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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> <h3>"KING CANUTE" COMES BACK.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt.  And every grin, so merry, draws one out." John Walcot. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "And Nature swears, the lovely dears  Her noblest work she classes, O;  Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,  And then she made the lasses, O." Burns. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> As the soft September twilight stole over the room, the girls became more silent. Waveney seemed buried in thought, and Mollie, tired out with laughing, nestled against her comfortably, and very nearly went to sleep. But she was roused effectually by Waveney's next speech. "Sweetheart"—her pet name for Mollie—"I am going to make you miserable, I am afraid, but I have been telling myself all day long that we must face the situation. If father does not get a good price for his picture, what are we to do?" "But he must sell it," returned Mollie, in a distressed voice. "Barker is getting disagreeable about his bill, and his man says nasty things to Ann when he leaves the meat. And we owe Chandler for two tons of coal." "Yes, I know;" and Waveney sighed heavily. "Those two tons have been on my mind all day." "You poor dear, no wonder you looked tired. Ah, how hateful and mean it is to be poor! Ah, you are not as wicked and rebellious as I am, Wave. I sometimes cry with the longing for the pretty things other girls have. I cannot resign myself to the idea of being shabby and pinched and careworn all my life long. If this goes on we shall be old women before our time; when I am ordering dinner I feel nearly a hundred." Waveney stroked the glossy brown head that rested against her shoulder, but made no other answer: she was thinking how she could best break some unwelcome news to Mollie. Mollie was emotional, and cried easily, and her father always hated to see one of his girls unhappy. "Father would cut the moon up into little pieces and give them to us, if he could," she thought; "nothing is too good for us. But when Mollie frets he takes it so to heart. Oh dear, if only doing one's duty were made easier; but there is no 'learning or reading without tears' in the Handbook of Life;" and then she set her little white teeth together firmly, as a child does when some nauseous medicine is offered. "Mollie, dear, I cannot keep it back any longer—it makes me miserable to have a secret from you. I have been to Harley Street to-day, and talked to Miss Warburton, and she has something on her books that is likely to suit me." Then the sob she dreaded to hear rose to poor Mollie's lips. "Ah, Wave, you can't really mean it! This is worst of all. It is positively dreadful. How am I to live without you? And father, and Noel, what are they to do?" and here the tears rolled down her face; but Waveney, who had been schooling herself all day, refused to be moved from her stoicism. "Mollie, please listen to me. It is childish to cry. Do you remember our last talk—the one we had in the Lime Walk, and how we agreed that we must do all we could to help father!" "But I do help him," returned Mollie, in a woe-begone voice. "I keep the house and mend things, and look after that stupid, clumsy Ann; and the fine-art publishers seem to like my little drawings, and I am never idle for a single instant." "No, darling, you put us all to shame. Do you think I am finding fault with you? But you must not do it all, that is just it; and as Mrs. Addison no longer requires me, I must look out for another situation"—for during the past year Waveney had acted as secretary to a lady living near them in Cheyne Walk. It had only been a morning engagement, and the pay had not been much, but Waveney, and Mollie too, had found immense pleasure in spending the scanty earnings. "Of course, I know you must do something," returned Mollie, rather irritably, for even her sweet nature resented the idea of losing Waveney as an insufferable injury; "but you might find something in Chelsea." "No, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "I have tried, over and over again, and I can find nothing suitable. I cannot teach—I have never been educated for a governess; and no one near us seems to want a secretary or reader, or companion." "Are you quite sure of that, Waveney?" "Quite sure. I have been wasting two whole months waiting for something to turn up, so this morning I made up my mind that I would see Miss Warburton. She was so nice, Mollie. She is such a dear woman; a little quick and decided in her manner—what some people would call abrupt—but when she gets interested in a person she is really quite soft and kind. She heard all I had to say, asked me a few questions, and then turned to her