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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> <h3>"WOOED, AND MARRIED, AND A'."</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Mir. "Here's my hand." Fer. "And mine with my heart in it." The Tempest. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "There's a divinity that shapes our ends,  Rough hew them how we will." Hamlet. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> It was arranged that Waveney was to remain at the Red House while painting and papering were being carried on at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace. Ann, the heavy-footed, was dismissed with a month's wages, and Mrs. Muggins accompanied her. A competent caretaker was put in charge. And Althea had already engaged two capable maids, to come in when the work of renovation was complete. It was the first time Doreen and Althea had ever spent August in town; but Mrs. Mainwaring's sudden illness had detained them, and, as soon as she was fit to travel, they had promised to stay with her at Whitby. While Waveney remained with her friends, Everard Ward and his son went down to a farm-house in Yorkshire, that Lord Ralston had recommended, where they would have excellent accommodation, at a very moderate price, and very good fishing. It was the first real holiday that Everard had enjoyed for years, and Noel wrote ridiculously illustrated epistles, retailing sundry ludicrous adventures. "His revered parent," as he informed Waveney, "was becoming fatter, and more plebeian, every day." And here there was a spirited pen-and-ink sketch of Everard in a huge straw hat, fishing on a boulder, with a briar-wood pipe in his mouth, and several small fishes winking at him as they frisked harmlessly by. "Caught nothing since Friday week," was written underneath the picture. In spite of her happiness, Waveney could not reconcile herself to Mollie's absence. The parting had tried them both. No one forgot the bride's tear-stained face, as Lord Ralston lifted her into the carriage. "Oh, do take care of my Wave," were her last words to Althea, as they drove away. Waveney shed many a tear in her Pansy Room. But she cheered up when Mollie's first letter came. And after that she wrote almost daily. She was very happy, she said, and Moritz was so good to her. But of course it was strange, being without her Wave. It was such a lovely place, and the cottage was so cosy. They were out all day, fishing, or wandering over the purple moors. Sometimes Moritz had a day's shooting with the keeper, and then she and Donald, the gamekeeper's son, drove down with the luncheon. They had dinner at eight—quite a grand dinner, and Donald waited on them. "I have given up pinching myself hard, to be sure that I am not dreaming," she wrote once, "but for all that I am leading a story-book existence. Oh, I am so happy, darling! I can hardly say my prayers without crying for sheer thankfulness. My dear Moritz spoils me so dreadfully. He says he hates me to be out of his sight for a moment, and if I were to believe half he says I should be as conceited as possible. It is just his blarney, I tell him. And then he pretends to be affronted." <blockquote>"Don't you believe her, my dear," wrote a masculine hand. "She is a perfect darling, and the sweetest little wife in the world. When it comes to pinching oneself I can hardly believe I am that lucky and much-to-be-envied fellow, your affectionate brother-in-law, "Monsieur Blackie." </blockquote> When Althea showed Waveney the improvements she and Doreen had effected in Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace, the girl could hardly believe her eyes. New papers, and carpets, and curtains, had quite transformed the dingy old house. The stairs were covered with crimson felt, and the studio, and the bare, ugly room, where the sisters had slept, looked perfectly charming. "A little money and a good deal of taste do wonders," observed Althea in a matter-of-fact tone. But Waveney wasn't so sure about the money. Moritz had evidently given his cousins carte blanche, and though there was very little new furniture in the studio, the fresh cretonne and flowering-plants gave it an air of finish and refinement. It was a pleasant life they led there. Never since his wife's death had Everard been so content and happy. Mollie's brilliant marriage gave him great satisfaction, and he had no fear of losing his little Waveney for many a year to come. He was set free from the drudgery he hated, and he and Waveney were always together. Thorold spent his Sundays with them, and he came one evening in the week beside. They had made this rule at the beginning, and he never infringed on it. Every fortnight or so they dined