MOLLIE'S BABY-HOUSE.
"Within 'tis all divinely fair,
No care can enter my retreat;
'Tis but a castle in the air,
But you and I are in it, sweet."
HELEN MARION BURNSIDE.
It is necessary to retrace our steps a little; for it was not until much
later that Waveney executed her _pas-de-seul_ in the moonlight. Miss
Harford had kept her word, and Waveney was deposited at Sloane Street
Station punctually at seven; and before the quarter had struck she was
walking quickly up Cleveland Terrace. Mollie, whose state of mind by
this time baffled description, was on the balcony watching for her, and
had the door opened before Waveney was at the gate; a few hurried
questions and answers had been interchanged, and then they had heard
their father's latch-key in the door.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why is father so dreadfully early, this evening?"
exclaimed Mollie, in a lamentable voice.
"Never mind," returned Waveney, philosophically. "We must just wait
until bed-time; and then won't we make a night of it, Moll?"
"But father will hear us, and rap on the wall," observed Mollie,
fretfully, "and tell us to go to sleep like good children."
"Oh, no, he won't, if we curl ourselves on the window-seat; it is a big
room, and our voices won't reach him. Mollie dear, remember, nothing is
to be said to father to-night; he is far too tired for fresh worries.
To-morrow I will take him for a prowl, and talk to him severely. No;" as
Mollie looked at her wistfully. "I must have him all to myself; I can
manage him more easily so. Run down to him now, dear, while I take off
my hat, and then I will join you."
Mollie did as she was told; and, thanks to Waveney's management, they
had another merry evening. Monsieur Blackie was the leading topic.
Waveney was quite touched when Mollie handed her the bouquet with a
little speech; but Noel entirely spoilt it by croaking out in an absurd
voice, "Your much and eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie."
"Hold your tongue, you young rascal," returned Mr. Ward, in high
good-humour. "Mr. Ingram is a gentleman, and shows that he knows what
good manners are."
"Manners make man," observed Mollie, slyly; and then Noel exploded
again.
"He was the coolest hand I ever knew," he replied. "If he were his Grace
the Duke of Wellington, he could not have lorded it better. 'You are a
humourist, my young friend.' I should like to have given him one for his
impudence! And then the cheek of telling 'the wobbly one' that he would
call again."
Mr. Ward frowned.
"Noel, I will not have you call Mollie by that name. A jest is a jest,
but it must not be carried too far."
"Pegtop, then," returned Noel, unabashed by this rebuke, for behind his
father's back he winked at Mollie. "But he was not a bad sort of chap.
He would be rather useful on an east-windy, dismal sort of a day--he
would make you feel cheerful. I like a fellow who can take a joke
without turning rusty over it"--and from Noel this was high praise.
Mollie thought the evening dreadfully long, and she fidgeted so much,
and looked at the clock so often, that her father called her
drowsy-head, and begged her to go to bed; but this made her redden with
confusion. And then, when they were safe in their room, Waveney chose to
be ridiculous and cut capers. But as soon as her little song was
finished she produced an old shepherd's plaid rug, which was known in
family annals as "the Lamb," and they both crept under it, and tucked up
their feet on the window-seat, and felt cosy.
And if an artist could have drawn the picture, it would have made his
fortune, for the rough old plaid set off Mollie's exquisite face and
glorious golden brown hair to perfection, while Waveney's looked fair
and infantine in the moonlight.
Waveney was the talker now, and Mollie was the listener, but every now
and then there were little interjections of surprise and admiration. At
the description of "Fairy Magnificent" Mollie drew in her breath and
said "Oh!" Miss Harford's ugliness rather shocked her; she said "It was
a great pity, and Waveney had never been used to live with ugly
people"--which was perfectly true.
She thought Queen Elizabeth's Wraith a rather far-fetched description.
She could not endure Queen Bess; she was such an unladylike person, and
boxed gentlemen's ears. And if Miss Althea were like her----But here
Waveney interposed.
