Althea's. You would think, sometimes, to hear her talk, that she was a girl herself, and knew exactly how they felt. Some of them almost worship her, and no wonder."
"I wish I could see her," sighed poor Mollie. "I love her, too, for being so good to you"—for her unselfish nature knew no taint of jealousy. When Althea's eyes were in good order, Waveney merely wrote a few letters, or copied some extracts neatly and then her duties in the library were over.
Sometimes she would walk across to the Home and read for an hour to the blind lady, Miss Elliot, or she would do little errands in the town for one or other of the sisters. Sometimes she would carry the weekly basket of flowers that Althea always sent to Joanna. But she never thoroughly enjoyed her visits. She told Mollie that Miss Chaytor was a rather depressing sort of person.
"I daresay she is good and amiable," she observed; "she must have virtues, or Miss Althea would not be so fond of her. But she looks as though she has been out too long in a bleak wind, and has got nipped and pinched. I think if she would only speak more briskly and cheerfully, that she would feel better; she wants prodding, somehow, like the old coster-monger's donkey;" and Mollie laughed at this.
Waveney certainly had her good times. Althea had presented her with a beautiful racket and a pair of tennis shoes, and on Thursday afternoons she and Nora Greenwell played tennis on the new asphalt court behind the Porch House. She also joined Mr. Chaytor's Shakespeare readings; they were to get up The Merchant of Venice next, and to her secret delight the part of Jessica was allotted her.
Mr. Chaytor took no special notice of her; she sat amongst the other girls, and listened to his instructions. Sometimes, when Thorold had finished some masterly declamation, he would look up suddenly from his book. Waveney's little pale face and curly head were just opposite to him; the deep, spirituelle eyes seemed glowing with golden light. Where was she? Not in the Recreation Hall, but on some marble steps belonging to a Doge's palace. The dark water was washing almost to her feet; gondolas were passing and repassing in the moonlight; grey-bearded men, in velvet doublets and ruffs, were standing in a group, under the deep archway; and Portia, in her satin gown, was walking with proud and stately step, followed by her train.
"It is your turn, Miss Ward," observed Thorold, quietly. And then, as Waveney started and flushed, he bit his lip with an effort to suppress a smile. He knew, by a sort of intuitive sympathy, where her thoughts had strayed. Her absorbed attention pleased and flattered him; he began to feel interested in so promising a pupil. "Miss Greenwell reads better," he thought; "but I doubt if she grasps the full meaning and beauty of a passage as Miss Ward does." And on more than one evening the little pale face, and dark, vivid eyes seemed to haunt him. Strangely enough he had used Doreen's comparison. "She is like Undine," he said to himself; and somehow, the name seemed to suit her.
Waveney's Sundays were always her happiest days; they were red-letter days and high festivals to her, as well as to Mollie; but each time she went home she thought Mollie looked lovelier, and on each occasion she found relics of the Black Prince.
The grapes had long ago been eaten, but a generous box of Paris chocolate had replaced them, and there were always fresh hot-house flowers in the red bowl. Mollie, who was becoming hardened, scarcely blushed as she pointed them out, and informed Waveney quite coolly that a hare or a brace of pheasants were hanging up in the larder.
"Sir Reynard at his tricks still," thought Waveney. And one evening she did give her father a hint. "Dad," she said, a little nervously, for she felt her task a delicate one, "Mr. Ingram is very kind to dear Mollie—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 of penetration and sense, as he knew.
"No, dear; I suppose you are right," he said, slowly. "I will talk to Miss Mollie, and she must give Mr. Ingram a hint. The little Puss has encouraged him, I suppose." And then he frowned, and said, a little anxiously, "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 these sort of things; I think she fancies that she is not grown up yet, but she is nineteen. Dad, I think he must like her a little; but he ought only to come to the house when you are at home. Won't you try and find out 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 good fellow—I am sure of that; and he has plenty of means. I like Mr. Ingram; he is a little eccentric, but he is honourable and straightforward. I would take my oath of that. Well, well, I will give Mollie a good strong hint." And Mr. Ward kept his word.
So a day or two later, when Mr. Ingram walked into the studio with some fresh flowers and a beautifully bound volume of Jean Ingelow's poems under his arm, that Mollie had innocently remarked that she longed to read, Mollie seemed hardly as pleased as usual to see him; she even turned a little pale when he presented the book with one of his joking speeches.
"Oh, thank you; you are very kind," she stammered, fluttering the pages. "And you have written my name in, too!" Mollie spoke hurriedly and breathlessly; 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 and seated himself comfortably.
"What is it, Miss Mollie?" he said, gently. "You have something on your mind. 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 Blackie is in disgrace."
"Oh, no, no!" protested Mollie, quite shocked at this. "You could not think me so ungrateful!"
"There can be no question of gratitude between you and me," returned the young man, gravely; and he looked a little pained. Then, as Mollie's sweet, wistful face seemed to plead forgiveness, he recovered himself with 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 few people, Mr. Ingram; but father said——" But here Mollie utterly broke down. And why ever was Mr. Ingram looking at her in that way? Was he angry or unhappy?
"You do not surely mean, Miss Mollie, that your father has forbidden my visits?" And now it was Mr. Ingram's turn to look pale.
