A WET NIGHT, AND A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.
"I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"
Merchant of Venice.
"Beggar I am, I am even poor in thanks."
Hamlet.
What a strange Christmas Eve it was! Waveney felt as though she were in a dream, as she sat there demurely pouring out the tea, with Betty beside her, counting the lumps of sugar in each cup.
"Two for daddie, and one big one for Uncle Theo? Oh, that is not big enough, is it, Uncle Theo? And oh, dear!"—in a reproachful voice—"you did put in the milk first."
"I shall know better next time," returned Waveney, smiling; and then she watched Betty spreading her father's toast with butter. The child's concentrated earnestness, her absorbed gravity, amused her; but Tristram evidently took it as a matter of course. What a cosy room it was! Waveney thought. The crimson curtains were drawn, and a bright fire burnt in both the fireplaces—an unwonted extravagance—in honour of Christmas Eve; the circle of easy-chairs round the farthest fireplace looked snug and inviting.
Thorold did not talk much during tea-time—he left the conversation principally to his brother; but he often looked at the little figure that occupied Joanna's place. His fastidious eyes noticed the neat, dainty movements and the changes of expression on the bright, speaking face, and the lovely dimple when Waveney smiled or laughed. A man could hardly be dull with such a companion, he thought; and then, at some sudden suggestion, some overwhelming possibility, a dull flush rose to his temples, and he went to the window to inspect the weather.
"I am sorry to say that it is still raining, Miss Ward," he said, quietly, "and I am afraid we are in for a wet night; but I will get you a cab——"
"A cab!" interrupted Waveney, in a dismayed tone. "Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Chaytor, you must do nothing of the kind. I am as strong as a lion, and I never take cold—at least, scarcely ever. And what does a little rain matter?"
"You are a Stoic," he returned, somewhat amused at this; but she seemed so horrified at his suggestion that he said no more—being a man of deeds, not words. So when Waveney took possession of an easy-chair, and Betty brought her her baby doll to admire, she felt comfortably convinced that she would be allowed her own way; but she had reckoned without her host.
Waveney chatted happily to the child, while Tristram watched them with the lazy enjoyment of a tired man; and she never wondered why Mr. Chaytor was absent so long until he re-entered the room in his ulster.
"The cab is here, Miss Ward," he said, coolly; "and you will find your things in my sister's room. Jemima says they are quite dry."
Then Waveney only flashed a look of reproach at him, and walked meekly out of the room.
Of course he was right, she knew that, and that the idea of the long, lonely walk, in the pelting rain, was absurd in the highest degree. But as Waveney went upstairs she was not sure that she liked the quiet way in which Mr. Chaytor asserted his will; it made her feel like a little school-girl in the presence of a master. He had not taken the trouble to argue the point with her, or to prove to her that she had made a mistake, but had just gone out and brought the cab; and so Waveney, who, in spite of her sweet temper, was a trifle self-willed and obstinate, felt secretly aggrieved, and even offended. And she entered the parlour with so dignified an air that Thorold, who could read her face, smiled to himself.
Betty ran to her with a sorrowful exclamation.
"Oh, must you go, Wavie, dear?" she said, dubiously.
"Why, Bet," observed her uncle, rather shocked at this familiarity, "aren't you taking rather a liberty with your kind friend?"
"She told me her name," returned Bet, in eager defence, "and she did say that I might call her what I liked. I know it was Wavie, or something like it."
"Very like it, indeed, darling," replied Waveney, kneeling down and putting her arms round the child; "and it is prettier than Waveney, and I shall always want you to call me so. Now good-night, my little Betty." And then, as Betty clung to her and kissed her, Thorold looked at them rather gravely.
"I am ready now," observed Waveney, resuming her stiff manner. "I suppose it will be no use telling you, Mr. Chaytor, that I can very well go by myself."
"No," he returned, looking at her with very keen, bright eyes. "I am afraid your words would be wasted. You see, Miss Ward, I have a conscience, and my conscience tells me that I ought to see you safe in Miss Harford's hands." But to this Waveney vouchsafed no reply. She jumped into the cab and settled herself in her corner, and left Mr. Chaytor to dispose of himself as he would; and when he placed himself opposite to her, she only looked out intently at the lighted shops.
Even the rain could not quite damp the festivity. The snow-white turkeys and geese, garlanded with holly, made a brave show; and the butcher's shop was full of shabby customers. Waveney's soft heart yearned as usual over the babies and little children. Then she turned her head, and met Mr. Chaytor's amused glance—it was so kind, it spoke of such complete understanding, that she felt a little ashamed of herself.
