THE WARD FAMILY AT HOME.
"And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."
LONGFELLOW.
As soon as Mollie had left the room, on household cares intent, Waveney
lighted a small, shaded lamp that stood on the table. It was a warm
evening, and both the windows were thrown up. The moon had just risen,
and the vine-leaves that festooned the balcony had silver edges. As
Waveney turned up the lamp she said, cheerfully, "Now we can see each
other's faces," and then she sat down again and slipped her hand in her
father's arm.
"Tell me all about it, dad, directly minute." And then a smile came to
Mr. Ward's tired face, for this was one of the family stock jokes that
were never stale, never anything but delightful and fresh, and whenever
one of his girls said it, it brought back Waveney in her baby days, a
tiny despot in red shoes, with a head "brimming over with curls,"
stamping her little feet and calling out in shrill treble, "Directly
minute! Miss Baby won't wait nohow."
"There is nothing good to hear, little girl," returned Mr. Ward, with a
strained laugh. "When you spell failure, spell it with a big F, my dear;
that's all." But another skilful question or two soon drew forth the
whole story.
He had had a harassing, disappointing day. The dealers who had sold one
or two of his smaller pictures refused to give "King Canute" house-room.
They could not possibly dispose of such a picture, they said; it was too
large and cumbersome, and there were serious defects in it. One or two
of the figures were out of drawing; the waves were too solid, looking
like molten lead. There was no _finesse_, no delicacy of execution, the
colouring was crude; in fact, the criticism had been scathing.
"They were so rough on me that my back was up at last," went on Mr.
Ward, "and when Wilkes said I might leave it if I liked, and he would
try and get a customer for it, I saw he was only letting me down a bit
easier, and that he did not believe it would sell, so I just called a
cab and brought it back."
Waveney winced. All this cab hire could not be afforded. And then, what
were they to do? But the next moment she was stroking the worn
coat-sleeve tenderly, and her voice was as cheerful as ever.
"Dad, it is a long lane that has no turning--remember that; and it is no
use fretting over spilt milk. To-morrow we will get Noel to hang up dear
old King Canute in that blank space, and if the stupid, cantankerous old
dealers will not have anything to say to him, Mollie and I will admire
him every day of our lives. Molten lead, indeed!" jerking her chin
contemptuously.
But Mr. Ward, who had been too much crushed to revive at once, only
shook his head and sighed. In his heart he knew the dealers were right,
and that the work was not really well done. The stormy sunset looked
blotchy and unreal, and the solidity of the water was apparent, even to
him. The whole thing was faulty, mawkish, amateurish, and futile. He had
been in a perfect rage against himself, the dealers, and all the rest of
the world as he clambered into his cab.
He had had a rap upon the knuckles once too often. Well, he had learnt
his lesson at last; but what a fool and dunce he had been!
"Take your punishment, my boy," he had said to himself, grimly. "Write
yourself Everard Ward, U.A., unmitigated ass; and wear your fool's cap
with a jaunty air.
"You wanted to paint a big historical picture! to be something better
than a drawing-master. Oh, you oaf, you dotard, you old driveller, to
think that you could set the Thames on fire, that you could do something
to keep your memory fresh and green. Go back to your water-colour
landscapes, to your water-wheels and cottages, your porches smothered in
woodbine; you are at the bottom of your class, my lad, and there you
will be to the end of the chapter." And then--for his imagination was
very vivid--he saw himself, an elderly man, in his shabby great-coat,
going out all weathers to his schools--a little shrunk, a little more
hopeless, and his girls, his twin blessings--but here the hot tears rose
to his eyes, and he bit his lips. Oh, it was hard, hard--and it was for
their sakes he had worked and toiled.
Just then Mollie came with a little tray. There was a tall, curious old
china cup on it which was known in the family as "Dives," and was
considered one of their choicest treasures. When any one was ill, the
sight of Dives, filled to the brim with fragrant coffee or delicious
chocolate, would bring a smile to pale lips. As she placed the tray
beside her father, Mollie's face wore a triumphant air, as though she
would have said, "If any one could beat that cup of coffee or make
better toast, I should like to see her, that's all."
"Thanks, dearest," returned her father, gently; "but you have scorched
your face, my sweet Moll."
"Oh, that is nothing," returned Mollie, hastily, putting up her hands to
her hot cheeks; she had been through all sorts of vicissitudes during
the last half-hour. The water would not boil, or the fire burn properly,
though she and Noel had put a whole bundle of sticks into it, and at
every stick he had asked her a fresh conundrum.
"Have you told dad about Monsieur Blackie?" she asked; and then Waveney
smiled.
"No, but I will, presently, when father has had his supper. Come out on
the balcony a moment, Mollie. Is not the moonlight lovely!"
"Yes, I do love these 'white nights,'" returned Mollie, ecstatically.