"Oh, no, no!" gasped Mollie, "how could you think of anything so dreadful? Only father would like to see you sometimes and——" Then the stern look of gravity was no longer on Ingram's face.
"My dear Miss Mollie," he said, kindly, "please do not distress yourself so. Let me finish that sentence for you. Your father does not in the least object to my visits, but he would like me to pay them when he is at home, and he wishes you to tell me this."
"Oh, yes. Thank you; but how could you guess so cleverly?" and Mollie looked as though a world of care had rolled off her. But only an inscrutable 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 your father."
"Only on Saturdays for certain."
"Very well, then, will you tell Mr. Ward, with my compliments, that unless his house be on fire nothing will induce me to ring his door-bell on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday, unless by special invitation. But on Saturday I will do myself the pleasure of calling."
"Is that a message to father?" asked Mollie, a little puzzled at his tone. 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 little hand. And then his manner suddenly changed. "Miss Mollie," he continued, "do you remember the first time I saw you? You were sitting in the ashes, like Cinderella. I have called you Cinderella ever since."
"Oh, not really, Mr. Ingram! But, of course, I remember the day, for I was never so startled in my life. When the door opened I thought it was Ann, and, oh dear, how frightened I was for a moment!"
"It was like a picture," went on Ingram, and his eyes looked grave and intent. "The kitchen was a little dark, but a ray of sunshine was full on your face, and you were singing. Do you remember, Miss Mollie?" And Mollie hung her head, as though she were rather ashamed of herself.
"Oh, yes, that old song of father's." And then, rather pettishly, "But I don't want to remember that."
"I shall never forget it. I wish I were the Fairy Godmother instead of Monsieur Blackie. And then there is the Prince. What are we to do about the Prince, Miss Mollie?"
"Oh, I don't know," murmured Mollie, confusedly; for Mr. Ingram's manner was rather baffling that afternoon. But how amused he would be if he knew that Waveney often called him the Black Prince. "There never are princes in real life," she finished, demurely.
"Oh, I would not be too sure of that," he returned, coolly. "Life is full of surprises. Why, I heard of a fellow last year—he was only a dairy-man, and a rich uncle who had made his pile in Chicago, and was a millionaire, died, and left him all his money. He told me in confidence that for the first month he was nearly out of his mind with worry, for he and his wife had not a notion what to do with it. I gave him a lot of advice. I told him to give his children the best education possible, and to live comfortably without trying for grandeur; and he was a sensible fellow, and followed my advice. He has a good house, and a model 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 see them."
Mollie was much impressed with this story; she was sorry when Mr. Ingram took his leave. He had paid such a very short visit, and she knew her father'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 a low, 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 even Mollie 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 like Mr. Chaytor, Mollie. That man is a perfect well of knowledge." But this comparison did not seem to please Mollie.
"I think Mr. Ingram clever," she persisted, "and so does father. He said last evening that he was a thoroughly well-informed man. Oh, Wave, I forgot to tell you something. I asked him yesterday how long he meant to stay in Chelsea, and he looked quite surprised at the question. He said he had not been staying there for weeks, and that he was at his diggings as 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 I did not like to ask him." And Waveney assented to this.
The following Sunday, when Waveney went home, she found Mollie in a state of great excitement.
It was a cold, November afternoon, and a dull moisture seemed to pervade everything. The pavements were wet and greasy, the horses' coats steamed, and the raw dampness was singularly penetrating. As the two girls hurried along, arm-in-arm, Mollie poured out her story breathlessly.
"Oh, Wave, you will never guess; such a wonderful thing is going to happen! Mr. Ingram has got a box at St. James's Theatre for Wednesday for Aylmer's Dream, and he has actually invited father, and Noel, and me; and father says we may go."
"Aylmer's Dream," returned Waveney. "I heard Mr. Chaytor talking about that to Miss Althea. He told her that she and Miss Doreen ought certainly to see it—that Miss Leslie's representation of the crazed Lady Aylmer was the most perfect piece of acting; and Mr. Sargent as Sir Reginald Aylmer was almost as fine."
"Yes, I daresay," interrupted Mollie, impatiently; for she had no wish to 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 promised to go early, so that I may see the curtain draw up. I shall wear my white dress. But what am I to do for a nice wrap?" Mollie's voice was a little troubled, and for the moment Waveney did not answer. She realised at once the difficulty of the situation.
"I shall not draw my salary until Christmas," she said, presently. "That will 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. "Your black jacket is impossible, and so is your waterproof. So there only remains 'Tid's old red rag of a shawl'"—a title they had borrowed from a charming tale they had read in their childhood.
"Oh, Waveney, dear, mother's old red shawl!" and Mollie's voice was decidedly depressed. "What will Mr. Ingram say?"
"He will say—at least, he will think—that you look sweet. How could he help it, darling? Mother's shawl is warm, and in the gaslight it won't look so very shabby—you can throw it off, directly you get into the box. Father must buy you some new gloves; and, with a few flowers, you will do as well as possible." But though Mollie tried to take this cheerful view of the case, she did not quite succeed, and "Tid's old rag of a shawl" lay heavily upon her mind.