book. "'It is rather a lucky chance you came in this morning, Miss Ward,' she said, 'for a lady who called yesterday is in want of a young person who can read well.' And then she explained to me that this lady's sister was troubled at times with some weakness in her eyes that prevented her from reading to herself, especially of an evening, and that they required some pleasant, ladylike girl, who would make herself useful in little ways." "And the name, Waveney?" "The name is Harford, and they live at the 'Red House,' Erpingham. They are very nice people, but at the present moment she is staying with some friends in Berkeley Square, and she will interview me there." "Oh, dear, you speak as though everything were settled." "No, indeed, no such luck. Miss Warburton was very kind, very sympathetic, and anxious to help me; but she advised me not to set my heart on it for fear I should be disappointed. 'Miss Harford may think you too young,—yes, I know,' as I was about to protest indignantly at this,—'you are really nineteen, but no one would think you were over seventeen.' Isn't it humiliating, Mollie, that strangers will always think I am a child? If only my hair would grow and not curl over my head in this absurd way. People always take you for the eldest." "And you are to see Miss Harford to-morrow?" "Yes, dear; and you must get Noel to throw another old shoe after me for luck." Then her lip trembled and her eyes grew misty. "Dear, do not make it harder for me than you can help. Don't you know how I hate to leave my old Sweetheart? I would rather stay at home and live on bread and water than fare sumptuously in other folks' houses; I feel as though I should die with home-sickness and ennui. Oh, it is no crying matter, I assure you; it is the rack and the thumb-screw and the burning faggots all in one, and if you want a new martyr for the calendar, and have any spare halos on hand, I am your woman." And then, of course, Mollie did as she was expected to do, left off crying and began to laugh in the manner that often made her father call her "his wild Irish girl." And, indeed, there was something very Irish in Mollie's mercurial and impressionable temperament. The next minute their attention was attracted by strange noises from below. Something heavy was being dragged along the passage, accompanied by extraordinary sibilant sounds, resembling the swishing and hissing of an ostler rubbing down a horse. Both the girls seemed to recognise the sounds, for Waveney frowned and bit her lip, and Mollie said, in a troubled tone,— "Oh, it is poor old 'Canute' come back;" and then they ran into the passage and looked over the balusters. Noel and a little fair man in a shabby velveteen coat were hauling a large picture between them, with much apparent difficulty. One end had got jammed in the narrow staircase, and Noel's encouraging "swishes" and "Whoa, there—steady, old man! Keep your pecker up, and don't kick over the traces," might have been addressed to a skittish mare. Then he looked up and winked at his sisters, and almost fell backwards in his attempt to feign excessive joy. "Hurrah! three cheers! Here we are again—large as life, and as heavy as the fat woman in Mrs. Jarley's wax-works. But what's the odds as long as you are happy, as the lobster said as he walked into the pot." "Hold your tongue, Noel," returned his father, good-naturedly. "It is your fault the confounded thing has got wedged. Keep it straight, and we shall manage it well enough;" and then he looked up at the two faces above him. "There you are, my darlings," he said, nodding to them. "You see I am bringing our old friend back; we will have him up directly if only this young jackanapes will leave off his monkey tricks." And then in a singularly sweet tenor voice he chanted,— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "You hear that boy laughing? You think it is fun,  But the angels laugh too at the good he has done.  The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,  And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all." </div> </div> "Oliver Wendell Holmes," whispered Mollie; but Waveney made no answer; she only ran down a few steps and gallantly put her shoulder to the wheel, and after a few more tugs "King Canute" was safely landed in the studio, where Noel executed a war-dance round him, with many a wild whoop, after the manner of Redskins. "Father, dear," whispered Mollie, in a delightfully coaxing voice, "sit down on Grumps while I make your coffee;" for the Ward family, being somewhat original, gave queer names to their belongings; and since they were children the old couch had been called "Grumps," tired hands and tired limbs and aching hearts always finding it a comfortable refuge. "So I will, dear," returned Mr. Ward; and then both the girls hung about him and kissed