"We used to call them silver nights when we were wee children. Those
roofs look as though they were covered with snow. And just see how nice
our shabby old courtyard looks; those privets are quite grand. What an
old dear the moon is, Wave! She covers up all little defects so nicely,
and glorifies all common things."
But Waveney did not hear this little rhapsody, neither had she called
Mollie out to watch moonlight effects.
"Moll, just listen to me a moment: you must not say a word to father
about Harley Street--not one word."
Mollie looked at her blankly.
"And why not, Wave?"
"Oh, dear, not for worlds," returned Waveney, earnestly. "He is so low,
so unlike himself to-night; he had so set his heart on that poor old
thing being a success, but they have all been throwing stones at him,
and he is so hurt about it. Don't you know what Noel always says: 'You
must not hit a man who is down.' Those are school ethics, but it is
true. Dad is just like the brere rabbit to-night,--'him lies low,'--and
we must just talk to him and make him laugh."
"But Wave, surely"--and Mollie, who was nothing but a big, beautiful,
simple child, looked quite shocked--"surely you cannot mean to see that
lady without speaking to father!"
"But I do mean it, Mollie. Of course I want to tell father--I always
long to tell him everything,--but it would be rank selfishness to-night;
it would be the last straw, that terrible straw that breaks the camel's
back. And I know just what he would do; he would not smoke his pipe and
he would not sleep a wink, and he would be like a wreck to-morrow when
he goes to Norwood. No: when it is settled it will be time enough to
tell him;" and, as usual, Mollie submitted to her sister's stronger
will. "Waveney was the clever one," she would say; "she saw things more
clearly, and she was generally right;" for Mollie thought nothing of
herself, and was always covered with blushes and confusion if any one
praised her.
So Waveney had her way, and as Mr. Ward smoked his pipe she told him all
about Monsieur Blackie; and then Noel shut up his lesson-books and came
up stairs, and the three young people sang little glees and songs
unaccompanied. And presently Mr. Ward laid down his empty pipe and
joined too.
And the girls' voices were so fresh and clear, and the man's tenor so
sweet, that a passer-by stood for a long time to listen.
Every now and then an odd boyish voice, with a crack in it, chimed in
like a jangling bell out of tune. "Oh, Noel, please do not sing so out
of tune; you are as flat as a pancake, and as rough as a nutmeg grater,
isn't he, Moll?" and then Waveney made a face at the unfortunate
minstrel.
"Don't come the peacock over me," began Noel, wrathfully, for any remark
on his cracked voice tried his temper. "Hit one of your own size, miss."
"Hush, hush, Noel!" observed his father, good-humouredly. "You will do
well enough some day. 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'--let us sing
that, my pets." And then the voices began again, and the listener
underneath the window smiled to himself and walked on.
It was late, and Mollie was yawning before the little concert was over;
but when Mr. Ward went to his room that night the weight of oppression
seemed less heavy. Yes, he had been a fool, but most men made mistakes
in their lives, and he was not so old yet--only forty-four, for he had
married young. He would leave off straining after impossibilities, and
take his friends' advice--paint pot boilers in his leisure hours, and
devote his best energies to his pupils. "Cincinnatus went back to the
plough, and why not Everard Ward?" And then he wound up his watch and
went to sleep. But long after the heavy-footed Ann had climbed up to her
attic, breathing heavily, and carrying the old black cat, Mrs. Muggins,
in her arms, and long after Mollie had fallen into her first sleep, and
was dreaming sweetly of a leafy wood, where primroses grew as
plentifully as blackberries, a little white figure sat huddled up on the
narrow window-seat, staring out absently on the moonlight.
Waveney could see the dim roofs of the Hospital; the old men were all
now asleep in their cabin-like cubicles--some of them fighting their
battles over again, others dreaming of wives and children.
"After all, it must be nice to be old, and to know that the fight is
over," thought the girl, a little sadly. "Life is so difficult,
sometimes: when we were children we did not think so. I suppose other
girls would have said we had rather a dull life; but how happy we were!
what grand times we had that day at the Zoological Gardens, for example!
and that Christmas when father took us to the pantomime! I remember the
next day Mollie and I made up our minds to be ballet-dancers, and Noel
decided to be a clown;" and here Waveney gave a soft little laugh. "Dear
father, it was so good of him not to laugh at us. Most people would have
called us silly children, but he listened to us quite seriously, and
recommended us to practise our dancing sedulously; only he would not
hear of shortening our skirts--he said later on would do for that. Oh,
dear, oh, dear, was it not just like him? And of course by the next
Christmas we had forgotten all about it."
But even these reminiscences, amusing as they were, could not long
hinder Waveney's painful reflections. The idea of leaving home and going
out into the world was utterly repugnant to her; she had told Mollie in
playful fashion that it was the rack and the thumb-screw and the faggots
combined; but in reality the decision had cost her a bitter struggle,
and nothing but the strongest sense of duty could have nerved her to the
effort.
