ACROSS THE GOLF LINKS.
"Learn to live, and live to learn,
Ignorance like a fire burns,
Little tasks make large returns."
BAYARD TAYLOR.
"Sits the wind in that quarter."
SHAKESPEARE.
When Waveney went home the following Sunday, she carried with her a
choice little piece of information, which she retailed with much gusto
at the tea-table.
"Father," she said, in a mysterious voice, "I have found out something
so interesting about our dear little Monsieur Blackie." Then Mollie, who
was pouring out the tea, paused in her task to listen. "He is a relation
of the Misses Harfords--their cousin once removed. Miss Althea told me
so. His father, Colonel Ingram, was their own cousin."
Mollie's face wore an awed expression; she was evidently much impressed.
But Mr. Ward looked a little perplexed.
"Ingram," he muttered, "I do not remember the name, and yet I thought I
knew all their relations."
"No, father, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "Miss Althea said you had
never seen any of them--they were living abroad, because Mrs. Ingram's
health was so bad. There was only one daughter, Gwendoline, and she is
married now, but I thought you and Mollie would be interested to know
that he is a connection of the dear ladies at the Red House."
Then Noel solemnly rapped on the table with his knife.
"I propose Monsieur Blackie's health," he said, grandly; "he seems a
respectable sort of party, and I am proud to have made his acquaintance.
I regret--I may say I deeply regret--that I once made the unlucky
observation that his head was like a scrubbing brush, and that his
moustache was of the Mephistophelian pattern; but what are such trifles
between friends?" And then his voice grew thin and nasal. "For I guess,
and do calculate, ladies and gentlemen, that the party in question is
boss of the whole show, and will boom considerable." And then he sat
down and glared at Mollie through his _pince-nez_; but Mollie, who
seemed a little flurried and excited, said nothing at all.
Only, as she and Waveney were putting on their hats for church, she
said, in rather a subdued, quiet little voice,--
"Wave, dear, of course I am glad about Mr. Ingram; but it does not make
any real difference, does it? for we always knew he was a gentleman.
Father thinks he must be rich, he is so generous with his money; but he
will never be too grand to be our friend, will he?" Mollie's voice was
not quite steady when she said this. To her simplicity it seemed a
surprising thing that their homely, kindly Monsieur Blackie should have
such grand relations.
Mollie spent a very happy day at the Red House. Althea, who knew what
girls love best, told Waveney to take her all over the house and show
her everything, and left them alone together. She and Doreen had an
engagement for the afternoon, but tea was served up as usual in the
library.
When Althea returned she found them nestled together in the big
easy-chair by the fire, "looking like a couple of babes in the wood,"
she said to Doreen afterwards. And it was so pretty and effective a
picture that she forbade them to move; and then she sat down and talked
to them in so sweet and friendly a way that Mollie's soft heart was soon
won; and when Noel arrived, looking a little shy and awkward--after the
fashion of boys--he found them all talking merrily together.
Both Althea and Doreen were charmed with Mollie. Doreen frankly owned to
her sister that she had never seen so beautiful a face.
"If it were not for her lameness she would be perfect," she said,
regretfully; and Althea agreed to this.
"It is a pity, of course," she returned, gently; "but there is something
pathetic in it; and then her unconsciousness is so childlike. She is a
sweet creature, and I love her already, but not so much as I love my
little Undine;" for, somehow, both she and Doreen often called her by
this name.
Waveney had not seen her little friend Betty again, but Althea and
Doreen were constantly at the house in High Street, and she often heard
them mention her name. Sometimes of an evening, when she was reading to
herself, she heard them talking about the Chaytors; and as they never
dropped their voices, she thought it no harm to listen.
"Joa is a different woman," Doreen once said. "I never saw such a change
in any one. I always knew Tristram was her favourite. Thorold has to
play second fiddle now; I am a little sorry for him sometimes."
"Your sorrow is wasted, Dorrie," returned her sister, with a smile.
"Thorold is too big and strong for these petty feelings; he values Joa's
peace of mind far too much to disturb it by paltry jealousy. He tells me
that for the present Tristram and the child will continue to live with
them, until Tristram can earn enough to keep a respectable roof over his
head. It was very lucky, finding him that berth, and it really suits him
very well. But Joa says that Betty misses her father terribly; she
spends half her time at the window, watching for him."
Betty's name was perpetually on the sisters' lips; her queer little
speeches, her odd ways, her shrewdness and intelligence, and, above all,
her warm, childish heart, were favourite topics; and Bet's last was a
standing joke with them.
