A DEVOUT LOVER.
"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows."
Wordsworth.
"I do perceive here a divided duty."
Othello.
When Waveney broke the news of Mollie's engagement to her friends at the Red House, the sisters only looked at each other with a meaning smile.
"So that is the end of the comedy," observed Althea, in an amused voice. "'All's well that ends well,' eh, Dorrie? Of course we all knew how it would end, that evening at the theatre."
"To be sure we did," returned Doreen, complacently.
Nothing ever ruffled her placidity. If people chose to be engaged or married, it was their affair, not hers. Doreen never envied them, never drew unfavourable comparisons between her friends' matrimonial bliss and her own single blessedness. She had walked contentedly "in maiden meditation, fancy free," all these years. "I was cut out for an old maid," she would say sometimes, laughingly, to her sister; "the rôle just suits me. You are different," she once added, looking rather wistfully at Althea as she spoke.
"Yes," replied Althea, frankly, "you and I are different people, Dorrie. You are the happiest and most contented woman I know; but"—a little pathetically—"I have not had all my good things." And, though she said no more, Doreen understood her.
"It is very odd to think that that pretty little Mollie Ward is to be a connection of ours," went on Doreen, when Waveney had bidden them good-night. Waveney's heart was so full that she yearned to be alone in her Pansy Room and think over the day's excitement. "Mollie will be our cousin." And as Althea assented to this with a smile, she continued, "I wonder what Gwen will think of her new sister-in-law?"
"My dear Dorrie, I think I can answer that. Given will be charmed with her. You know how much Gwen thinks of beauty, and where will you find a sweeter face than Mollie's? Then she is such a dear little unsophisticated thing. Ah, Gwen will lose her heart to her, you may depend on that. Upon my word," she went on, "I think Moritz has not chosen so badly, after all. Indeed, for an idealist, he has done very well for himself, and I shall write and congratulate him most cordially. Mollie will make a most fascinating little viscountess. She will have much to learn, of course; but she will be no faint-hearted Lady of Burleigh, sinking weakly under the burden of 'an honour into which she was not born,'" finished Althea, with a little laugh. And then, as the old grand-father's clock in the hall struck ten, Doreen rang the bell for prayers.
Althea did more than write her letter of congratulation. She drove down all the way to Cleveland Terrace a day or two afterwards, to see Mollie, and wish her joy; and she was so kind and sympathetic, she praised Moritz, and said so many nice things about him that Mollie was ready to worship her for her tact and gentleness.
Mollie's pretty bloom was returning to her cheeks, and on her left hand there was a splendid half-hoop of diamonds. She showed her ring to Althea, with a child's shy eagerness.
"It is far too beautiful," she said, proudly; "but he did not buy it for me—it belonged to that old relative who left him the property."
"Oh, indeed," returned Althea, with polite interest; but there was an amused gleam in her eyes. Of course the ring had belonged to old Lady Ralston, who had been a beauty and an heiress, and whose diamonds had been the envy of all the dowagers at the county ball. And then Moritz had come in and interrupted them. He was evidently taken aback at the sight of his cousin Althea; but her cordial welcome and her warm congratulations soon restored his equanimity, and he was soon chatting to her and Mollie in his old light-hearted fashion.
Mollie was to go down to Eastbourne the following week, and the two girls were to be chaperoned by Nurse Helena. Mollie was recovering her strength so fast that Nurse Helena's office was likely to be a sinecure. But when Althea pointed this out very gently to Moritz, he put his foot down very decidedly.
"Of course, Mollie was getting better," he said, with the air of an autocrat, and the sea-breezes would soon set her up. But how could his cousin Althea imagine that two girls could be alone at a place like Eastbourne? The very idea shocked him. As Mr. Ward could not leave town, except from Saturday to Monday, he had insisted that Nurse Helena should be put in charge. "I shall run down myself every few days," he finished, "and I suppose one has to study the proprieties." Then Althea very wisely held her peace.
Moritz went to the station to see them off. The girls were in high spirits, and Mollie, who knew that she would see him again before many days were over, could hardly summon up gravity enough to bid him good-bye. It was Moritz who looked melancholy; London was a howling wilderness to him without his darling. He had sent Noel back to keep house with his father, and he meant to go down to Brentwood Hall and seek consolation with Gwen and her boy. Gwen would give him all the sympathy he demanded; she was as romantic and unconventional as he was. Gwen dearly liked a lover; she would listen patiently to all his discourse on Mollie's perfections, and she would help him with the decorations, and the refurnishing of the rooms that were to be got ready for his young wife.
Moritz, who had been such a patient wooer, was now in hot haste to clinch his bargain.