Waveney's nature was far less emotional than Mollie's, but her
affections were very deep. Her love for her father and twin sister
amounted to passion. When she read the words, "Little children, keep
yourselves from idols," she always held her breath, made a mental
reservation, and went on.
"If only people liked Father's pictures!" she sighed, and then another
pang crossed her, as she remembered his tired face, how old and careworn
he had looked, until they had sung some of his favourite songs, and then
his eyes had become bright again.
"Dear old dad, how he will miss me!" But when she thought of Mollie the
lump in her throat seemed to strangle her: they had never in their lives
been parted for a single night.
"And yet it is my duty to go," thought poor Waveney. "We are growing
poorer every day, and it will be years before Noel can earn much. I am
afraid the schools are falling off a little. Oh, yes; there is no doubt
about it, and I must go;" and Waveney shed a few tears, and then,
chilled and depressed, she got into bed; and Mollie turned over in her
sleep and threw out her warm young arms.
"It was delicious," she murmured, drowsily; "and oh, Wave, why are you
so cold, darling? What have you been doing?" But Waveney only shivered a
little and kissed her.
The next morning both the girls rose in good time to prepare the early
breakfast. Noel always left home at half past eight--long ago an unknown
friend of Mr. Ward's had offered to pay his son's school fees, and,
acting on advice, he had sent the boy to St. Paul's. He was a clever
lad, and in favour with all his masters; he liked work and never shirked
it. But his pet passion was football; he was fond of enlarging on his
triumphs, and gloried in the kicks he received. It was understood in the
family circle that he was to get a scholarship and go to Oxford; and of
course a fellowship would follow.
"'The veiled Prophet' will expect it, my dear," Mollie would say, at
intervals, when she was afraid he was becoming slack; for under this
figure of speech they always spoke of their unknown benefactor. The
whole thing was a mystery. The solicitor who wrote to Mr. Ward only
mentioned his client vaguely--"an old friend of Mr. Ward's is desirous
of doing him this service;" and in succeeding letters, "My client has
desired me to send you this cheque;" and so on.
The girls and Noel, who were dying with curiosity, often begged their
father to go to Lincoln's Inn and see Mr. Duncan--the firm of Duncan &
Son was a good old-fashioned firm; but Mr. Ward always declined to do
this. If his old friend did not choose to divulge himself, he had some
good reason for his reticence and it would be ungrateful and bad form to
force his hand.
"He is a good soul, you may depend on that," was all they could get him
to say; but in reality he secretly puzzled over it. "It must be some
friend of Dorothy's," he would say to himself. "There was that old lover
of hers, who went out to the Bahamas and made his pile--he married, but
he never had any children; I do not mention his name to the
youngsters--better not, I think; but I have a notion it is Carstairs; he
was a melancholy, Quixotic sort of chap, and he was desperately gone on
Dorothy."
"Dad's a bit stiff about the Prophet," Noel once said to his sisters,
"but if I am in luck's way and get a scholarship, I shall just go up to
Lincoln's Inn myself and interview the old buffer;" and this seemed so
venturesome and terrifying a project that Mollie gasped, and said, "Oh,
no, not really, Noel!" and Waveney opened her eyes a little widely.
"You bet I do," returned Noel, cocking his chin in a lordly way. "I
shall just march in as cool as a cucumber, and as bold as brass. 'I have
come to thank my unknown benefactor, sir,' I would say with my finest
air, 'for the good education I have received. I have the satisfaction of
telling you that I have gained a scholarship--eighty pounds a year--and
that, with the kind permission--of--of my occult and mysterious friend,
I wish to matriculate at Balliol. As I have now attained the age of
manhood, is it too much to ask the name of my venerable benefactor?'"
"Oh, Wave, is he not ridiculous?" laughed Mollie; but Waveney looked at
her young brother rather gravely.
"Don't, Noel, dear; father would not like it." But Noel only shrugged
his shoulders at this. He had his own opinions about things, and when he
made up his mind it was very difficult to move him. Never were father
and son more unlike; and yet they were the best of friends.
Mr. Ward always had a hard day's work on Tuesday. He had two schools at
Norwood, and never came home until evening. The girls always took extra
pains with the breakfast-table on the Norwood days, and while Mollie
made the coffee, boiled the eggs, and superintended the toast-making,
Waveney made up dainty little pats of butter and placed them on
vine-leaves. Then she went into the narrow little slip of garden behind
the house and gathered a late rose and laid it on her father's plate.
Waveney was in excellent spirits all breakfast-time. She laughed and
talked with Noel, while Mollie sat behind her coffee-pot and looked at
her with puzzled eyes.
"How can Wave laugh like that when she knows, she knows!" she thought,
wonderingly; but at that moment Waveney looked at her with a smile so
sweet and so full of sadness, that poor Mollie nearly choked, and her
eyes brimmed over with tears.