"Don't be a little goose, Moll. She is like Queen Elizabeth, and you
would say the same yourself if you saw her; but she is so nice and
gentle that I am sure I shall soon love her. Well, let me go on. I want
to tell you about the Red House." Then Mollie sighed with satisfaction,
and composed herself to listen.
Mollie, with all her sweetness and goodness, was a little Sybarite at
heart. She loved pretty things, fine house, gems, beautiful dresses. Mr.
Ward had been almost shocked when he had taken her one day to Bond
Street to look at the shops. It was impossible to get her away from the
jewellers'; the diamond tiaras and necklets riveted her. "Who buys
them, dad?" she had asked, in quite a loud voice; "dukes and earls, and
those sort of people?"
"Yes, of course," returned Mr. Ward, a little impatiently, "and the
Prince of Wales, I daresay;" for he was rather provoked at the attention
the child was exciting. Two gentlemen who were passing, and had
overheard Mollie's remark, smiled at each other.
"What a beautiful child!" observed one; he was a tall, old man, with a
fine, benevolent face.
"You are right, Duke," returned the other, with a supercilious laugh.
"Some little rustic come to town for the first time."
"Come, Mollie," observed her father, rather crossly, "we must not take
up the pavement in this way or the Bobby will be telling us to move on;"
and then Mollie had limped on until another shop-window attracted her.
Mr. Ward had felt a little perplexed by Mollie's unsatiable appetite for
pretty things, and on their return home he unbosomed himself to Waveney.
"All girls like shops," he said, seriously, "and I knew Mollie would be
pleased, but I never expected her to glue her face to the glass for half
an hour at a time. She made herself quite conspicuous, and several
people laughed at her."
"Mollie must be better behaved next time," returned Waveney, smiling.
"Father, dear, I don't think it matters really. Mollie is young, and she
leads such a quiet life, and sees so few things, that when she goes out
she just loses her head. I think," she continued, calmly, "that she does
care for pretty things more than most people,--she would love to be
rich, and dress grandly, and have pictures and jewels and beautiful
things. When we were tiny children she always would make me read the
story of Cinderella; nothing else pleased her."
"Don't you care for pretty things, too, Waveney?" asked her father, a
little sadly.
"Oh, yes, dad! All girls care a little, I think; but I am not always
longing for them like Mollie. She makes up stories to amuse herself.
Some one is to leave us a fortune, and we are all to be rich suddenly.
She has actually imagined a house and fitted it up bit by bit; and just
for the fun of the thing I have helped her--it is our play-house, you
know. But Mollie thinks it quite real. If you say to her, 'Let us go
down to Kitlands,' her eyes brighten, and she looks quite happy."
"You are foolish children," observed Mr. Ward, fondly. "Who would have
thought that my sweet Moll had been such a little worldling at heart!"
"No, dad, you must not say that. Worldly people are selfish, and Mollie
has not a selfish thought. It is just a pretty, childish fancy. I
sometimes believe in Kitlands myself, we have talked about it so often.
On windy nights I have seen the oaks tossing their branches in the park,
and the deer huddling under them, and the west room where we always sit
of an evening, with the bay window. And how the red firelight streams
out on the terrace? And there is a delicious couch by the fire with a
lovely Japanese screen behind it, and----" But here Mr. Ward put his
hand over the girl's mouth.
"Do you think I am going to be entertained by a description of your
baby-house?" he said, in mock wrath. "Tell Mollie she ought to be grown
up by this time." But when he was left alone, he said to himself, "Now,
why in the world should they have hit on that name Kitlands? Don't I
recollect that sunny evening when I walked up the terrace, and the red
light streamed from the west room!" He sighed, then roused himself.
"Bless their dear, innocent hearts. Now if only their mother could have
heard all that!"
Mollie was perfectly ravished with the description of the Red House, and
as soon as Waveney paused to take breath, she said, "Why, it is almost
as nice as Kitlands, only there is no park and no deer. But I wish I had
thought of a peacock." Then she put her head on one side and reflected
deeply. "There is the Italian garden, you know, Wave, a sundial would do
very nicely there, and we could choose an inscription." But Waveney gave
her a little push. "Don't be such a baby, Mollie. We are getting too old
for Kitlands. We must put our play-house away with the dear old dolls.