"Miss Ward, have you forgiven me yet for doing my duty like a man?"
Waveney struggled with a smile, but she had not quite recovered herself, so she said, rather coldly,—
"I don't see that my forgiveness matters a bit!"
"Is not that rather crushing?" he returned. "Especially as it matters very much to me. I wish you would be friendly enough to tell me the real cause of offence. You could not reasonably expect that I should let you swim through this"—the rain beating an accompaniment to his words. "I would not have let my sister do it"—his voice softening into involuntary tenderness. Never had she seemed so lovable to him, even though her childish waywardness was making him smile.
"It was not the cab I minded so much," stammered Waveney, tingling with shame and confusion to her finger-ends, and glad of the darkness that hid her hot cheeks; "only you did it without telling me"—Waveney did not dare say what she really thought: that he had managed her like a child—"and it makes me unhappy, it does indeed, Mr. Chaytor, to bring you out this dreadful night, when you are so tired and have been hard at work all day."
"I never felt less tired in my life! And you are giving me great pleasure, in allowing me to perform this little service for you." Then Waveney blushed again, but this time for pleasure, for Mr. Chaytor's voice convinced her that he was speaking the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
"Now we have had our first and last little difference," he went on, cheerfully, "and shall be better friends than ever." And there was no outward dissent to this; only a mutinous sparkle in Waveney's dark eyes showed a silent protest.
"Would it be their last difference?" she thought; for she was a shrewd, sensible little woman, and had her own opinions on most things; but at least she had the grace and honesty to own that on this occasion she had been in the wrong.
What a short drive it was, after all! Almost before Waveney had seen that they were at the top of the hill they were driving through the lodge gates.
Althea came out into the hall to meet them in her heliotrope velveteen and lace ruff. She looked more like Queen Bess than ever.
"My dear child, I have been so anxious about you! But of course I hoped you had taken shelter. Thank you for bringing her home, Thorold. Will you come in, or is your cab waiting? We have our usual mulled wine and Christmas cake, which you ought to taste for the sake of the old lang syne."
"May I give the cabman some? Poor old fellow, he is so cold!" But it was a mere form of words. He need not have asked the question. On Christmas Eve not an errand boy or a carol singer left the Red House without being regaled with Christmas fare—"cakes and ale," as Althea and Doreen called it.
Thorold carried out a great mug of hot spiced wine and a mighty wedge of cake to the driver; then he took his by the hall fire, as he said he was too wet and dirty for the library. Waveney found him there alone when she came downstairs. Fresh pensioners were claiming the sisters' attention. He looked warmed and refreshed, and recommended her to follow his example.
"See what a treat you have given me, Miss Ward!" he said, smiling. "There is no mulled wine like this anywhere. The flavour brings back my dear old home to me."
"Do you mean the old Manor House?" she asked, softly.
"Yes," he returned, dreamily. "It is the season for old memories, is it not? At Christmas and New Year's Day the ghosts of the past stalk out of their dim recesses; but they are dearly loved visitants, and we do not fear them. Do you know what the Germans call 'heimweh?' Have you ever experienced it?"
But he need not have asked, for at the unexpected question the girl's head drooped to hide her tears. How could he know, how could any one know, how that brave young heart ached ceaselessly for her home and Mollie. Mr. Chaytor was quite shocked at himself.
"Dear Miss Ward," he said, gently, "you must forgive me again, you see; but I spoke without thinking."
Then Waveney shook her head and looked at him with a touching little smile.
"You have done nothing—it is only I who am silly to-night; but oh! I am always so wanting father and Mollie. But I shall see them to-morrow. Mr. Chaytor, I must go now; but thank you so much for all your kindness and for bringing me home. I am not ungrateful, really." And Waveney's wet eyes looked so sad and beautiful as she raised them to his face that Mr. Chaytor thought of them all through his drive home.
When Waveney woke the next morning she found the rain had ceased; but it was still too dark to discover anything further. They drove to church for the early service, and the warm, lighted church, with its Christmas decorations, and crowded with worshippers, reminded her of the dearly-loved church where she and Mollie had knelt side by side for so many years.