Waveney began to wish to see her again, but Miss Althea never sent her
now to the Chaytors. Once Joanna called and had tea at the Red House,
but Betty was not with her; the child had a slight cold, she said, and
she had left her with Jemima. But throughout the visit she talked of
little else. Bet's lessons, her story-books, the new doll that Althea
had given her, and the basinette that she was trimming for a Christmas
present, were all discussed quite seriously.
Waveney listened eagerly in her corner. For once she found Miss Chaytor
interesting. Her voice had lost its fretful strain; she spoke with
animation, and as she talked there was a pretty dimple that Waveney had
never noticed.
"She must have been very pretty when she was a girl," thought Waveney.
"She is good-looking now, and her face is quite pleasant when she
smiles." And then again she heard Bet's name, and composed herself to
listen.
"The love of that mite for her father is quite wonderful," went on
Joanna. "Even Thorold notices it. Quite an hour before Trist is due, Bet
will be gluing her face and flattening her nose against the window; and
nothing will move her. And all the time she is humming to herself, like
a little bird--such funny little scraps of tunes. And then, when he
crosses the road, she is out of the room like a dart. And to hear all
her old-fashioned questions to him in the passage! Oh, it almost makes
me cry to listen to her! 'Are you very tired, father dear? Have you had
a hard day? Does your head ache? and are your feet cold? But Aunt Joa
has made up such a big fire!'--something like that every night."
"Bless her little heart," observed Doreen, sympathetically; but Althea
only smiled.
"And then she brings him in and makes such a fuss over him," went on
Joanna. "Just as though he were some feeble, gouty old gentleman. But
Tristram lets her do it. I think he likes to feel her little fingers
busy about him. She fetches him his warm slippers, and a footstool, or a
screen if the fire is hot; and when he is quite 'comfy,' as she calls
it, she climbs up on his knee and gives him an account of the day."
When Joanna had taken her leave, Althea stood looking into the fire with
a grave, abstracted look. But when Doreen returned to the room, she
changed her attitude slightly.
"Joa seems very happy, does she not, Dorrie? She has not worn so bright
a face since the Old Manor House days!"
"No, indeed! And it is all Bet's influence. She is like a hen with one
chick; it almost makes me laugh to hear her."
"I felt nearer crying, I assure you. But, Dorrie, is it not beautiful to
see how love effaces self. 'And a little child shall lead them;' do you
remember those words? Already Bet's tiny fingers have smoothed out the
lines on Joa's face, and taught her to smile again."
Waveney only saw Mr. Chaytor on Thursday evenings at the Porch House.
The Shakespeare readings were still in full swing, and she still sat
beside Nora Greenwell. She sometimes thought that Mr. Chaytor spoke less
to her than to the other girls, though he was always careful to point
out any fault of punctuation; now and then, when she was a little weary
of following the text, she would raise her eyes from her books; and more
than once it had given her an odd shock to find at that very moment Mr.
Chaytor was quietly regarding her; then some sudden shyness made her
eyelids droop again.
Mr. Chaytor took no apparent notice of her. When the reading was over he
always joined Althea, and a grave bow, or perhaps a pleasant
"good-night," when Waveney left the room, was all that passed between
them.
It was strange, then, that as Thorold Chaytor walked down the hill in
the wintry darkness, a little pale face and a pair of dark,
_spirituelle_ eyes should invariably haunt him. Never in his life had he
seen such eyes, so soft and deep and magnetic.
And then that babyish crop of brown, curly hair--he wondered why she
wore it so, it made her look so childish; but he liked it, too--it
struck him that she was lighter, and more sprightly and full of grace
and lissomeness, than any girl he had seen, and that his name of Undine
suited her down to the ground. He remembered well her sister's lovely
face, but of the two he preferred his little Undine.
Once, when he had entered the Recreation Hall, and the seat beside Nora
Greenwell was vacant, a troubled look came into his eyes; but Waveney,
who had only gone across to the house for a book Althea wanted,
re-entered a moment later; and Thorold's brow cleared like magic as her
light, springy step passed by his chair.
"I hope I have not disturbed you," she said, rather timidly, as he rose
from his seat and wished her good-evening; "but Miss Harford had
forgotten her Shakespeare."
"Not at all; but we will begin now." Then, as Waveney opened her book,
she wondered at Mr. Chaytor's grave, intent look.
About ten days before Christmas, Waveney, attended by her little
companions, Fuss and Fury, started off for a walk over the Common.
