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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> <h3>A CHILD'S CREED.</h3> <blockquote>"I was born, sir, when the crab was ascending and my affairs go backwards."—Congreve. "Heaven lies about us in our infancy."—Wordsworth. </blockquote> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Thorold Chaytor was not an imaginative man; he was neither emotional nor impressionable, and more than once lately he had puzzled himself over the singular persistency with which his long-lost brother Tristram haunted him. For the last two or three years he had hardly thought of him, but now, as he crossed the bridge of an evening, little tricks of speech and long-forgotten scenes would recur to his memory; but he never spoke of this to Joanna. "Poor old Trist, I hope nothing has happened to him," he said to himself one evening, when the impression of his brother's presence had been so unusually strong that the familiar face had seemed as though it had been limned against the darkness. And then he thought sadly, and shuddered at the thought, how it was a well-known psychological fact that people at the point of death had often appeared, or rather seemed to appear, to some relative or friend. "Of course, it is only animal magnetism—the transmission of thought—the influence of one mind over another," he thought—"a strong wave-beat of sympathy. But I should not have thought that I was the man for that sort of experience." And then he put this latch-key into the door, and let himself in. As he hung up his hat on its accustomed peg, he was aware of an unusual silence in the house. The parlour door was not opened, and there was no Joanna, with her irritating question, "Is that you, Thorold?" Neither did he hear her soft, gliding footsteps overhead. "Perhaps she has gone to the Red House after all," he said to himself. And the thought of an evening of blissful solitude pleased him well. But as he entered the sitting-room, he started. There were no preparations for the evening meal. The tea-things were still on the table, and, to his intense surprise, a child—actually a child—was fast asleep on the couch by the fire. Thorold crossed the room softly, and contemplated the little stranger with puzzled eyes. "It must be one of Joa's waifs and strays," he thought—for he was aware of his sister's charitable propensities. And yet she hardly looked like a tramp's child. "Very likely the poor little thing has lost her way, and Joa is taking her in for the night," he continued. "Poor child, she seems tired out." And then his eyes softened, as he noticed how carefully Joanna had wrapped her up in her old fur cloak. The next moment he heard his sister's footsteps on the stairs, and went out into the passage to question her. But when he saw her face, he was struck dumb with astonishment. Joanna was looking radiant. She was dimpling and smiling like the girl Joa of old, and her blue eyes were shining through happy tears. "Oh, Thorold, why are you so late. We have wanted you so!" And Joanna's thin white hands grasped him almost convulsively. "Who is that child?" he whispered, loudly. "Is it some one you have found in the street?" Then, in her excitement, she gave him an hysterical little push. "You have seen her! Oh, Thorold, is she not like him? His little Betty! My darling Tristram's little Betty!" and as he stared at her, and turned pale—for a sudden prevision of the truth had come to him—she sobbed out, "Yes, yes, Tristram has come—he is upstairs; he is in your room, Thorold. Go to him, dear, while I get your supper ready." And then Thorold drew a long breath, and darted upstairs. And Joanna, crying softly, out of sheer bliss and gratitude, busied herself in womanly ministrations. Thorold was thankful to meet his brother alone. In spite of his reserve he was a man of deep feelings, and when he felt Tristram's mighty grasp of his hand, and heard his familiar voice say in broken accents, "Theo, dear old fellow!—dear old chap!" he was almost too moved to speak. "Why have you not written to us all these years?" were his first coherent words; but Tristram shook his head—he had no excuse to offer. He had drifted from place to place, seeking work and not always finding it, and he did not wish his friends to know how hardly things had gone with him. "I was always a proud beggar, Thorold," he said, with a sigh, "but my back is pretty well broken now, and there's Bet, you see." "And Ella—where is your wife, Trist?" Then Tristram turned his head aside. "Ella is dead. I buried her two years ago," he returned, sadly. "Poor dear Ella, she never had her good things in this life. 