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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2> <h3>"A NOTICEABLE MAN, WITH LARGE GREY EYES."</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "As high as we have mounted in delight  In our dejection do we sink as low." Wordsworth. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> After all, Mollie had her way, and Waveney, in spite of piteous pleading and remonstrance, became the reluctant possessor of a warm dress and jacket. Mr. Ward had put his foot down in a most unexpected manner; if Waveney would not buy her jacket he would go without his great-coat; Barker and Chandler had been paid, and there was sufficient money for everything. And when Waveney understood that any shabbiness on her part would be grievous in his eyes, she yielded at once. "If father wishes it I will get the things," she said to Mollie; "but I never enjoy anything unless you share it." But Mollie would not listen to this. "What does it matter about me?" she said, gaily. "I am only a poor little Cinderella whose pumpkin coach has not arrived. My old jacket will do quite well until Christmas." And then, when the purchases were made, Mollie was like a sunbeam for the rest of the day. Waveney went twice to the Hospital before she started for Erpingham, but each time she found McGill more rambling and confused; and though he roused at the sound of her voice, he always thought she was Sheila. Corporal Marks looked more dejected than ever, but he maintained that the sergeant was doing finely. Waveney thought it was only the little man's natural pugnacity and habit of arguing, and that he did not really believe his own assertion; but though he pretended to grumble, he nursed his friend devotedly. "That there corporal never leaves him," one of the pensioners remarked to Waveney. "You would think they were brothers to see them—and fight they would, too, about those plaguey Sepoys, that you might have taken them for a pair of kilkenny cats. But bless you, miss, it was just for the fun of it." The days slipped away all too fast; and one morning Mollie awoke with the thought that only one whole day remained before Waveney left home. They were very busy all the morning, packing her box, and in the afternoon Waveney, who felt restless and rather low-spirited at the sight of Mollie's woe-begone face, proposed they should visit their favourite haunts, the lime avenue, old Ranelagh and the Embankment. "It is so warm, and the house feels so stuffy!" she added; for Waveney loved air and exercise, and would gladly have been out of doors the greater part of the day. Mollie willingly assented to this, but she was languid and out of spirits, and soon grew tired; so they sat down under an acacia in old Ranelagh and watched the children playing round them. It was one of those golden days of September, when the very air seems impregnated with strange sweet fragrance, when one thinks of waving corn-fields, and how the wheat ripples in the breeze like a yellow sea; and of deep, quiet lanes—with nut copses and blackberry thickets—or, better still, of a hillside clothed with purple heather, as though Nature had flung one of her royal robes aside. A day when the grand old earth seemed mellow and ripe for the sickle of old Time, and a soft sadness and sense of quiet brooding are over everything. "The summer is over," it seemed to say, "and the fleeting shows of youth, and the fruits of the earth are garnered in Nature's storehouse, and the feast of all good things is ready; so eat and enjoy, and be thankful." The sisters were sitting hand in hand, and Waveney's small face looked pinched and long from inward fretting, for she was one who took the troubles of life with outward calmness, and chafed under them inwardly; but the sunshine, and the crisp, sweet air and the soft patter of red and yellow leaves, brought their message of comfort. "Mollie," she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "I am thinking what a beautiful world it is, and how good life is, after all, in spite of worries. Here we are, making ourselves miserable because I have to go away to-morrow. Do you know, we are like those two foolish children we saw that day when father took us in the country. Don't you remember how they cried because their nurse wanted them to go down a lane—it was so dark and narrow, they said, and they were sure the wolves would eat them up; but the nurse knew there was that lovely open meadow beyond. Do you read my little parable, dear?" "Yes, I think so," returned Mollie; but she spoke doubtfully. Waveney was rather prone to moralise when she found herself alone with Mollie. She called it "thinking aloud." Mollie was her other self. She could tell her things that she would not have breathed to any other creature. "Well, you see," went on Waveney, "one has steep little bits of road now and then, like that poor King of Corinth—Sisyphus—was not that his name? We have to roll our stone up the hill Difficulty; but one never knows what may happen next. By the bye, Mollie, I rather fancy that Monsieur Blackie only pretends to play at things, and that he is really a clever man. There is something I cannot make out about him. He is mysterious. And then, why did he buy 'King Canute'?" "Because his friend wanted a historical picture," returned Mollie, who always believed what people said. "I know he told us so," replied Waveney, thoughtfully. "Mollie, I have a sort of conviction that you will often see him—that he means to turn up pretty frequently at Cleveland Terrace." "Whatever makes you think so?" asked Mollie, much astonished at this. "What a ridiculous idea, Wave! when you told him yourself that you were leaving home to-morrow." "But he does not come to see me," retorted Waveney; and then she added, hastily, "he is a friendly sort of person, and comes to see us all." "Oh, yes, of course," returned Mollie, perfectly satisfied with this view of the case. "Then I daresay he will come sometimes when father is at home. He asked me very particularly when he was likely to be in, and if I went out in the afternoon, and I said, 'Oh, dear no, I always go out early to do the marketing, and then I am too tired to go out again.' Waveney, he did look so kindly at me, when I said that. 