him, and Mollie brushed back his hair, and put a rose in his buttonhole; but Waveney only sat down beside him and held his hand silently. There was no difficulty in discovering where Noel got his good looks. In his youth Everard Ward had been considered so handsome that artists had implored him to sit to them; and for many years well-principled heads of girls' colleges feared to engage him as drawing-master. And even now, in spite of the tired eyes and careworn expression, and the haggardness brought on by the tension of over-work and late hours, the face was almost perfect, only the fair hair had worn off the forehead and was becoming a little grey—"pepper and salt," Mollie called it. But the thing that struck strangers most was his air of refinement, in spite of his shabby coat and old hat; no one could deny that he was a gentleman; and in this they were right. Everard Ward was a man who if he had mixed in society would have made many friends. In the old days he had been dearly loved and greatly admired; but just when his prospects were brightest and the future seemed gilded with success, he suddenly took the bit between his teeth and bolted—not down hill; his mother's sweet memory and his own dignity prevented that—but across country, down side roads that had no thoroughfare, and which landed him in bogs of difficulty. For in spite of his soft heart and easy good-nature Everard was always offending people; his wealthy godfather, for example, when he refused to take orders and to be inducted into a family living; and again his sole remaining relative, an uncle, who wished him to go into the War Office. "Life is an awful muddle," he would say sometimes; but in reality he made his own difficulties. His last act of youthful madness was when he left the Stock Exchange, where an old friend of his father had given him a berth, and had joined a set of young artistic Bohemians. At that time he was supposed by his friends to be on the brink of an engagement to an heiress, he had seemed warmly attached to her, until at a ball he met Dorothy Sinclair, and fell desperately in love with her. This was his crowning act of madness; and when he married her his friends shook their heads disapprovingly, and said to each other that that fool of a Ward had done for himself now. Why, the fellow must be imbecile to throw away a fortune and a good sort of woman like that, to marry a pretty little girl, without a penny for her dower! And, indeed, though Dorothy was a lovely young creature, and as good and lovable as her own Mollie, she was the last woman Everard ought to have married. The heiress would have made a man of him, and he would have spent her money royally and been the best of husbands to her; but Dorothy lacked backbone. She was one of those soft, weak women who need a strong arm to lean upon. And so, when the children came, and the cold, cold blast of adversity began to blow upon them; when Everard could not sell his pictures, and poverty stared them in the face;—then she lost heart and courage. "Everard, dearest, I have not been the right wife for you," she said once; for that long, fatal illness taught her many things. "Oh, I see it all so much more clearly now. I have disheartened you when you needed encouragement, and when our troubles came I did not bear them well." "You have been the sweetest wife in the world to me," was his answer; and then Dorothy had smiled at him well pleased. Yes, he had been her true lover, and he was her lover to the last; and when she died, leaving three young children to his care, Everard Ward mourned for her as truly as any man could do. Those were terrible years for him that followed his wife's death; his twin girls were only ten years old, and Noel a pale-faced urchin of five. He never quite knew how he lived through them, but necessity goaded him to exertion. He worked doggedly all day long, coming home whenever it was possible to take his meals with the children. Sometimes some kind-hearted schoolmistress would tell him to bring one of his little girls with him, and this was always a red-letter day for Waveney and Mollie, for the poor little things led a dull life until Everard was able to send them to day-school; and after that they were quite happy. He used to watch them sometimes as they went down the street with their satchel of books. Waveney would be dancing along like a fairy child, with little springy jumps and bounds, as though the sunshine intoxicated her, and Mollie would hurry after her, limping and lurching in her haste, with her golden brown hair streaming over her shoulders, and her sweet, innocent face lifted smilingly to every passer-by. "My sweet Moll, she is her mother's image," Everard would say to himself, and his eyes would be a little dim; for, with all his faults and troubles and idiosyncrasies, no father was