'You have taken me for better or for worse, but there has been no better in it at all,' I often said to her; but she never liked me to say it. Ah, she was the best wife a man could have, but she lies in the cemetery at Melbourne, and little Theo lies with her—I called him after you, old chap. But he never got over the fever. I think it was the loss of the boy that finished Ella, for she never seemed to hold up her head again." Tristram evidently felt his wife's death acutely, and Thorold, with quiet tact, said a word or two of sympathy and then changed the subject. Before their brief talk was over, and they went downstairs to join Joanna, Thorold found out that Tristram was utterly unchanged. The handsome ne'er-do-well, as Althea used to call him, was only a little older, and perhaps a trifle rougher, but he was the same irresponsible, happy-go-lucky, easy-tempered Tristram of old. Shiftless and indolent, he had drifted wherever the tide of circumstance had carried him. Sometimes he had worked and at other times he had starved; but when any good Samaritan stretched out a helping hand and drew him out from the Slough of Despond, he would pull himself together and go on gaily, as though the sun of prosperity had always shone on him. Never were there two brothers so widely dissimilar. But Tristram was no evil-living prodigal, no black sheep, to be dreaded and shunned by all right-minded people; he had loved his wife, and had treated her well, and the poor woman had repaid him with the truest devotion; and now his sister had received him with tears of joy. His sins were the sins of a weak nature, a nature that disliked effort, and chose the softest paths for itself, and which landed him in strange places sometimes. "I have made an awful muddle of my life," he said, when Thorold questioned him with kindly interest. "Don't you recollect the dear old governor said something of the kind on his death-bed? Upon my word, old chap, I think I am the unluckiest beggar that ever walked this earth. Nothing prospers with me. If I make a little money I somehow contrive to lose it. I am pretty nearly at the end of my tether, I can tell you that?" "What made you leave Melbourne!" asked Thorold, in his calm, judicial way. Then Tristram shrugged his shoulders and seemed unwilling to answer the question. "Well, I was a fool," he returned, presently; and he pulled his rough moustache a little fiercely. "The biggest fool out, if you will; but I got into a regular panic. There were two of them lying there, and Bet was seedy, and I got it into my head that the climate of Melbourne did not suit her; and then I thought what a fine thing it would be if Joa could look after her a bit. A child wants a woman's care; and as I smoked my pipe that evening I had such a fit of home-sickness that I was nearly crazy. I had a bit of money put by, and I took our berths the next day; and here we are, old chap, and you must just make the best of us;" and Tristram brought down his hand heavily on his brother's shoulder. They went downstairs after this, and found Betty awake and sitting on her aunt's lap. The little one was chattering happily to her, and Joanna was fondly stroking the plait of fair hair. "So he says to me, 'You are dad's Betty, are you, my little Miss?' and I said, 'Yes, of course, Mr. Captain, that is what daddie does always call me,' and he laughed in his beard, oh! such a great laugh." "Why, Bet, you chatterbox, are you talking about your friend the captain?" exclaimed Tristram. "Come here, you monkey, and speak to Uncle Theo;" and Betty came with ready obedience. "I am very glad to see you, Uncle Theo," she said, gravely, slipping her little hand into his. And Thorold stooped down and kissed her cheek; then a little awkwardly he lifted her on his knee, and scrutinised the childish features. Bet's blue eyes opened rather widely; she was vaguely alarmed by her new uncle's solemnity. "Daddie," she said, after a few minutes' silent endurance. "Does not Uncle Theo like me? He do stare so. And he has such big eyes." For, even to wee Betty, "the noticeable man, with large grey eyes" was a formidable being at close quarters. They all laughed at this; and Thorold kissed her again, and told her to run to Aunt Joa and she would make her more comfortable. But to his astonishment Bet refused to leave him. Her nature was a curiously sensitive one, and she had got it into her small mind that her plain speaking had hurt him, and that she must somehow make it up with him. "I don't mind big eyes if they are nice ones," she said, graciously; "and yours are pretty nice, Uncle Theo." Bet was rather aggrieved when her flattering speech was received with fresh mirth. She was not so sure after that that she did not like Aunt Joa much the best. When supper was over, Bet went to bed. Joanna had refused to part with her, and had carried her off to her own room. To the jaded, disappointed woman, the sight of Bet kneeling by the bedside and saying her simple prayers was very sweet and touching. "God bless dear daddie, and my own dear mammie and dear little brother Theo, and Uncle Theo and Aunt Joa, too, for ever and ever.