Mollie, startled and protesting, had been carried away by his masterful eloquence, and had signed away her freedom. They were to be married in the middle of August, and to spend their honeymoon at his shooting box in the Highlands. The moorland air would be good for Mollie, he said, and they and the grouse would have it to themselves.
"I don't hold with rushing about from place to place, on one's wedding trip," he observed to Althea—for he had his theories on this subject also. "When Jack and Gwen were married, they went off to the Austrian Tyrol, and Heaven knows where besides. But I know a thing or two better than that. The Hut is a cosy little place, and there are some comfortable rooms in it. I will send down Murdoch—he is a Highlander and a handy fellow, too, and his wife is a capable woman—to make things ship-shape for a lady. We will have a few days in Edinburgh first, and show Mollie Holyrood and Arthur's Seat, and she shall feast her eyes on the shops in Princes Street"—for Moritz remembered, with lover-like accuracy, Mollie's girlish penchant for shop-windows. Moritz could be practical on occasion, and he somewhat astonished Althea, when he took her into his confidence, by his thoughtfulness for his young fiancée's comfort.
It was to his cousin Althea that Moritz entrusted the formidable but delightful task of ordering the trousseau. Gwen was too far from London to undertake such an onerous business; he had already talked the matter over with Mr. Ward, and had wrung from him a reluctant consent. Even Everard's pride and independence could not resist Moritz's urgent entreaties that a trousseau befitting Mollie's future rank should be provided at his expense. But before this could be done, Mollie must see her future home, and be made aware of her splendid position. And for this purpose it was arranged that, when the month at Eastbourne was over, she should pay a visit to the Red House; and then Moritz's long-deferred picnic to Brentwood should take place.
Althea had her own little plans, which she did not impart to Moritz, although she had already talked them over with Waveney.
"You know, my dear child," she had said, seriously, to her, the evening before Waveney started for Eastbourne. "I have been thinking a great deal of you and Mollie, and I have made up my mind to part with my dear little companion."
"What can you mean?" asked Waveney, in a startled voice; but she flushed uneasily. "I know I have been very little use to you lately, and that I have neglected my duties shamefully; but I was going to speak to you about that; I want you to give me less money—indeed—indeed," as Althea looked extremely amused at this, "I am quite serious. I have not earned my salary, and I cannot take it—it would not be honest;" and here Waveney drew up her slight figure, and looked very resolute.
"Why, Waveney, my dear child," remonstrated Althea, "surely you are not going to disappoint me after all these months! I thought we were such good friends, you and I, and that we understood each other thoroughly!" And as the girl looked at her in dumb questioning she continued, affectionately, "Dear friends do not differ for a trifle, or stand on their dignity. What are a few pounds, more or less, compared to all you and Mollie have done for me?"
"How do you mean, dear Miss Althea?" asked Waveney, quite taken aback at this. "I have done little enough, I know, and as for Mollie——"
"You have brought fresh interests into my life," returned Althea, quietly. "You have given me two more human beings to serve and love. Yes," she continued, but her voice was not quite steady, "I am very fond of you and your pretty Mollie, and it adds to my happiness to feel that I am any help or comfort to either of you."
"Comfort! What should I have done without you?" replied Waveney, with emotion. "My own mother could hardly have been kinder and more patient!" Then Althea flushed slightly.
"Well, then, you will be a good child, and let me finish what I have to say." And then, in her clear, sensible way, she explained her views about the future.
When Mollie married, Waveney would have to leave them. It was impossible for her father and Noel to do without her.
And Waveney, who had not taken this into consideration, felt a sudden thrill of pain at the idea of leaving the Red House.
As this was the case, went on Althea, she and Doreen both agreed that it would be cruel to part her and Mollie during the few months that remained to them. Mollie was coming to the Red House for some weeks to do her shopping, but when she went back to Cleveland Terrace, Waveney must go with her. "That is why I say that you and I must part, my child," finished Althea, gently. "I shall miss my bright companion sadly—so sadly, indeed, that I never mean to have another. But, Waveney, your father has the first claim to your services. I dare not deprive him of your society when Mollie has gone. There, we will not talk any more," as she saw that Waveney's eyes were full of tears. "Think over what I have said when you are at Eastbourne, and take Mollie into your confidence. I know she will say that I am right."
And, indeed, when Waveney consulted her, Mollie, who was a very sensible little person, fully endorsed Queen Bess's opinion.
"Of course I could not do without you, darling," she remarked with decision. "Moritz"—she always said his name so prettily and shyly—"would not like me to be alone, and as for father and Noel, they would be too uncomfortable with only that stupid Ann to look after them." And then Waveney owned, with a sigh, that she and Miss Althea were right.
