ACROSS THE GOLF LINKS.
"Learn to live, and live to learn,
Ignorance like a fire burns,
Little tasks make large returns."
Bayard Taylor.
"Sits the wind in that quarter."
Shakespeare.
When Waveney went home the following Sunday, she carried with her a choice little piece of information, which she retailed with much gusto at the tea-table.
"Father," she said, in a mysterious voice, "I have found out something so interesting about our dear little Monsieur Blackie." Then Mollie, who was pouring out the tea, paused in her task to listen. "He is a relation of the Misses Harfords—their cousin once removed. Miss Althea told me so. His father, Colonel Ingram, was their own cousin."
Mollie's face wore an awed expression; she was evidently much impressed. But Mr. Ward looked a little perplexed.
"Ingram," he muttered, "I do not remember the name, and yet I thought I knew all their relations."
"No, father, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "Miss Althea said you had never seen any of them—they were living abroad, because Mrs. Ingram's health was so bad. There was only one daughter, Gwendoline, and she is married now, but I thought you and Mollie would be interested to know that he is a connection of the dear ladies at the Red House."
Then Noel solemnly rapped on the table with his knife.
"I propose Monsieur Blackie's health," he said, grandly; "he seems a respectable sort of party, and I am proud to have made his acquaintance. I regret—I may say I deeply regret—that I once made the unlucky observation that his head was like a scrubbing brush, and that his moustache was of the Mephistophelian pattern; but what are such trifles between friends?" And then his voice grew thin and nasal. "For I guess, and do calculate, ladies and gentlemen, that the party in question is boss of the whole show, and will boom considerable." And then he sat down and glared at Mollie through his pince-nez; but Mollie, who seemed a little flurried and excited, said nothing at all.
Only, as she and Waveney were putting on their hats for church, she said, in rather a subdued, quiet little voice,—
"Wave, dear, of course I am glad about Mr. Ingram; but it does not make any real difference, does it? for we always knew he was a gentleman. Father thinks he must be rich, he is so generous with his money; but he will never be too grand to be our friend, will he?" Mollie's voice was not quite steady when she said this. To her simplicity it seemed a surprising thing that their homely, kindly Monsieur Blackie should have such grand relations.
Mollie spent a very happy day at the Red House. Althea, who knew what girls love best, told Waveney to take her all over the house and show her everything, and left them alone together. She and Doreen had an engagement for the afternoon, but tea was served up as usual in the library.
When Althea returned she found them nestled together in the big easy-chair by the fire, "looking like a couple of babes in the wood," she said to Doreen afterwards. And it was so pretty and effective a picture that she forbade them to move; and then she sat down and talked to them in so sweet and friendly a way that Mollie's soft heart was soon won; and when Noel arrived, looking a little shy and awkward—after the fashion of boys—he found them all talking merrily together.
Both Althea and Doreen were charmed with Mollie. Doreen frankly owned to her sister that she had never seen so beautiful a face.
"If it were not for her lameness she would be perfect," she said, regretfully; and Althea agreed to this.
"It is a pity, of course," she returned, gently; "but there is something pathetic in it; and then her unconsciousness is so childlike. She is a sweet creature, and I love her already, but not so much as I love my little Undine;" for, somehow, both she and Doreen often called her by this name.
Waveney had not seen her little friend Betty again, but Althea and Doreen were constantly at the house in High Street, and she often heard them mention her name. Sometimes of an evening, when she was reading to herself, she heard them talking about the Chaytors; and as they never dropped their voices, she thought it no harm to listen.
"Joa is a different woman," Doreen once said. "I never saw such a change in any one. I always knew Tristram was her favourite. Thorold has to play second fiddle now; I am a little sorry for him sometimes."
"Your sorrow is wasted, Dorrie," returned her sister, with a smile. "Thorold is too big and strong for these petty feelings; he values Joa's peace of mind far too much to disturb it by paltry jealousy. He tells me that for the present Tristram and the child will continue to live with them, until Tristram can earn enough to keep a respectable roof over his head. It was very lucky, finding him that berth, and it really suits him very well. But Joa says that Betty misses her father terribly; she spends half her time at the window, watching for him."
Betty's name was perpetually on the sisters' lips; her queer little speeches, her odd ways, her shrewdness and intelligence, and, above all, her warm, childish heart, were favourite topics; and Bet's last was a standing joke with them.
Waveney began to wish to see her again, but Miss Althea never sent her now to the Chaytors. Once Joanna called and had tea at the Red House, but Betty was not with her; the child had a slight cold, she said, and she had left her with Jemima. But throughout the visit she talked of little else. Bet's lessons, her story-books, the new doll that Althea had given her, and the basinette that she was trimming for a Christmas present, were all discussed quite seriously.