at the Red House, and Althea often had tea with them when she drove into town. She and Everard had resumed their old friendliness; neither of them had forgotten that scene in the verandah of the Porch House, but, by mutual consent, the subject of Noel's education had been dropped for a time. At the beginning of October the newly married pair returned to town, and spent a week at Eaton Square, and Mollie and Waveney were together every day. "Why, Mollie, I declare you have grown an inch taller," were Everard's first words to her; and privately he thought that young Lady Ralston was even handsomer than Mollie Ward had been. Both he and Waveney agreed that happiness and prosperity had not spoilt their darling; she was the same simple, light-hearted creature, thinking as little of herself, and rejoicing over her pretty things as a child might have done. Perhaps there was a little veil of shyness and reserve when she spoke of her husband. Moritz was evidently perfect in her eyes; but only to Waveney did she dwell on his good qualities. "People do not know him," she said once—"they think him eccentric; but it is just his way of talking. He is so true, Wave; Gwen says that she is sure that he has never told a lie in his life, and he is so unselfish, he is always wanting to make people happy. When he was so poor he would deprive himself of a meal if a beggar looked hungry; and now he is always planning some generous gift or other. He lends his shooting lodge to poor artists or curates. Oh! I cannot tell you half of the things he does. He calls me his little blessing; but I feel I can never, never, repay his goodness." And here such an exquisite blush tinged Mollie's cheeks, that it was a pity Lord Ralston did not see it. Mollie was naturally anxious to see her beautiful home, and the lovely rooms that Moritz had refurnished for her. But her regret was so great at leaving Waveney that Lord Ralston, who could refuse nothing to his sweet Moll, suggested that she should pay them a visit in November. He had already arranged that the whole Ward family were to keep their Christmas at Brentwood Hall; but there was no reason why Waveney should not spend a week or two with them in November. It was impossible to refuse so tempting an invitation; and when Waveney reached Brentwood Mollie and the cream-coloured ponies were at the station. Mollie was in a perfect glow of pride and satisfaction as she drove Waveney through the village. Waveney's first act after unpacking was to find the portrait of Lady Betty in the picture-gallery. Mollie pointed it out to her. Lady Betty simpered down on them from the faded canvas. She had a round face and powdered hair drawn up under a lace cap, and one slim hand held a bunch of roses. Her yellow brocade looked as stiff as buckram, and her white arms were veiled with rich lace. "Lady Betty Ingram, in her twenty-fifth year" was written in the catalogue. Never had Mollie or Waveney spent such a Christmas as they spent that year at Brentwood Hall. Thorold Chaytor was with them. Lord Ralston kept Christmas in the old style. There were mummers and carol-singers on Christmas Eve, and "cakes and ale" ad libitum in the housekeeper's room. The John Comptons came over from Kingsdene, and the day after Christmas Day there was a ball for the servants; and on New Year's Eve there was a festive gathering, to which people came ten miles round, and there was dancing in the picture-gallery. Madam Compton was there, looking queenly in black velvet and point lace, and she and Jack were delighted when after supper Gwen danced a minuet with her brother. Gwen was looking her best that evening. She wore a cream-coloured satin gown, cut somewhat quaintly, and her beautiful neck and arms were bare of ornament. As Gwen moved down the picture-gallery, Mollie vowed that not even the renowned Lady Betty could have curtsied with such grace. "Oh, how beautifully she dances!" whispered Mollie; and Jack heard her, and beamed with delight. When the clock struck twelve they all joined hands, and Lord Ralston made them a little speech. Then the band struck up and they all sang "For Auld Lang Syne." Mollie sat enthroned like a little queen all the time the dancing went on. The diamonds she wore were hardly brighter than her eyes. Once, when her husband said, a little sadly, "How he wished his sweet Moll could dance, too!" Mollie's lip quivered for a moment; then she said bravely,— "It does not matter, dear. It is so nice to have you helping me and looking after me." Nevertheless, her eyes looked a little wistfully after him and Waveney when they waltzed together. The spring days found Waveney at Cleveland Terrace again. Moritz meant to bring his wife to Eaton Square for a part of the