Waveney took herself to task severely for her reluctance at leaving the Red House. Was she guilty of loving the flesh-pots of Egypt? Was her home to be less to her because Mollie would not be there? Waveney cried "Shame!" to herself because the thought of Ann's clumsiness fretted her; while the meagre housekeeping, and all the pretty economies that had been Mollie's share, and were now to be shifted to her shoulders, filled her with a sore distaste and loathing. She had grown to love the Red House, and every room in it. The luxury, the comfort, the perfection of the trained service, the homelike atmosphere, the cultured society of the two sisters and their wide work and sympathies, all appealed strongly to Waveney's nature. Her life in the Red House had been a liberal education. How much she had learnt there! And then the Porch House Thursdays——But at this point in her reflections Waveney checked herself abruptly. Too well she knew where the sting lay, and why the pain of leaving Erpingham would be so sharp and continuous; only there could she enjoy the society of Mr. Chaytor, and she knew well that at Cleveland Terrace her Thursdays would be blank and sad.
"Wave, dear," exclaimed Mollie, on that first evening, as they were together in their comfortable sitting-room looking out on the Parade and the sea, while Nurse Helena was busy in the room above unpacking their boxes, "isn't this one of our dreams come true, that you and I should be at the seaside together?"
"It was your dream, not mine, Mollie," returned Waveney, in a teasing voice. "You were the dreamer in the old days. I was far more prosaic and matter-of-fact." And then she settled herself more comfortably against Mollie's couch. "There was your Kitlands dream, you know, and a hundred others."
"Oh, never mind Kitlands," replied Mollie, with a touch of impatience in her voice. "That was a dear dream, but of course it was too big and grand ever to come true. But how often we used to make believe that we were going to the seaside! Don't you remember, Wave, the little bow-window parlour over the tinman's in High Street that we were to take, and the sea-breezes that would meet us as we turned the corner, and how we were always to have shrimps for tea?" And then Mollie laughed with glee. "But this is much better, isn't it, dear?" and she looked at the big, cosy room that Ingram had selected for their use.
They were like a pair of happy children that evening. Mollie had insisted that she and Waveney should share the big front bedroom; and she was so wide-awake and excited that she would have talked half the night, only Waveney sternly refused to be cajoled.
"Nurse Helena has begged us not to talk," she said, "and I feel I am on my honour. No, Mollie, I will not be coaxed. I am a woman of my word, and I gave Nurse Helena my promise. There shall be no pale cheeks for the Black Prince to see on Saturday. Go to sleep like a good child." And then Mollie consented to be silent.
It was a happy month, and nothing occurred to mar their enjoyment. They spent delightful mornings on the beach or parade; in the afternoon, while Mollie had her siesta, Waveney and Nurse Helena wrote their letters, or enjoyed the books with which Ingram had provided them; after tea, when the evenings were fine and warm, they drove into the country, coming back to an early supper.
Moritz always came down from Saturday to Monday, and put up at the hotel close by. Once he brought Mr. Ward with him, and another time it was Noel; and then, indeed, Mollie's happiness was complete.
Only one thing troubled Mollie as the days went on. In spite of her high spirits, Waveney was not quite herself. She had silent fits at times. She was absent and distraite, and did not always hear what Mollie said to her; and more than once as they sat in the moonlight, looking at the silvery path across the dark sea, Mollie had heard a suppressed sigh.
"There is something on her mind, something she is keeping to herself," thought Mollie, anxiously, "and we have never, never had a secret from each other. It is not like my own Wave to hide anything from me, and I shall tell her so." And, indeed, Mollie was so tearful and pleading, so pertinacious in her questions, and so quick and clever in her surmises, that before they returned to the Red House Waveney's poor little secret—her unfinished story—was in Mollie's keeping. Mollie was full of tender sympathy. She cried bitterly over Waveney's description of that meeting by the river. She quaked and shivered,—was hot and cold by turns with excitement.
"Of course he cares for you, darling," she said, putting her arms round her sister's neck. "How can he help it? Oh, it will all come right," she continued, cheerfully. "One day you will be as happy as we are. What a pity he is so poor and proud! Men are so blind. It would be so much nicer to be engaged, and wait—oh, any number of years," went on Mollie, with womanly philosophy.
But to this Waveney made no answer. Perhaps in her secret heart she was glad Mollie knew. Never in their lives had they had a thought unshared by the other.
But when Mollie was alone she made a naughty little mouche.
"How can she care for that plain, old-looking man?" she said to herself. "Why, I should be frightened to speak to him, he looks so grave. Waveney is a hundred times too good for him. 'A noticeable man, with large grey eyes,' is not to my taste," went on Mollie, with a blissful remembrance of her own dear Monsieur Blackie.