—Amen." "Bet, darling," whispered Joanna, pressing the little white-gowned figure tenderly in her arms, "did father teach you those prayers?" "Yes, he did teach me," returned Bet, sleepily; and then she roused up. "There was an old woman once, Aunt Joa, she was a silly old woman, and she did say to dad, 'Why do you let that baby pray for her mother? I am quite shocked,' and dad, he did say, 'I am sorry, ma'am, that you should be shocked, but I don't think the angels are a bit offended because my little girl asks God to bless one of the dearest of mothers.' Oh, I did laugh, I was so pleased when dad said that!" When Joanna went downstairs, she found the two brothers talking over the fire. She sat down beside Tristram, but on this evening there was no tangled skein in her hands; they were folded placidly in her lap. It was occupation enough for her to look at Tristam's brown, weather-beaten face, and to listen to his voice. Now and then he looked at her with a kind smile. "Trist, do you know that Thorold has nearly paid off father's debts?" she said, presently. Then Tristram regarded his brother almost with awe. "Oh, you were always a fine fellow, Theo," he said, enviously. "You are the good elder brother, you know, and I am the prodigal." Here he sighed heavily. "Well, I am weary of my husks, I want to turn over a new leaf and settle down. You will find me some work, old chap, and I'll stick to it like a Trojan, I give you my word I will." "Work is not so easy to find," returned Thorold, quietly, "but I will do what I can to help you. I am pretty busy myself, for I have to get up an important case. We will talk about ways and means to-morrow." "Yes, and I must be going to my diggings now, or Mother Grimson will think I am lost. She's a decent body, Mother Grimson, and has been very good to my Bet." As Tristram rose from his chair, Joanna caught hold of his arm. "Wait a moment, Trist—I want to ask Thorold something before you go. Why should not Trist and Betty come here?—at least for a time. There is plenty of room, and I could look after Bet—and Jemima is so fond of children. Do have them, my dear, it will make me so happy;" and Joanna timidly put her hand on Thorold's arm. "No, no!" returned Tristram; but he spoke a little hoarsely. "You are a good creature, Joa, but I must not take advantage of your kindness. I have made my own bed, and it is a hard one, and I must lie on it." But he looked at his brother very wistfully as he said this. There was no hesitation in Thorold's manner. "Joanna is right," he said, calmly, "you had better come to us, Trist, at least for a time, while you are looking for a berth to suit you;" and Tristram accepted this offer with gratitude. "Oh, Thorold, you have made us both so happy!" exclaimed Joanna, gratefully, when Tristram had left them. "Bet is such a darling, I could not bring myself to part with her." But Thorold only smiled at her without speaking. When Joanna had gone up to her room, he sat down by the fire. He wanted to think over things quietly. The millstone that had been so long round his neck was slipping off, and now he must adjust his shoulders to a new burden. The wanderer had returned, and he and his helpless child were to be received under his roof. Was he glad or sorry for this? Was the burden or the joy the greater? Would his home life be gladdened or still further depressed by these new inmates? Thorold could not answer these questions; his straightforward, sincere nature only grasped the one fact. "It is my duty. With all his faults and follies, he is my only brother. God do so to me and more also, if I refuse to help my own flesh and blood!" Althea was very much moved when Waveney carried home the news that evening. She drove down to High Street so early the next morning that Joanna was still doing her marketing. She found Tristram sitting by the fire, with Bet on his knee. He put down the child when he saw a stranger. "Do you remember an old friend, Tristram?" she said, holding out her hand, and looking at him kindly. Then a sudden light dawned on him. "Is it—can it be Althea?" he asked; and as she smiled he wrung her hands so energetically that she winced with pain. "Oh, yes, of course, I recognise you now. You are just the same, Althea. You are not a bit changed all these years." "No, I have only grown older; we all do that, you know. And this is your little girl, Tristram? But she is not like you." "No, Bet takes after her mother; but Ella was pretty, and Bet is not, bless her." Then Betty, who was snugly ensconced in Althea's arm, peeped out at her father with a protesting face. "Did you want your little Bet to be pretty, dad?" she asked, rather sadly. "No, my pet," he returned, laughing. "I don't want her any different." "Oh, I am glad of that," returned the child; and then she frowned, anxiously. "You are quite sure, dad? I could try very hard, you know; every one can try hard to be pretty." And then, in a low voice, "And I could ask God to help me. Mother always did say, I might ask for anything I want; and I could just say, 'Dad wants his little girl to be real pretty, so please make me so for ever and for ever.—Amen.'" Tristram looked at Althea with a smile; he was used to Bet's quaint speeches. He was surprised to see that Althea's eyes were full of tears. "How beautiful it is!" she sighed. "The faith of little children, how it shames us poor worldlings!" But at that moment Joanna entered the room, and Bet, with a joyful exclamation, ran to meet her. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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