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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> <h3>"LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED!"</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Rainy and rough sets the day— There's a heart beating for somebody;  I must be up and away, Somebody's anxious for somebody." Swain. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Mr. Ingram had once compared the English climate to unregenerated womanhood, and had declaimed on this subject in his own whimsical fashion at Cleveland Terrace, much to the delight of his young friend the humourist. "It is womanhood pure and simple, and unadulterated by civilisation," he continued, blandly, as he twisted his Mephistophelian moustache. "It is the savage mother, and no mistake, with all her crude grand humours. Sometimes she is benevolent, fairly brimming over with the milk of loving kindness. She has her sportive moods, when she bubbles over with smiles and mirth—a May day, for example—when she walks through the land as meekly as a garlanded lamb." "Hear, hear!" observed Noel, sotto voce; but Mollie, who was deeply impressed, frowned him down. Mr. Ingram paused, as though for well-deserved applause. He felt himself becoming eloquent, so he took up his parable again. "But the savage mother knows how to sulk and frown, and her tear-storms and icy moods are terribly trying. There is no coquetry about her then; it is the storm and stress of a great passion." And with this grand peroration Mr. Ingram gave his moustache a final twist, and, as Noel phrased it, brought down the house. Waveney thought of Monsieur Blackie's parable—for of course it had been duly retailed to her in Mollie's weekly budget—when the weather changed disastrously before Christmas. The Frost King no longer touched the earth with his white fingers; the wintry sunshine had faded from the landscape; the skies were grey and threatening, and the raw cold made one's flesh creep. "Hardly Christmas weather," Althea observed, regretfully, as she looked out from the library window at the blackened grass and sodden, uninviting paths. Only under the wide verandah of the Porch House a crowd of birds were feeding. Waveney was, as usual, watching them. "I am afraid it will rain before evening," returned Doreen. "The barometer is going down fast. I do so dislike a wet Christmas." And to this Althea cordially agreed. But no amount of impending rain could damp Waveney's pleasurable expectations, for she had a delightful programme before her. That year Christmas day fell on Saturday, and as Althea and Doreen always dined with Mrs. Mainwaring, Althea proposed driving her to Cleveland Terrace. "Aunt Sara would be delighted to see you, dear!" she said—"indeed, you were included in the invitation. But I told her that you would far rather be with your own people." "Oh, thank you, thank you," returned the girl, gratefully. But her joy was unbounded when Althea suggested that she should not return to the Red House until Tuesday afternoon. "I shall need all my helpers then," she finished, smiling; and Waveney understood her. The Christmas programme had been duly unfolded to her. There was to be a grand tea and entertainment for Althea's girls at the Porch House, a festive evening at the Home for Workers, a supper for the Dereham cabmen, and another for the costermongers; and on Twelfth Night the servants at the Red House always entertained their relations and friends in the Recreation Hall. "In fact," as Doreen expressed it, "no one would have time to sit down comfortably until the feast of Epiphany had passed." But, though Doreen spoke in a resigned tone of a weary worker, it might be doubted if any one enjoyed more thoroughly the bustle and preparation. The day before Christmas was a busy one for all the inmates of the Red House. Doreen was at the Home all day superintending the Christmas decorations, and Althea spent most of her time at the Porch House, where a band of voluntary helpers were making garlands of evergreens, and framing Christmas mottoes in ivy under her skilful direction. Waveney would willingly have helped in the work, but Althea had other employment for her. Some of her pensioners lived on the other side of the river, and Waveney, who often acted as her almoner, went off early in the afternoon to order parcels of groceries and other good things, and to carry them to two or three old women who lived in the almshouses. The old women were garrulous, and detained her with accounts of their various ailments, so it was quite dark before the little gate of the almshouse garden closed behind her. For some time she had heard the pattering of the rain against the window-panes, and knew that she would have a long, wet walk home. "Aye, but it is a wild night," observed Mrs. Bates, lugubriously, as she stirred her bright little fire afresh, "and it makes one shiver to one's very bones, that it do." "But your warm shawl will be a comfort," returned Waveney, cheerfully. "Well, I must go now. 