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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> <h3>"MONSIEUR BLACKIE."</h3> <blockquote>"It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest forever." "A Corinthian, a lad of metal, a good boy."—King Henry IV. </blockquote> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> A shrill, ear-piercing series of whistles, of a peculiarly excruciating description, broke in upon Waveney's meditation. She shook herself, frowned, ran her fingers through her short, curly hair, thereby causing it to wave more wildly than ever—then ran downstairs. The ground floor room corresponded with the one above—only the folding doors had not been removed, and over them, in a schoolboy's round hand, roughly painted in red and gold, was "Noel Ward, His Study," with a pleasing and serpentine ornamentation embellishing the inscription. In vain had Mollie, with tears in her eyes, implored her father to obliterate the unsightly record. An amused shake of the head only answered her. "Leave it alone," he would say. "It is only a nursery legend, and does no harm—when Noel evolves another original idea it will be time to erase it." And so "Noel Ward, His Study," still sprawled in ungainly characters over the lintel. As Waveney entered the room with rather an offended air, she saw the youthful student standing in the doorway. He was a tall, thin stripling of fifteen—but looked older, perhaps because he wore spectacles and had classical, well-cut features, and an odd trick of projecting his chin and lifting his head as though he were always on the look-out for celestial objects. But notwithstanding this eccentricity and a cracked and somewhat high-pitched voice, the heir of the Wards was certainly a goodly youth. "Well, old Storm and Stress," he observed, with a derisive grin, as he balanced himself skilfully on his heels between the folding-doors, "so the pibroch roused you?" "Pibroch!" returned his sister, wrathfully. "How often have I told you, you bad boy, that you are not to make this horrible din. Caterwauling is music compared to it, or even a bagpipe out of tune." "It was my best and latest work," returned Noel, regarding the ceiling disconsolately. "A farmyard symphony with roulades and variations of the most realistic and spirited description, and would bring the house down at a Penny Reading. At present we had only reached the braying solo—but the chorus of turkeycocks, with peacock movement, would have created a sensation." "They have," returned Mollie, stealing softly behind him and treating him to a smart box on the ears; but Noel merely pinned her hands in a firm grasp and went on with his subject: little interruptions of this sort did not disturb him in the least; he rather liked them than otherwise. Nothing pleased him better than to get a rise out of his sisters, for, whatever virtues he possessed, he certainly lacked the bump of veneration. Dear, sweet Mollie, with her angelic face, was often addressed as "old Stick-in-the-mud," "Pegtop," or "the wobbly one," while Waveney, his special chum, the creature whom he loved best in the world next to his father, was "Storm and Stress," a singular soubriquet, evolved from her name and her sudden and sprightly movements. "For one is nearly blown away," he would say. "There is always a breeze through the house when that girl is in it; it is like playing a scale upside down and wrong side outwards to hear her coming downstairs;" and very often he would come to his meals with his collar up, and flourishing a red silk handkerchief ostentatiously, and speak in a croaking, nasal voice, until his father asked him mildly where he had caught such a cold; and then Waveney would nudge him furiously under the table. On the present occasion poor Mollie was kept in durance vile until Noel had finished his disquisition on his novel symphony; then he released her, and contemplated the tea-table with a fixed and glassy stare, which conveyed mute reproach. "Noel, dear, it is a fresh loaf," she said, hastily and apprehensively, "and it is beautifully crusty, and the butter is good—a penny a pound dearer, and at the best shop." "Where are the shrimps?" asked Noel, and he so lengthened the word that it sounded almost as terribly in Mollie's ears as Mrs. Siddons' "Give me the dagger!" for so much depends on expression, and if one is only melodramatic, even the words "shrimps" can be as sibilant and aggressive as the hissing of snakes. "Oh, dear, how tiresome you are, Noel!" returned Mollie, quite sharply for her, for she was housekeeper, and the strain and responsibility were overwhelming at times, especially when her poor little purse was empty. "I could not afford them, really, Noel," she continued, welling into tenderness at the thought of his disappointment. "There were some nice brown ones, but I dared not get them, for I had only twopence left, so I bought watercresses instead." "Ask a blessing, my child, and I will forgive you;" and then, much to his sister's relief, Noel subsided, and began cutting the bread, while under cover of the table-cloth, Waveney slipped sixpence into Mollie's hand, and made a movement with her lips suggestive of "to-morrow;" and Mollie nodded as she poured out the tea. Noel had a volume of "Eugene Aram" propped up before him as he ate, but it did not engross him so utterly that he could not interpolate the conversation whenever he pleased, and it pleased him to do so very often. Mollie was giving a graphic and heart-breaking account of the way in which she and her father had packed the precious picture, "and how it had been bumped three times while they carried it down the narrow stairs." "I quite missed the