more devoted. His twin daughters were the joy and pride of his heart. When he came home at night, tired out with a long day's work, the very sound of their voices as he put the latch-key in the door seemed to refresh and invigorate him. "Here's dad! here's dear old dad!" they would cry, running out to meet him; and then they would kiss and cuddle him, and purr over him like warm, soft young kittens. Noel would pull off his boots and bring him his slippers, and then "Grumps" would be dragged up to the fire, and Ann would be ordered to bring up the tea quick, and then they would all wait on him as though he were a decrepit old man; and Noel, who was a humorist even at that early age, would pretend to be a waiter, and say, "Yessir," and "No, sir," and "Next thing, sir," with an old rag of a towel on his arm to represent a napkin. "I saw Ward the other evening," a friend of his said one day to a lady; "he teaches drawing at Welbeck College, where I take the literature classes, so I often see him; and one evening he took me home with him to Cleveland Terrace. Poor old Ward! he was not cut out for a drawing master; he was always a bit flighty and full of whimsies, and used to fly his kite too high in the old days; but he made a fool of himself, you know, with that unlucky marriage." "Indeed," returned the lady, quietly. "Ah, well! that is all ancient history. He has made his bed, poor fellow, and must just lie on it; but I do so hate seeing a man's career marred, especially if he is a good sort, like Ward!" "And you went home with him?" observed his hearer, in the same quiet tone. "Yes; and upon my word it was really a pretty little family picture. There was Ward, looking like a sleepy Adonis with his fair hair rumpled all over his head, and two sweet little girls hanging on each arm, and cooing over him; and that fine boy of his lying on the rug with a picture. I declare my snug bachelor rooms looked quite dull that night." When anything ailed one of the twins, Everard's misery would have touched the most stony heart. When Mollie had measles, he nursed her night and day, and when Waveney and Noel also sickened, he was so worn out that if a kindly friend had not come to his assistance, he would soon have been on a sick-bed. Happily it was holiday time, and there were no schools or classes; Miss Martin was a governess herself, but with the divine self-abnegation of a good-hearted woman she gave up a pleasant visit to a country house to help poor Mr. Ward—women were always doing that sort of thing for Everard Ward. But her little patients gave her a great deal of trouble. Mollie cried and would not take her medicine from anyone but father, and Waveney was pettish; but Noel was the worst of all. Miss Martin was plain-featured, and wore spectacles, and Noel, who inherited his father's love of beauty, objected to her strongly. "Go away," he said, fretfully; "we don't want no frights in goggles;" and he began to roar so lustily that Everard was roused from his sleep and came, pale and weary and dishevelled, to expostulate with his son and heir. But Noel, who was feverish and uncomfortable, repeated his offence. "We don't want no frights here, dad. Tell her to go." "For shame, Noel," returned his father, sternly. "I am quite shocked at you. This kind lady has come to help us; and don't you know, my boy, that to a gentleman all women are beautiful?" "Please don't scold him, Mr. Ward," returned Miss Martin, good-naturedly; but her sallow face was a little flushed. "Noel and I will soon be good friends; it is only the fever makes him fractious." And as tact and good temper generally win the day, the children soon got very fond of their dear Marty, as they called her; and as they grew up she became their most valued friend and adviser until her death. It was Miss Martin whose sensible arguments overcame Everard's rooted aversion to the idea of his girls working. "As long as I live I will work for them," he would say; but Miss Martin stuck to her point gallantly. "Life is so uncertain, Mr. Ward. An accident any day might prevent you from earning your bread—you will forgive me for speaking plainly. Let them work while they are young." But though Everard owned himself convinced by her arguments, it was a bitter day to him when Waveney became Mrs. Addison's secretary. "Father would cut the moon up in little bits and give them to us," Waveney had said to herself. And, indeed, to the fond, foolish fellow, no gift could have been too precious for those cherished darlings of his heart. Everard always told people that he loved them just alike, and he honestly thought so; and yet, if Waveney's finger ached, it seemed to pain him all over; and all the world knows what that means! <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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