Breakfast was ready for them on their return, and they had the usual noisy welcome from Fuss and Fury. But Waveney was a little perplexed when Althea told her, with a smile, that she must eat her breakfast as quickly as possible, as they had plenty of business before them. "It is a comfort the rain has stopped," she continued, with an irrepressible shiver, "for we cannot possibly have the carriage out again, until we drive to town. How thankful I am that Aunt Sara gave me that fur-lined cloak last Christmas!" she went on, addressing her sister. "It keeps out the cold as nothing else does. I feel as cosy as that robin does in his red waistcoat."
Waveney ate her breakfast a little silently; she was wondering why there was no greeting word from home. Perhaps the postman had not come.
"Have you finished, Waveney?" asked Doreen, a little abruptly. "By-and-bye, if you have, we may as well go to the library, or we shall never get our parcels undone before it is time to start for church."
Waveney opened her eyes rather widely at this; but when she entered the room, she stared in amazement. The centre-table seemed a mass of plants, and brown paper parcels of every size and description were heaped on every available space.
To her surprise Althea quietly drew back the curtain of Cosy Nook, and motioned her to enter.
"You can amuse yourself there for a little while," she said, brightly, "while Doreen and I open our parcels. You will see Aunt Sara has not forgotten you." And then, with a kindly nod, she withdrew.
It was a pity that no interested observer saw the girl's start and blush of delight, for there, just opposite her, was a dress, flung across a chair, and a paper pinned on one sleeve. "Waveney, from her loving friend, Althea Harford."
Althea had pleased her own taste in the choice of that frock. It was a dark sapphire blue velveteen of the same shade as the cloak, and was perfectly plain, except for a dainty little ruff of yellowish lace; and nothing could have suited Waveney's pale, little face better.
She stood for a long time with folded hands, in mute admiration of that marvellous garment; she knew now why her white dress had disappeared so mysteriously for a day or two. It wanted doing up, Nurse Marks told her. But when it had been returned, Waveney could see very little difference. The poor, little frock looked sadly frayed and shabby; no wonder Miss Althea thought she needed a new one. But the kindness and the generosity of the gift were beyond everything, and there was a lump in Waveney's throat as her fingers touched the soft pile of the velveteen.
Doreen's present was a box of handkerchiefs, with Waveney's initials prettily embroidered by one of the workers at the Home, and Mrs. Mainwaring, with characteristic kindness and good taste, had contributed a beautiful little muff.
But Waveney's pleasure reached its climax when her eyes discovered a neat, little umbrella, with a note from Mollie attached to the ivory handle. "Please do not think me extravagant, darling," it began, "because I really can afford to give myself a big treat this year. The menu-cards have sold splendidly. Mr. Ingram says his sister has given him a commission for three more sets, so I shall be quite rich. I have bought myself a new jacket and hat, and father says that he certainly means to get me a tweed dress for Christmas, so I shall be as smart as you. He is only sending you gloves, but I know you will like them.
"And I have bought the umbrella out of my own earnings. You cannot think how proud I am of that! The poor old Gamp you were using would not keep a sparrow dry, it was so worn out, and I could not bear to think of you getting wet through. A happy Christmas to you, my darling! and no more at present from your loving Mollie."
Noel's present was wrapped up with the gloves; it was only a small manuscript book, neatly bound with blue ribbon, and in Noel's flourishing school-boy hand was written,—
"The further adventures of Monsieur Blackie, by a Humourist, and dedicated with the author's compliments to old Storm-and-Stress."
Ten minutes later, when Althea peeped through the curtain, she found Waveney still hugging her umbrella, while she looked over the pen-and-ink sketches with eyes twinkling with amusement. "Do you think it will fit?" she asked, softly. Then the girl started to her feet, her face crimson with emotion.
"Oh, Miss Althea, how am I to thank you?" she exclaimed. "You are too kind, oh, far too kind to me." And then, almost tearfully, "I have nothing to give you in return."
"Nothing! I thought I saw a pretty penwiper among my parcels, but I suppose I must have dreamt it; and I had an impression that Doreen showed me a needle-book."
"Oh, but they were only trifles."
"My dear, no gift, however small, from one who loves us, is a trifle, and I shall value your present. We have all we want, dear child, and the kindness of our friends almost embarrasses us. When you come back I must show you the beautiful things some of the girls have made for me, but there is no time to look at them now, for the church-bells are ringing." And then, as they went upstairs, Waveney laden with her treasures, the crowning touch was put to her day's pleasure. "I am so glad you like your frock, dear," remarked Althea; "it is certainly seasonable for winter evenings. You will find a parcel in your room directed to Mollie; it contains a similar dress for her." And the flash of joy in Waveney's eyes certainly repaid her.