'Walking tires you, then. What a pity!' and he seemed quite sorry for me." "He is a nice little Black Prince," replied Waveney, rather absently. The children had left the gardens with their nurses, and the place was now quite deserted. The next moment a gentleman crossed the lime avenue, and walked slowly down the path. As he passed their bench, he looked at the two girls in a quiet, observant way, and passed on. As soon as he was out of hearing, Waveney said, a little wickedly, "Mollie, we have found him at last, 'the noticeable man, with large grey eyes.'" For this was an old joke of theirs. They had been reading Wordsworth together one summer's day on this very bench, and when Waveney had come to this stanza she had laid down the book. "I like that description, Mollie," she had said; "it gives one a pleasant idea of a person. 'A noticeable man, with large grey eyes.' Now, I wonder if we shall ever see any one answering to that description." Mollie laughed, and looked interested when Waveney said this; but a moment later she whispered, "Hush! he is coming back;" and then, to Mollie's alarm—for she was very shy and timid—he stopped and lifted his hat. "Will you have the kindness to inform me," he said, addressing Mollie in a peculiarly clear, mellow voice, "if this path will take me to Dunedin Terrace. I am not well acquainted with Chelsea." Mollie blushed and looked confused. Topography was not her strong point. "I think so. I am not quite sure. Do you know, Waveney?" "Yes, but it is rather a roundabout way. Dunedin Terrace is quite half a mile away;" and then Waveney rose from the bench and considered her bearings, while the stranger quietly awaited her decision. He was a tall man, and though his face was plain, there was something in his expression that attracted notice, an air of unmistakable refinement and culture. The keen grey eyes had already noted Mollie's lovely face; now they were fixed on the plainer sister. "I think I can direct you properly now," observed Waveney, with her usual brightness; "but it is just a little complicated. You must go out of this gate, and cross Cleveland Terrace, take the second turning to the right, and the first to the left, and you will be in Upper Dunedin Terrace." "Thank you very much;" and then he repeated her directions gravely and slowly; and then, lifting his hat with another "Thank you," walked quickly away. "Yes, I was right," continued Waveney; "he is certainly a noticeable man; and what large, clear eyes." But Mollie shrugged her shoulders a little pettishly. "I think he was rather ugly," she remarked, "and he is quite old—five-and-thirty, at least; and did you notice his shabby coat—why, it was almost as shabby as father's." "No," returned Waveney; "I did not notice that. I was only thinking what a grand-looking man he was, and he spoke so nicely, too!" Then, as Mollie was evidently not interested, she changed the subject; and they sat talking until it was time for them to go home to tea. It was a melancholy evening, in spite of all Waveney's efforts. Mr. Ward was tired and dull, and Noel was out of humour; but his sisters, who understood him thoroughly, knew that this was only his mode of expressing his feelings. So he drew up his coat-collar and answered snappishly whenever Waveney addressed him; and grew red, and pretended to be deaf, when she alluded to her going away. And when she was bidding him good-night, and her fingers touched his rough hair caressingly, he threw back his head with an annoyed jerk. "I hate having my hair pulled," he said, crossly; "so give over, old Storm-and-Stress;" and then he whistled and walked out of the room with his chin in the air; but not before Waveney saw that his glasses were misty. "Mollie, darling, remember I shall be home on Sunday, and it is Tuesday now," were Waveney's last words as she jumped into the train, and her father closed the door. Waveney stood at the window until the dark tunnel hid them from her sight. Mollie's sweet face was swollen with crying, and her father's countenance was sad and full of care; the child whom he had cherished with peculiar tenderness was leaving his roof because he was incapable of providing for his household properly. He had been a failure all his life, and he knew it; but it was bitter to him that his old friend Althea should know it, too. Waveney took a cab when she reached Dereham. The driver touched his hat when she told him to drive to the Red House, Erpingham. "I know it," he said, as he took off his horse's nose-bag. "There ain't a cab-driver in Dereham that don't know the ladies at the Red House; they give us a supper in Christmas week, and there is another for the costers that use their donkeys well—and it is a rare spread, too;" and then he smacked his lips and jumped on the box. Waveney looked out and tried to interest herself in the various objects they passed; but her head felt heavy as lead. The common looked lovely in the afternoon sunshine, and, as before, the children were dancing in and out the trees. Some little boys were sailing a boat on the pond, and a Newfoundland was swimming across it with a stick in his mouth. Some