Waveney listened eagerly in her corner. For once she found Miss Chaytor interesting. Her voice had lost its fretful strain; she spoke with animation, and as she talked there was a pretty dimple that Waveney had never noticed.
"She must have been very pretty when she was a girl," thought Waveney. "She is good-looking now, and her face is quite pleasant when she smiles." And then again she heard Bet's name, and composed herself to listen.
"The love of that mite for her father is quite wonderful," went on Joanna. "Even Thorold notices it. Quite an hour before Trist is due, Bet will be gluing her face and flattening her nose against the window; and nothing will move her. And all the time she is humming to herself, like a little bird—such funny little scraps of tunes. And then, when he crosses the road, she is out of the room like a dart. And to hear all her old-fashioned questions to him in the passage! Oh, it almost makes me cry to listen to her! 'Are you very tired, father dear? Have you had a hard day? Does your head ache? and are your feet cold? But Aunt Joa has made up such a big fire!'—something like that every night."
"Bless her little heart," observed Doreen, sympathetically; but Althea only smiled.
"And then she brings him in and makes such a fuss over him," went on Joanna. "Just as though he were some feeble, gouty old gentleman. But Tristram lets her do it. I think he likes to feel her little fingers busy about him. She fetches him his warm slippers, and a footstool, or a screen if the fire is hot; and when he is quite 'comfy,' as she calls it, she climbs up on his knee and gives him an account of the day."
When Joanna had taken her leave, Althea stood looking into the fire with a grave, abstracted look. But when Doreen returned to the room, she changed her attitude slightly.
"Joa seems very happy, does she not, Dorrie? She has not worn so bright a face since the Old Manor House days!"
"No, indeed! And it is all Bet's influence. She is like a hen with one chick; it almost makes me laugh to hear her."
"I felt nearer crying, I assure you. But, Dorrie, is it not beautiful to see how love effaces self. 'And a little child shall lead them;' do you remember those words? Already Bet's tiny fingers have smoothed out the lines on Joa's face, and taught her to smile again."
Waveney only saw Mr. Chaytor on Thursday evenings at the Porch House. The Shakespeare readings were still in full swing, and she still sat beside Nora Greenwell. She sometimes thought that Mr. Chaytor spoke less to her than to the other girls, though he was always careful to point out any fault of punctuation; now and then, when she was a little weary of following the text, she would raise her eyes from her books; and more than once it had given her an odd shock to find at that very moment Mr. Chaytor was quietly regarding her; then some sudden shyness made her eyelids droop again.
Mr. Chaytor took no apparent notice of her. When the reading was over he always joined Althea, and a grave bow, or perhaps a pleasant "good-night," when Waveney left the room, was all that passed between them.
It was strange, then, that as Thorold Chaytor walked down the hill in the wintry darkness, a little pale face and a pair of dark, spirituelle eyes should invariably haunt him. Never in his life had he seen such eyes, so soft and deep and magnetic.
And then that babyish crop of brown, curly hair—he wondered why she wore it so, it made her look so childish; but he liked it, too—it struck him that she was lighter, and more sprightly and full of grace and lissomeness, than any girl he had seen, and that his name of Undine suited her down to the ground. He remembered well her sister's lovely face, but of the two he preferred his little Undine.
Once, when he had entered the Recreation Hall, and the seat beside Nora Greenwell was vacant, a troubled look came into his eyes; but Waveney, who had only gone across to the house for a book Althea wanted, re-entered a moment later; and Thorold's brow cleared like magic as her light, springy step passed by his chair.
"I hope I have not disturbed you," she said, rather timidly, as he rose from his seat and wished her good-evening; "but Miss Harford had forgotten her Shakespeare."
"Not at all; but we will begin now." Then, as Waveney opened her book, she wondered at Mr. Chaytor's grave, intent look.
About ten days before Christmas, Waveney, attended by her little companions, Fuss and Fury, started off for a walk over the Common.
It was one of those ideal afternoons in December, when all young creatures feel it is a joy to be alive. There had been a heavy frost in the night, and the bright, wintry sunshine had not yet melted it. The Frost King had touched the saplings with his white fingers, and even the bare blackberry bushes were transformed into things of beauty. The vast common seemed to glitter with whiteness under the pink glow of the winter's sky.
Waveney had turned her steps towards the golf links. The wind blew more bleakly there, but the wide stretch of open common, with the black windmill in the distance, always gave her a pleasant sensation of freedom. She loved to watch the sun sinking into his bed of bright-coloured clouds. But when the pink glow faded, and the sky-line became a cold, steely blue, she shivered a little, as though she had stayed too long at some pageant, and set her face homewards.