'A happy Christmas to you,' Mrs. Bates, and I hope your rheumatism will soon be better." And then Waveney unhasped the upper half of Widow Bates's door, and peered out into the darkness. It was not inviting, certainly. The cold, sleety rain was falling in torrents. A wild night, assuredly, and one that meant mischief. But Waveney wore a stout waterproof cloak that Althea had lent to her, and thought she would be proof against any amount of rain or sleet. True, her umbrella was just a little slit, but she would soon have it re-covered. A narrow, winding passage, resembling a cathedral close, led to High Street. A few old-fashioned houses fronted the garden wall of the Vicarage. Here it was so dark that Waveney was rather startled when she heard a child's voice close to her elbow. "Oh, please, I am quite lost, and will you take me home?" There was something familiar in the voice, but in the darkness it was impossible to see the child's face; but Waveney's ear was never deaf to any childish appeal. "Oh, you poor little thing," she said, kindly, "where do you live, and what is your name?" "I am dad's little Betty," returned the child. She spoke in a tired, dreary little tone, "and I live across the water, past the church, with Uncle Theo and Aunt Joa." Then, in spite of the wet, Waveney stooped down and put her arm round her. "Why, it is my little friend, Betty," she said, in a puzzled tone. "Why are you out alone this dreadful night? Oh, you poor darling, your frock and jacket are quite soaking. Come, come, we must go home as fast as possible. Give me your hand, dear, and come closer to me, so that my umbrella may shelter you." "Is it my little lady?" asked Betty, in a perplexed voice. "She did speak to me so kindly once on the seat by the river; but I have never, never seen her again." "But we shall see each other presently, when we get to the shops," returned Waveney, cheerily. "Betty, darling, tell me, why are you out by yourself?" "I wanted to meet dad," returned Betty, with a little sob. "Aunt Joa was out, and I was so lonely all by myself, and Jemima was busy and told me to run away, and I was aching dreadful because it was Christmas Eve and dad did not come; and I thought"—and Bet sobbed afresh—"it would be such fun to see him pass me, and then I should call out loud, 'Here's Bet, dad, and I have come to meet you;' but there was no dad at all." "Yes; and then you missed your way?" "It was so dark," returned Bet, plaintively, "and there were trees, and I fell down and hurt myself, and then I got frightened. Are you frightened in the dark, too?" "No; I am only frightened of doing wrong things, Betty dear. I am afraid you have been very naughty, and that poor Aunt Joa will be anxious. Can you walk faster, darling?" But Bet, tired and miserable, felt as though her poor little legs were weighted with lead. But for the umbrella Waveney would have carried her; it hurt her to hear the child sobbing to herself quietly in the darkness. It was a cruel night for any child to be out. Mr. Ingram's "savage mother" was in her fiercest mood, and seemed lashing herself up to fresh fury. There was scarcely a foot-passenger to be seen on the bridge, but a few shivering men and women were in the town making their Christmas purchases. Bet cheered up a little when the bridge had been crossed. "We shall soon be there now," she sighed. "Do you know my home, little lady?" "Yes, dear; and I know your Aunt Joa, too, and your Uncle Theo." "And dad?" "No, darling, not dad. But I daresay I shall know him some day. See how pretty all those lights look! Yes, this is the house," as Betty pulled at her hand. And the next moment they were standing on the doorstep. To Waveney's surprise, Mr. Chaytor opened the door. He regarded them with amazement. Waveney's old umbrella had not fulfilled its mission, and the velvet on her hat was soaking, and so was her hair. But she was nothing to Betty. In the lamplight she looked the most abject little child possible. She was splashed with mud from head to foot, and her plait of fair hair was so wet that Mr. Chaytor hurriedly withdrew his hand. "Why, she is wet through!" he said, in a shocked voice. Then Waveney hurriedly explained matters. "I am afraid Betty has been rather naughty," she said, quickly. "She went out by herself in the hope of meeting her father. And then she lost herself, and got frightened. She was just by Aylmer's Almshouses when she spoke to me." "Aylmer's Almshouses, across the river!" he exclaimed, quite horrified. "Why, I thought she was with my sister! What are we to do, Miss Ward?" looking at her with all a man's helplessness. "Joanna may not be back for an hour, and Jemima has gone to the General Post-Office. And the child is dripping with wet from head to foot." Waveney was quite equal to the emergency. "I think, if you will allow me, I had better take her upstairs," she returned, quietly, "and get off her wet things. And if you could get her something hot to drink—milk, or tea—anything, so that it is hot." Then Mr. Chaytor looked relieved. "I could make her a cup of tea," he returned, "if you are sure that will do. The kettle is boiling now." "Thank you, very much," was all Waveney answered. "Now, Betty dear, will you show me the way to your room?" "I sleep in Aunt Joa's room," replied Betty, making brave efforts to restrain her tears. Her poor little lips were blue with cold, and her teeth were chattering. And her fingers were so numb that they could not turn the handle of the door, and Waveney had to come to her help. It was a large, pleasant room, furnished simply, and a bright fire gave it an air of comfort. A child's cot