season, and then she and Mollie would go to exhibitions and concerts and to the opera together. Early in May Waveney was sitting in the studio one afternoon, finishing a long letter to Mollie, when Thorold suddenly entered the room. Waveney gave a little cry of delight when she saw him. "Oh, Thorold, how delightful!" she exclaimed, as he took her in his arms. "Have you come to spend the evening?" "Yes, if you will have me, Waveney. I have some news to tell you." "Good news, I can see by your face." And then she asked wickedly, "Is Joanna going to be married?" "No, my dear; no one is going to be married but you and I by-and-bye, but it is capital news for all that. Tristram has been offered a good berth at Liverpool, and, as Joanna cannot bring herself to part with Betty, she is going to keep house for them." "Oh, Thorold, how splendid!" And Waveney's eyes sparkled with pleasure. She was overjoyed at the idea that he was free at last. No one knew better than she how uncongenial his home had been to him. Solitude would be infinitely preferable to the small carking cares and frets of his daily life. Joanna's peculiar temperament created an unrestful atmosphere round her. Tristram, who was of a blunter and more obtuse nature, was less alive to the discomfort. Joa was always a poor puling thing, he would say, but she was very good to his Betty. And he was rather relieved than otherwise when Joanna entreated tearfully to accompany them. "Thorold does not want me and Betty does," she pleaded. "Joa has a little money of her own," went on Thorold, "so I think they will be fairly comfortable. The change of scene will be good for her. They are to leave Dereham at the end of July." "That will be nearly three months hence," returned Waveney, musingly. She was fingering Thorold's coat-sleeve rather absently as she spoke. It was one of her pretty caressing ways with him. He watched the little hand for a moment as it smoothed the rough cloth so gently. Then he took possession of it. "Dearest," he said, very quietly, "once, long ago, I was ready to ride away without telling my love like Sir Bever, but my good angel stopped me. But I find that I have not Lady Betty's patience, and long waiting would be irksome to me." And then he looked at her very wistfully. "Waveney, I want to ask you a question. When my sister leaves me, do you see any reason why we should not be married?" It was evident that Waveney was extremely startled, and that Thorold's proposition took her quite by surprise. She grew a little pale. "I thought you could not afford to marry for years," she returned, shyly. "So I thought," he replied, with a smile. "You see, darling, when we were first engaged my sister was dependent on me, and at that time Tristram earned very little. Virtually, I had to keep him and Betty. But all that will be changed now. We should have to be careful and live quietly for some years to come, but I am not afraid of the future. My work is increasing, as you know. I have had to take better chambers, and our last case was so successful that I am likely to have another good brief. Tell me the truth, my little Undine. Shall you be afraid to trust yourself to my keeping?" Afraid! Need he have asked such a question? The dark eyes looked at him with reproachful sweetness. "Do you think I should fear anything with you?" she answered. "But, Thorold, are you sure you really wish it?" But Thorold's reply was so conclusive and satisfying that Waveney yielded. Everard Ward had been reading his paper in old Ranelagh Gardens that afternoon. The pleasant May sunshine had warmed and cheered him, and he whistled like a boy as he let himself into the house with his latch-key. But his cheerfulness soon vanished when he learned the purport of Thorold's visit. He was deceived, betrayed by the very man whom he declared would be a son-in-law after his own heart. He was to be robbed of his little girl. What a fool he had been to trust the word of a lover! His knowledge of the world might have told him that they were all wolves in sheeps' clothing. Five years' engagement! This is what he had promised, the arch-traitor! and now he was coolly proposing that they should be married in August. Everard nearly talked himself hoarse, in his effort to point out the extreme imprudence of the whole proceeding. In his opinion, he said, it was utterly rash, foolhardy, and a gross tempting of Providence. All his life he had been an example of the sad result of an impecunious marriage; his son had been indebted to charity for education, and his daughters had been without advantages. Everard waxed quite eloquent over his theme, but Thorold refused to be intimidated. He demolished all Everard's arguments with the ease and facility of a skilful