riders were cantering over the grass. Every one seemed gay and animated and full of life; dogs barked, children laughed, and the cawing of rooks filled the air. As they drove in at the lodge gates the two little Yorkshire terriers ran out barking, and the elderly maid Mitchell came to the door. "My mistresses are out, ma'am," she said, pleasantly, "but Nurse Marks has orders to make you comfortable. Will you please to go in, and I will see to the box and pay the cabman. No, ma'am," as Waveney timidly offered her some money. "Miss Harford always pays the cabmen herself." "Aye, and pays them well, too," observed the driver, with a complacent grin. "No arguing with a poor chap who has to work hard for his living about an extra sixpence." Waveney felt very strange and forlorn as she stepped into the hall, with Fuss and Fury barking excitedly round her, and then she saw a little old woman with a very long nose, and hair as white as snow bundling down the wide staircase to meet her; for no other word could describe Nurse Marks's rolling and peculiar gait. "She is the most wonderful little old woman I have ever seen," wrote Waveney, in her first letter home. "If you were to dress her in a red cloak and peaked hat she would make an excellent Mother Hubbard, or the 'old woman who lived in her shoe,' or that ambitious old person who tried to brush the cobwebs from the sky. To see her poking that long nose of hers into corners is quite killing. She has bright eyes like a dormouse, and a cosy voice—do you know what I mean by that?—and she wears the funniest cap, with a black bow at the top. But there! you must see her for yourself." "My ladies are out, dearie," she began at once, rather breathlessly. "Miss Doreen is at the Home, and Mrs. Mainwaring has sent for Miss Althea unexpectedly, to go to some grand At Home; but she will be back to dinner, and she begged that you would excuse her absence, and I am going to take you to my room and give you some tea; for you are tired, dearie, I know;" and then Nurse Marks led the way upstairs, and Waveney followed, feeling as though she were the heroine of a fairy-story and that some benevolent fairy had her in tow. "My ladies always calls this the Cubby-house," observed Nurse Marks, in a proud tone, "and to my thinking it is the nicest room in the house, though it is odd-shaped, as Mitchell says, and a trifle low." It was oddly shaped indeed. One corner had been cut off, and the window, a wide one, had been set in an extraordinary angle, so that part of the room was insufficiently lighted. Here there was a large Japanese screen, which hid the bed and washstand. A round table was in the centre of the room, and an old carved wardrobe and a nursery cupboard occupied the wall space. Some comfortable-looking rocking chairs, and a worn old couch, gave it a cosy aspect; but the chief feature of the room was the number of photographs and water-colour paintings that covered the walls, while framed ones stood by dozens on the mantelpiece and chest-of-drawers. One of them at once attracted Waveney. "Why, that is the corporal," she said, in surprise. "Corporal Marks, I mean;" and she spoke in puzzled tones. "Aye, that's Jonadab," returned Nurse Marks, complacently. "It is a grand picture, and his medals come out finely. Dinah thought a heap of that photo;" and then the bright dormouse eyes looked at Waveney, curiously. "Well, it beats me that you should know brother Jonadab. After all, the world is not so big as we think it." "Of course I know Corporal Marks," returned Waveney, excitedly; but there was a lump in her throat, too, at the sight of the little corporal's familiar face, with its round, surprised eyes and shock of grey hair. "And I know Sergeant McGill, too." Then, at the mention of McGill, Nurse Marks sat down and indulged in a hearty laugh. "Well, now, if that is not like a book! And you are the young lady that Jonadab is always telling about! Is it not comfortable to know that 'their good works do follow them'? That's true, even in this world, for it stands to reason that things can't be hidden for ever. Sit down, dearie, and I will pour you out some tea. You are a bit homesick and strange, but that will pass, so keep up your heart, dear lamb;" and Nurse Marks poked her long nose into the tea-pot, for she was short-sighted; and Waveney watched her a little anxiously; but she need not have feared: Nurse Marks was a clever woman, and could always measure her distances accurately. "Aye, he is a grand man, McGill," she remarked, as she cut some delicate bread-and-butter with a practised hand. "But he is not long for this world. Jonadab will miss him sorely, I fear; they are a queer pair to look at them, but they are just bound up in each other. They are like a couple of old children, I tell them; they quarrel just for the sake of making it up. But there, as Dinah used to say—poor thing!—her man was fine at argifying." "Was Dinah your brother's wife?" "Aye, dearie, and Jonadab thought a deal of her, and grieved sore when the dear Lord took her. You will be wondering at his name, maybe, for it is out of the common, is Jonadab; but mother used to tell us that when the boy came, father was so proud and pleased that he went at once to the Bible for a name. And presently he came to mother, looking as pleased as possible, as though he had found a treasure. 'Rachel,' he says, in a loud voice, 'there is not a finer fellow to my thinking than Jonadab, the son of Rechab, and he was dead against the drink, too, and it is Jonadab that we will call him;' and so Jonadab it was," finished Nurse Marks, complacently. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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