stood beside the bed. There were some fine old prints on the walls, and the silver and ebony brush on the toilet-table, and the quilted silk eiderdown on her bed, spoke of better days. Waveney took off her dripping waterproof and hat, and then she set to work, and in five minutes Betty's wet things lay in a heap on the floor, and she was wrapped up in her aunt's warm flannel dressing-gown, and ensconced in the big easy-chair. Then Waveney sat down on the rug and rubbed the frozen little feet. "Betty," she said, coaxingly, "I do wish you would be a good child and go straight to bed." But Betty puckered up her face at this, and looked so miserable that Waveney did not dare to say more. "It's my dad's birthday, and Christmas Eve," she said, in a heart-broken voice. "Dad would not enjoy his tea one bit unless I buttered his toast and gave him his two lumps of sugar." "Well, then, you must tell me where to find you some dry, clean clothes," returned Waveney, with a disapproving shake of her head. But just then there was a tap at the door, and when she said, "Come in," to her surprise, Mr. Chaytor entered with two large cups of steaming tea in his hands. "Jemima is still playing truant," he said, apologetically, "so I was obliged to bring the tea myself." And then he set down the cups on a little table, piling up Joanna's small possessions in a most ruthless fashion, to make room for them. Perhaps the novelty of the situation bewildered him, or something in the little fireside scene appealed to him; for he stood beside Betty's chair for two or three minutes without speaking. Betty, in her scarlet dressing-gown, was certainly a most picturesque-looking little object, but Thorold's eyes rested longer on the girlish figure on the rug, at the busy ministering hands, and the damp, curly hair, still glistening with wet. "Do please drink your tea, before it cools," he said, pleadingly. "When Jemima comes back, I shall send her up to help you, and clear all the wet things away." And then he went downstairs, and set on the kettle again to boil; and all the while the memory of a bare little foot resting on a girl's soft, pink palm, haunted him. "It is the eternal motherhood," he said to himself, "that is in all true women. No wonder Bet loves her. How could she help it?—how could she help it?" And then the door-bell rang, and Jemima entered with profuse apologies at her tardiness. She was sent upstairs with a supply of hot water and towels, and as soon as Betty had finished her tea, her face and hands were washed, her hair dried and neatly tied with a ribbon. Then she was dressed in clean, fresh garments. "I have got my best frock on, and I feel quite nice, and like Christmas Eve," exclaimed Betty, with a quaint little caper. "Oh, I am sure dad must have come, and Aunt Joa, too. Do let us go downstairs." "Let me wash my hands first, darling," pleaded Waveney. "And oh, dear, how untidy I look!" and Betty stood by the toilet-table watching with critical eyes while Waveney tried to bring the unruly locks into order. "Aunt Joa has such long, long hair," she observed. "When she sits down it almost touches the floor. But yours is nice baby hair, too—it is like little rings that have come undone; but it is pretty, don't you think so?"—feeling that Waveney must be the best judge of such a personal matter. Jemima giggled as she picked up the little muddy boots. "Law, Miss Bet," she said, reprovingly, "how you do talk! No little ladies that I ever knew said such things. There's your pa, he is downstairs and a-waiting for his tea." But Bet heard no more. "Come, come," she said, pulling Waveney by the dress. "Dad is downstairs, and the curls don't matter one bit." Then Waveney reluctantly followed her; her hat and gloves were drying; she could not possibly put them on for another half-hour, and she could hardly stay ruminating in Miss Chaytor's bedroom. Joanna had not yet returned; she was evidently weather-bound at some friend's house, but a good-looking, weather-beaten man, in a rough grey coat, stood with his back to the fire. Bet ran to him at once. "Oh, dad, I did so want to be ready for you, but I got wet and the little lady was helping me to dress up again." "Yes, I know, Bet;" and then her father kissed her a little gravely, and held out his hand to Waveney. "I am very grateful to you, Miss Ward. My brother has been telling me of your kindness to my little girl; she has been a very naughty child, I am afraid." Then Bet looked up in his face, and her lip quivered. "Was it really bad of me to go out and meet you, dad?—really and truly?" "Yes, darling, really and truly." And then Tristram took her on his knee. "What would dad have done without his little Betty?—and she might have been lost or run over." "Oh, I would have found my way back," returned Bet, with a wise little nod of her head. "But I won't never do it again." And then her little arms went round his neck, and she rested her head against the rough grey coat; for her childish heart was full to the brim. "Miss Ward," observed Thorold, in rather a pleading voice, "as my sister is absent, may I ask you to pour out the tea." Then Waveney, blushing a little at the unexpected request, took her place quietly at the tea-tray. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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