lawyer; and Waveney was on his side. Everard had no chance; from the beginning they were both against him, and at last he had to throw down his arms. Even Althea took their part, and so did Mollie; but he yielded with a very bad grace, and though he tried to hide it from Waveney, he was sore at heart for many a day. Waveney's feelings were very mixed: her sorrow at leaving her father somewhat damped her happiness; but Mollie comforted her. "Of course it is hard for father," she said one day, when Waveney was lunching at Eaton Square. "He hates parting with his children. Don't you remember how low he was on my wedding day? But he soon cheered up. It will be all right, Wave, so don't worry. When you are once married he will make the best of it. Moritz says he must leave Cleveland Terrace and take a nice flat somewhere near you; and when Noel is at Oxford he can divide his time between us." And this view of the case was very consoling to Waveney. Mollie was in the seventh heaven of delight just then; she was to provide the trousseau out of her own pin-money, and this thought gave her so much pleasure that Lord Ralston declared she even laughed in her sleep. But Lord Ralston's wedding present almost overwhelmed the young couple. He bought a house for them at Kensington and furnished it from basement to garret. When he placed the title deeds in Waveney's hands, she was speechless with surprise and joy. But Moritz refused to be thanked. "Mollie's sister was his," he said, in his airy fashion, "and it was his business to see that she was properly housed. "Chaytor is a good fellow," he went on, "and I respect him highly, and am proud to be connected with him. I shall stand your friend and his, as long as you both deserve it. And look here"—and here Lord Ralston glanced at Mollie's delighted face—"if you and Chaytor would like to do your honeymooning at the Hut, you are welcome to it." And when Waveney repeated this to Thorold, he said that it was far too good an offer to be refused. "Ralston is the prince of good fellows," he went on. "His generosity is as large as his purse. You will love those Scotch moors, Waveney. I have not been in the Highlands for years; it will be grand to see the heather and the grouse again." <hr style="width: 45%;" /> After all, Everard Ward never had his flat, neither did he stay long at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace; another, and far different, fate was in store for him. About three months after Waveney's marriage he went one afternoon to the Red House. He had only just returned from Brentwood Hall, where he had made the acquaintance of his first grandson; and, as usual, he wished to talk over the visit with his old friend Althea. For they were very dear friends now, and, next to his own daughters, he valued her womanly advice and sympathy. In summer, the door of the Red House always stood open, and he went in as usual unannounced. No one responded to his tap at the library door, and as he entered he thought, for a moment, the room was empty. The blinds were down, and the darkness rather bewildered him, coming out of the sunshine. But the next moment he caught sight of a grey figure in the shadow of the curtain. Althea was leaning back in her easy-chair. There was a green shade over her eyes, and her face was pale. Everard, who had never seen her before in one of her attacks, was much shocked. "You are ill," he said, taking her hand. In spite of the warmth of the day, it felt cold and limp. Then he looked round the room. "Where is Doreen? Surely she has not left you alone?" "Doreen is at the Home," returned Althea, in a weak voice. "There is a committee meeting. Please sit down and talk to me. I want to forget myself. No, I am not ill. The attack has passed off, only I am stupid and dull." Dull! Everard felt strangely oppressed. The darkness; Althea's pale face, full of traces of suffering; the disguising shade, that hid the sweet eyes; the pathos, and helplessness, and utter weariness, so evident in the whole figure;—filled him with pity. Was this what she had to bear?