But, seriously, is it not perfectly delicious to think we shall be
together every Sunday?"
"Yes, that will be nice, of course. But is it really settled, Wave?" and
Mollie's voice was full of melancholy.
"I think so, dear; but, of course, I must talk to father. Darling,
promise me that you will try and make the best of it. The week will pass
so quickly, and then, when Sunday comes, we shall be together. I daresay
I shall be with you by half-past three, just after father and Noel have
started for their afternoon walk."
"I shall come to the station and meet you," interrupted Mollie.
"Will you? How nice that will be! And we shall have a cosy hour on
Grumps, and you shall tell me all your worries--every one of them; and I
will tell mine. Then, when father comes in, you and Noel shall get tea
ready, and dad and I will have a little talk. And after tea we will sing
all our favourite hymns, and then we will go to St. Michael's together,
and I will have my old place by father."
"Yes; and then we will all go to the station with you. But oh, Wave, how
I shall hate Monday mornings! I shall never feel cheerful until
Wednesday is over;" but Waveney would not hear of this--she preached
quite a little homily on the duty of cultivating cheerfulness; but her
eloquence died a natural death when she saw Mollie nod, and ten minutes
later they were both asleep.
It was a free morning with Mr. Ward, and he was not at all surprised
when Waveney invited him to take a prowl.
"Won't Mollie prowl, too?" he asked, as he noticed her wistful
expression. But Waveney shook her head.
"Mollie was an idle girl yesterday," she remarked, severely; "she must
stay in and finish her menu card. There, you shall have the Black
Prince's flowers to console you;" and Waveney placed them on the
painting-table. "'Sweets to the sweet'--they are as much yours as mine,
Mollie." Then Mollie blushed a little guiltily. More than once the
thought had passed through her mind--how nice it would be if she had a
Monsieur Blackie to bring her hot-house flowers. For Mollie was very
human, and certainly
"A creature not too bright and good,
For human nature's daily food,"
and she had her girlish weaknesses. Not that she envied Waveney her
flowers; but, as she sniffed them delightedly, her imagination conjured
up numberless bouquets for Miss Mollie Ward; only the donor must be tall
and fair, not a little dark Frenchified artist like Monsieur Blackie.
Waveney chatted to her father quite gaily until they had crossed the
lime avenue, and had reached the landing-stage. Then they walked a
little way down the embankment, and sat down on a bench under a shady
tree. It was still early, and there were few passengers; only now and
then a river steamer passed, churning the blue water into light, foamy
waves. Two or three children were bowling their hoops, followed by a
panting pug.
Waveney cleared her voice rather nervously; then she slid her hand into
her father's arm. Everard could see the worn little glove fingers on his
coat sleeve; he stared at the white seams dreamily as he listened. He
was a man who noticed trifles; there was a feminine element in his
character. That little shabby grey glove appealed to him forcibly.
"Father, dear, I have something to tell you--that is why I did not want
Mollie to come; it is so much easier to talk about difficult things to
only one person." Waveney's voice was not as clear as usual. "Will you
promise to listen, dearest, without interrupting me?" Mr. Ward nodded,
but his face was a little grave. What could the child have to say?
Waveney told her story very fully. She gave her father a description of
the Red House and Fairy Magnificent, but she never mentioned Miss
Harford's name; she spoke of them vaguely as "the ladies."
"And you have settled all this without speaking to me?" and there was a
hurt look on Mr. Ward's face. Then Waveney nestled closer to him.
"Father, dear, I wanted to tell you--I want to tell you everything; but
you were so tired, and I thought it would be kinder to wait until I had
spoken to the ladies."
"The ladies. What ladies? Have they no name?" he asked, irritably.
"Yes, dear, of course they have," returned the girl, gently. "Their name
is Harford."
Then he turned round a little quickly.
"Harford. Oh, I daresay there are plenty of that name. I know
Erpingham--Noel and I walked there one Sunday afternoon; but I do not
remember the Red House."