dear old thing, Wave," she went on, "and the studio looked so dull without it. Noel was so absurd; he threw an old shoe after it for good luck, and it nearly knocked father's hat off—and then he bolted indoors, and there was father looking at me so astonished, and he was not quite pleased, I could see that, so I said, 'It is not me dad, it is the other boy.'" "Yes, and it was real mean of you," grumbled Noel; "but there, what are you to expect from a woman? Poor old padre, he will be precious tired with hauling along 'King Canute,' and it will bump all the worse going upstairs." "Oh, Noel!" exclaimed both the girls, in a shrill crescendo of dismay. "You don't really believe that the dealers will refuse 'King Canute'?" ejaculated Mollie. "Father has worked so hard at it, and it is really his best picture." Noel shrugged his shoulders; then he pointed his chin in an argumentative way. "The dealers buy awful rubbish sometimes, but they won't buy this. Every kid knows how the old buffer gave his courtiers a lesson, but no one wants to be always looking on while he does it; the public hates that sort of thing, you know. I told father so, over and over again, but he would not listen. 'Why don't you try something lively and less historical?' I said to him. '"The Two Grave-diggers" in Hamlet, or "Touchstone and Audrey." We might get Corporal Marks to sit for "Touchstone"—the public would think that fetching.' But no, nothing but that solemn old Dane would suit him—the Wards are terribly obstinate. I am my father's son, and speak feelingly;" and then Noel shouldered his book and marched back to the study. "Do you think Noel is right?" whispered Mollie. "He is very clever, for all his ridiculous nonsense, and I am not quite sure whether 'King Canute' will really interest people." "Oh, don't ask me," returned Waveney, in an exasperated tone. "If only dear father would stick to his schools, and his drawing-classes, and not try to paint these pictures! They seem grand to us, but they are not really well done. Don't you remember Mr. Fullarton said so? We were in the back room, but we heard him plainly. 'You are too ambitious, Ward'—that was what he said; 'the public is tired of these old hackneyed subjects. Why don't you hit on something pathetic and suggestive—some fetching little incident that tells its own story?' '"Child and St. Bernard Dog," for example,' returned father, grimly, 'and write under it, "Nellie's Guardian." Would that do, Fullarton? But I suppose anything would do for pot-boilers.'" "Oh, yes, I recollect," returned Mollie, with a long-drawn sigh. "Poor old dad! How low he seemed that day! And this evening, if——" But Waveney would not let her finish the sentence. "Never mind that just now. It is no use crossing the bridge till you come to it; let us go upstairs and be cosy, for I have a lot I want to say to you;" and then they went up arm-in-arm—Mollie was almost a head taller than her sister—and sat down side by side on the big couch; and then Waveney began to laugh. "Oh, Mollie, I have had such an adventure; I did not want Noel to hear it, because he would have teased me so unmercifully. Don't you recollect that horrid note-book that we found?" And then, at the recollection, Mollie began to giggle, and finally both she and Waveney became so hysterical with suppressed mirth that they had almost to stifle themselves in the cushions for fear Noel should hear them. For it was only lately that they had become acquainted with the dark and Machiavellian policy of that artful youth. Evening after evening, as they had exchanged their girlish confidences, Noel had sat by them with a stolid and abstracted look, apparently drawing pen-and-ink devils—a favourite amusement of his; but it was Mollie who found him out. "The Adventures of Waveney Edna Ward, alias Storm and Stress," was scrawled on the title-page, and thereupon followed a series of biographical sketches, profusely illustrated. "Storm and Stress with the Bull of Bashan"—a singularly graphic description of Waveney's terror at meeting an angry cow in the lane. "No. II.—Storm and Stress. Saving an Orphan's Life—the Orphan being a deserted, half-starved kitten, now an elderly cat rejoicing in the name of Mrs. Muggins;" and so on. Every little incident touched up or finely caricatured in a masterly manner. Père Ward had been so charmed with this manifestation of his son's talent that he had carried off the note-book and locked it up amongst his treasures. "That boy will make his mark," he would say, proudly. "But we must give him plenty of scope." And, indeed, it could not be denied that Noel had a fairly long tether. As soon as Waveney could recover herself, she sat up and rebuked Mollie severely for her levity; "for how is a person to talk while you are cackling in that ridiculous manner? And it is really quite an interesting adventure, and"—with an important air—"it is to be continued in our next." And this sounded so mysterious that Mollie wiped her eyes and consented to be serious. "Well, you know," began Waveney, in a delightfully colloquial manner, "father had told me to take the omnibus that would put me down at King's Street. All the outside places were taken, but there was only the usual fat woman with bundle and baby inside; and presently a gentleman got in. You know I always make a point of noticing my fellow passengers, as dad says it helps to form a habit of observation; so I at once took stock of our solitary gentleman. "He was a little dark man, very swarthy and foreign looking, and he wore an oddly-shaped peaked sort of hat—rather like Guy Fawkes' without the feather—and he had a black moustache that was very stiff and fierce, so of course I made up