She had walked too far, and she knew the darkness would overtake her long before she reached the Red House, and then Miss Althea would gently admonish her for her imprudence.
The little dogs were tumbling over each other, and wetting their silky coats in the frosty grass. Waveney called them sharply to order. If no one were in sight she thought she would race them across the Common; but the next moment she heard footsteps behind her.
Involuntarily she quickened her own steps. It was rather a lonely part of the Common. There was no one to be seen, only the gaunt, black arms of the windmill seemed to stretch into the darkening sky.
The rapid, even footsteps behind her made her nervous, and gave her the feeling of being in a nightmare. If she could only look around! And then, to her intense relief, a familiar voice pronounced her name.
"Mr. Chaytor!" she gasped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could hardly speak. "Oh, how glad I am! It was very foolish of me, but I never can bear to be followed in a lonely place."
"I was afraid I frightened you?" he said, coming to her side, "but you were walking so fast that I found it difficult to overtake you. Forgive me, I know I have no right to lecture, but at this hour the golf links is far too lonely a place for a young lady."
"Yes, you are right," returned Waveney, touched by this kind interest in her welfare, "and I must never walk here again so late. But"—with a sigh of regret—"I do love it so."
"Do you?" returned Mr. Chaytor, quickly. "I wonder why." But with his habitual reserve he forbore to add that it was his favourite walk.
"It is so wide," she replied, in her earnest voice. "All this space with nothing between you and the sky makes one feel so free and happy. The sunsets are always so beautiful here, and if it were not for the loneliness I should love to watch the darkness, like a big black ogre, swallow up all the lovely light."
It was a pity Waveney could not see Mr. Chaytor's smile.
"Shall we stand and watch it now?" he said, indulgently. "You have a safe escort, so we need not fear your ogre. Only you must not take cold." But Waveney only thanked him, and said that she was late already, and that they had better go.
What a walk that was! and how Waveney remembered it afterwards! If Mr. Chaytor had laid himself out to please and interest her, he could not have succeeded better. Books, pictures, accounts of his old summer wanderings! And yet not for one moment did Waveney feel that he was talking down to her level. It seemed the spontaneous outpouring of a well-bred, intellectual man, glad to impart information to a congenial companion. But if Waveney was charmed and interested, certainly Mr. Chaytor was gratified. Miss Ward's bright intelligence, her racy and picturesque remarks, her frankly confessed ignorance, were all delightful to him; since the old Manor days he had seen so few girls, and none of them had attracted him in the least. There was something unique, out of the common, about Miss Ward; he felt vaguely that he would like to know more of her.
Perhaps it was this feeling that made him say presently "I am afraid you have forgotten your little friend Betty"—for he knew all about that meeting on the Embankment. Betty had given him a most realistic and graphic account. "And the little lady did warm my hands so, Uncle Theo,"—and here Bet rubbed away at his hands until she was red in the face—"and all the time she did talk, and her great big eyes were laughing at me."
"Bet has a good memory for her friends, and she often talks about you!" continued Thorold. "She is a fascinating little person, even to me, though I do not profess to understand children. She is full of surprises. You never get to the end of her. My sister fairly worships her!"
"Yes, I know," returned Waveney, softly; "and I am so very glad—glad for your sister, I mean. I should love to see Betty again. I am not like you, Mr. Chaytor; I have been a child-worshipper all my life. Oh, I know they are naughty sometimes, but they are so much nearer the angels than we are, and they are not such a long way off from heaven."
"'Heaven lies about us in our infancy!' Are you a student of Wordsworth, Miss Ward?" But she shook her head.
"I have read some of his poems," she returned, modestly. "But I am afraid I know very little good poetry."
"That is a pity; but one can always mend a fault. At Easter I propose having a course of reading from Tennyson and Mrs. Browning. Ah, here we are at the Red House."
"You will come in and have a cup of tea after your long walk," observed Waveney. "Miss Doreen is in town, but I know Miss Althea is at home." Then, after a moment's hesitation, Mr. Chaytor assented and followed her into the house.
"My dear child, how late you are!" observed Althea, rather anxiously, as Waveney opened the library door. "I was getting nervous about you!"
"I am afraid I am rather late," confessed the girl; "but, fortunately, I met Mr. Chaytor, and he has come in with me for some tea." Then there was no lack of welcome in Althea's face and voice. Fresh tea was ordered, and another supply of hot buttered scones, a big pine-log thrown on the fire; and as Thorold sat in his luxurious chair, with a glass screen between him and the blaze, with his little walking companion opposite him, and Althea's warm smile on them both, he had never felt himself more comfortable, or at his ease.