"No; it stands in a lane. You have to go through some white gates. They
have not always been at Erpingham; they used to live in Surrey." Then
she felt him start slightly.
"I suppose you did not hear their Christian names?" he asked a little
anxiously.
"Oh yes, dad, I did. The ugly one--she was very nice, but she is
terribly plain--was called Doreen; and the pale, fair one, like Queen
Elizabeth, was Althea." Then it was evident that Mr. Ward was completely
taken aback.
"Doreen and Althea," he muttered. "It must be the same. With a singular
coincidence! Waveney, my child, tell me one thing. Was the name of their
house in Surrey Kitlands?"
"I don't know, father; they never told me. But stay a moment: there was
a picture in Miss Harford's sitting-room of an old Elizabethan house
standing in a park, and under it was written Kitlands Park. I meant to
tell Mollie about that."
"It is the same--it must be the same," he returned, in a low voice. "The
names are too uncommon. Yes, and it is true, Althea was a little like
Queen Elizabeth. I would have given five years of my life that this had
not happened. It is one of the little ironies of fate that my girl
should have gone to them."
"Oh, why, father?" asked Waveney, piteously; her father's look of
bitterness filled her with dismay. Why was he so disturbed, so unlike
himself? He did not even hear her question. He got up from the bench
quickly and walked to the railings. Another steamer was passing. Mr.
Ward looked after it with vague, unseeing eyes.
Everard Ward was a proud man, in spite of his easy-going ways. He had
had his ambitions, his aspirations, and yearnings. He had set his ideal
high, and yet, for want of ballast, he had suffered shameful shipwreck.
At the beginning of life he had had his good things--health, good looks,
talents, and friends. Doors had opened to him, kindly hands had been
held out to him, and one of them a woman's hand; but he had turned away
in youthful caprice, and had chosen his own path.
He had meant to have carved his own fortunes, to have painted pictures
that would have made the name of Everard Ward famous; and he was only a
drawing-master who painted little third-rate pot-boilers.
How Everard loathed his poverty! His shabby coat, and Mollie's pitiful
little makeshifts and contrivances, were all alike hateful to him. Too
well he remembered the flesh-pots of Egypt--the Goshen of his youth,
where he had fared sumptuously, when he had money to spend and the world
smiled at him; and then, like a fool--the very prince of fools--he had
flung it all away.
He had made a mess of his life, but he was not without his blessings;
and in his better moments, when the children were singing their hymns,
perhaps he would tell himself humbly that he was not worthy of them.
But as he stood by the river that morning, it seemed to him as though
the cup of his humiliation was full to the very dregs. He had so broken
with his old life that few ghostly visitants from the dim past troubled
him; and now there had started up in his path the two women whom he most
dreaded to see.
And one of them he had wronged, when, hot with a young man's passion,
and tempted by Dorothy's sweet eyes and girlish grace, he had drawn
back, suddenly and selfishly, from the woman he had been wooing.
Well, he had dearly loved his wife; but the disgrace of that shameful
infidelity was never effaced from his memory. It was a blot, a stain
upon his manhood, a sore spot, that often made him wince.
Would he ever forget that day they were in the old walled garden,
gathering peaches, and Althea had just handed him one, hot with the sun,
and crimson-tinted, and bursting with sweetness?
"You always give me the best of everything, Althea," he had said; but he
was thinking of Dorothy as he said it, and of her love for peaches.
"I like to give you the best--the very best," Althea had answered
sweetly, and her eyes had been so wistful and tender that he had felt
vaguely alarmed. How he had made his meaning clear to her he never could
remember. He had spoken of Dorothy, and perhaps his voice had trembled,
for all at once she had become very silent, and there was no more
gathering of peaches.
"I must go in now," she had said, suddenly, and he noticed her lips were
pale. "Doreen wants me. Yes, I understand, Everard, and you have my best
wishes--my best wishes." And then he had stood still and watched her, a
tall, slim figure in white, moving between the fruit-trees and carrying
her head proudly.
"And it is to Althea Harford that my daughter has applied for a
situation," thought Everard, sadly. And again he told himself that he
was draining the cup of humiliation to the very dregs.