my mind that he was a Frenchman, and probably an artist; for, though his clothes were good, he had rather a Bohemian look." Here Waveney paused, but Mollie gave her a nudge. "Go on, Wave. I am beginning to feel interested. Was he really French?" "Not a bit of it, my dear, for he talked the most beautiful English; and directly he opened his mouth I found out he was a gentleman, for his voice was perfectly cultured and so pleasant. I rather took to him because he was so kind to the fat woman; he held her bundle while she and her baby got out, and he scolded the conductor for hurrying her. I thought that rather nice of him; so few young men trouble themselves about fat women and babies." "Oh! he was young?" in an appreciative tone. "Well, youngish; two or three and thirty, perhaps. But now I am coming to the critical point of my story. Directly we were left alone the conductor came to ask for our fares; he was a surly-looking man, with a red face, and his manner was not over civil; most likely he resented the scolding about the fat woman. "Well, no sooner had Monsieur put his hand in his pocket than he drew it out again with a puzzled look. "'Some one has picked my pocket,' he said, out loud, but he did not look so very much disturbed. 'My sovereign purse has gone, and some loose silver as well.' And then he searched his other pockets, and only produced a card-case and some papers; and then he began to laugh in rather an embarrassed way. 'My good fellow, you see how it is; the beggars have cleaned me out. Five or six pounds gone. Confound those light-fingered gentry! If I had not left my watch at the maker's it would have gone, too.' "'That is all very well,' returned the conductor, in a disagreeable voice, 'but what I wants to know, sir, is how am I to get my fare?' "'Oh, you will get it right enough," replied Monsieur (but he was not Monsieur at all, only the name suited him); 'but for the present I can only offer you my card;' and then he held it out with such a pleasant smile that it might have softened half-a-dozen conductors. But old Surly Face was not so easily mollified. "'I don't want your bit of pasteboard,' he growled. 'Do you call yourself a gentleman to ride in a public conveyance without paying your fare?' "Then the motto of the Wards flashed into my mind, 'Open hand, good luck,' and the next minute I produced a sixpence from my purse—there were just two sixpences in it. "'Will you allow me to offer you this?' I said, in my grandest manner; but I felt a little taken aback when he lifted his hat and beamed at me. I say beamed, for it was really the most friendly, jovial smile; his whole face quite crinkled up with it. "'I could not refuse such a good Samaritan. A thousand thanks for your kind loan. There, sir,' handing over the sixpence, sternly, 'give me the change and next time keep a civil tongue in your head.' And then, greatly to my surprise, he pocketed the threepence. "'I am in your debt for a whole sixpence,' he continued, 'and I am as grateful to you as though you had returned my missing sovereigns. Is it not Kingsley who points out the beauty and grace of helping "lame dogs over stiles?" Now will you add to your kindness by informing me of your name and address?' "I stared at him blankly, and I am afraid I blushed. "'There is no occasion,' I said, feebly, at last. 'Sixpence is not a great sum, and I was very glad to be of service;' for I could not help feeling how absurd it was, making so much of a trifle. But Monsieur seemed indignant at this. "'I could not be in debt to any young lady even for sixpence,' he said, severely. 'I was too well brought up for that.' And then of course I was obliged to tell him where I lived; and he actually made me repeat it twice, he was so anxious to remember it. "'Miss Ward, 10 Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea,' he observed. 'Why, that is just opposite the Hospital. I know it well. Strange to say, I am staying in Chelsea myself.' Then he took out his card-case, hesitated, and grew rather red, and finally put it back in his pocket. 'My name is Ingram,' he said, rather abruptly; and then the omnibus stopped, and he handed me out. "'I must be in your debt until to-morrow, I fear,' were his parting words—and oh, Mollie, do you really think that he will actually call and pay the sixpence?" "Of course he will, and of course he ought," returned Mollie, excitedly. "Oh, Wave, what an adventure! It was just like a bit in a novel when the hero meets the heroine—only an omnibus is the last place for a romance." Then Waveney made a face. "No, no, Mollie, little dark Frenchified men are not my taste, even if they have nice voices. My private hero must be very different from Monsieur Blackie." Then a crackling laugh from behind the sofa made both the girls jump up in affright, and the next moment Waveney looked not unlike her soubriquet, as, uttering dire threats of vengeance, she flew round and round the room after the treacherous eavesdropper, until Noel, exhausted by laughter, subsided into a corner and submitted to be shaken. "'Monsieur Blackie, to be continued in our next,'" exclaimed the incorrigible lad, when Waveney grew weary with her punitive exertions. "My word, there must be a new note-book for this. 'Storm and Stress enacting the part of Good Samaritan';" and here Noel fairly crowed himself out of the room. "He has heard every word," observed Waveney, in a dejected tone. "I am afraid we laughed too loud, and that roused his curiosity. Oh, dear, what a boy he is! And none of us keep him in order;" but Mollie was too exhausted to answer her. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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