—she, who helped others, whose whole life was devoted to good works! who had been a guardian angel to him and his! Everard felt a sudden impulse that seemed to impel him, in spite of himself. He got up from his seat and stood beside her. Then, as she moved restlessly, as though disturbed by his action, he dropped on one knee. "Althea, my dear," he said, huskily, "we are neither of us young, and we have both known trouble. But, if you would have it so, I should like to devote the rest of my life to you, to wait on you, and to comfort you." Was she dreaming? Althea pushed up her shade a little wildly. But the gravity of his face left no doubt of his meaning. "I cannot, I dare not accept it," she returned; and she trembled all over. "It is far too great a sacrifice." "It is no sacrifice at all," was Everard's answer. "It is I who am unworthy of your goodness." And the proud humility of his tone struck to her very heart. "I have loved you all my life," she said to him, later on. "Everard, it shall be as you wish. It will make me very happy to be your wife. I know how good you will be to me." <hr style="width: 45%;" /> Doreen was rather troubled when Althea told her the news. Their peaceful dual life was over, she thought; but when she looked at her sister's radiant face she chid herself for her selfishness. But she soon became reconciled to the change. When Everard took up his abode at the Red House he became her chief adviser and helper. He brought his masculine intellect and energy to bear on all their philanthropic schemes, and "my brother-in-law says this" or "suggests that" was for ever on Doreen's lips. There was no doubt of Althea's happiness. She and Everard were always together. Althea's sweet, large nature was never exacting. She knew that he would never love her as he had loved Dorothy, but this thought gave her no pain. How could she complain that anything was wanting when his thoughtful tenderness was so unceasing? when he never cared to be away from her? "It rests me to be near you," he would say. And, indeed, there was the truest friendship between them. Waveney and Mollie were devoted to their beloved Queen Bess, but "our boy," as Althea always called Noel, was the pride of his stepmother's heart. And so, when her youth had passed, that faithful soul reaped its harvest of joy. "Thus the whirligig of Time brings in its revenges." But Althea's noble revenge had been much patience and much love. <h3>THE END.</h3> <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <h3>By John Strange Winter.</h3> <h3>(Mrs. Arthur Stannard.)</h3> The Peacemakers. "'The Peacemakers' is a novel that has the characteristic merits of the best work of this author; it is a well-told story, good in plot and in character drawing, and with an impressive touch of the tragic, that comes as a surprise. The world of 'John Strange Winter' is usually so bright and happy, its troubles are so bearable and vanish so quickly, that it is a novelty to find the shadow of death falling over it, as in her last story. And yet the tragedy is admirably told."—Boston Gazette. Into an Unknown World. "A bright, breezy novel, interesting in plot, with the woman characters admirably drawn, and with a heroine who is charming in her naturalness. The story is told in the simple, unaffected style that marks all Mrs. Stannard's work, and it is a healthy story."—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. A Magnificent Young Man. "It is a story with an original plot, involving a secret marriage, the mysterious disappearance of a bridegroom, and the experiences of a young girl, who refuses to clear her reputation, even to the mother of her unacknowledged husband, until such a time as he shall give permission."—Boston Beacon. Every Inch a Soldier. "Of the incidents of the work before us, the plot is highly entertaining, and incidentally we meet the Bishop of Blankhampton, whose matrimonial affairs were ably discussed in a book previously written. It is a very pleasant and readable book, and we are glad to see it."—Norristown Herald. Aunt Johnnie. The Other Man's Wife. Only Human. The Truth Tellers. <hr style="width: 45%;" /> <h3>By Mrs. Alexander.</h3> Barbara: Lady's Maid and Peeress. "'Barbara: Lady's Maid and Peeress,' the latest of Mrs. Alexander's stories, turns on the fortunes of the natural child of an old lord, who serves as lady's maid until the reading of a will shows that she is the real heir to a fortune and a title. The heroine is a sensible girl, and the story is very well told."—San Francisco Chronicle. Mrs. Crichton's Creditor. "Mrs. Alexander's novels are decidedly of the higher order. They reflect the lives and sayings of wholesome people, carry a healthy moral, and convey valuable lessons to enlightened readers."—St. Louis Globe-Democrat. A Fight with Fate. "This is Mrs. Alexander's best story, and readers of her two previous novels, 'For His Sake' and 'Found Wanting,' will at once recognize this as high praise. It is an English story. The plot is good, is skilfully developed; the dialogue is bright, the situations, many of them, dramatic. On the whole, it is a bright, entertaining novel, and one of the best of the season."—Boston Advertiser. A Golden Autumn. The Cost of Her Pride. Found Wanting. For His Sake.     <hr class="full" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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