It was one of those ideal afternoons in December, when all young
creatures feel it is a joy to be alive. There had been a heavy frost in
the night, and the bright, wintry sunshine had not yet melted it. The
Frost King had touched the saplings with his white fingers, and even the
bare blackberry bushes were transformed into things of beauty. The vast
common seemed to glitter with whiteness under the pink glow of the
winter's sky.
Waveney had turned her steps towards the golf links. The wind blew more
bleakly there, but the wide stretch of open common, with the black
windmill in the distance, always gave her a pleasant sensation of
freedom. She loved to watch the sun sinking into his bed of
bright-coloured clouds. But when the pink glow faded, and the sky-line
became a cold, steely blue, she shivered a little, as though she had
stayed too long at some pageant, and set her face homewards.
She had walked too far, and she knew the darkness would overtake her
long before she reached the Red House, and then Miss Althea would gently
admonish her for her imprudence.
The little dogs were tumbling over each other, and wetting their silky
coats in the frosty grass. Waveney called them sharply to order. If no
one were in sight she thought she would race them across the Common; but
the next moment she heard footsteps behind her.
Involuntarily she quickened her own steps. It was rather a lonely part
of the Common. There was no one to be seen, only the gaunt, black arms
of the windmill seemed to stretch into the darkening sky.
The rapid, even footsteps behind her made her nervous, and gave her the
feeling of being in a nightmare. If she could only look around! And
then, to her intense relief, a familiar voice pronounced her name.
"Mr. Chaytor!" she gasped, for her heart was beating so fast that she
could hardly speak. "Oh, how glad I am! It was very foolish of me, but I
never can bear to be followed in a lonely place."
"I was afraid I frightened you?" he said, coming to her side, "but you
were walking so fast that I found it difficult to overtake you. Forgive
me, I know I have no right to lecture, but at this hour the golf links
is far too lonely a place for a young lady."
"Yes, you are right," returned Waveney, touched by this kind interest in
her welfare, "and I must never walk here again so late. But"--with a
sigh of regret--"I do love it so."
"Do you?" returned Mr. Chaytor, quickly. "I wonder why." But with his
habitual reserve he forbore to add that it was his favourite walk.
"It is so wide," she replied, in her earnest voice. "All this space with
nothing between you and the sky makes one feel so free and happy. The
sunsets are always so beautiful here, and if it were not for the
loneliness I should love to watch the darkness, like a big black ogre,
swallow up all the lovely light."
It was a pity Waveney could not see Mr. Chaytor's smile.
"Shall we stand and watch it now?" he said, indulgently. "You have a
safe escort, so we need not fear your ogre. Only you must not take
cold." But Waveney only thanked him, and said that she was late already,
and that they had better go.
What a walk that was! and how Waveney remembered it afterwards! If Mr.
Chaytor had laid himself out to please and interest her, he could not
have succeeded better. Books, pictures, accounts of his old summer
wanderings! And yet not for one moment did Waveney feel that he was
talking down to her level. It seemed the spontaneous outpouring of a
well-bred, intellectual man, glad to impart information to a congenial
companion. But if Waveney was charmed and interested, certainly Mr.
Chaytor was gratified. Miss Ward's bright intelligence, her racy and
picturesque remarks, her frankly confessed ignorance, were all
delightful to him; since the old Manor days he had seen so few girls,
and none of them had attracted him in the least. There was something
unique, out of the common, about Miss Ward; he felt vaguely that he
would like to know more of her.
Perhaps it was this feeling that made him say presently "I am afraid you
have forgotten your little friend Betty"--for he knew all about that
meeting on the Embankment. Betty had given him a most realistic and
graphic account. "And the little lady did warm my hands so, Uncle
Theo,"--and here Bet rubbed away at his hands until she was red in the
face--"and all the time she did talk, and her great big eyes were
laughing at me."
"Bet has a good memory for her friends, and she often talks about you!"
continued Thorold. "She is a fascinating little person, even to me,
though I do not profess to understand children. She is full of
surprises. You never get to the end of her. My sister fairly worships
her!"
"Yes, I know," returned Waveney, softly; "and I am so very glad--glad
for your sister, I mean. I should love to see Betty again. I am not like
you, Mr. Chaytor; I have been a child-worshipper all my life. Oh, I know
they are naughty sometimes, but they are so much nearer the angels than
we are, and they are not such a long way off from heaven."
"'Heaven lies about us in our infancy!' Are you a student of Wordsworth,
Miss Ward?" But she shook her head.
"I have read some of his poems," she returned, modestly. "But I am
afraid I know very little good poetry."
"That is a pity; but one can always mend a fault. At Easter I propose
having a course of reading from Tennyson and Mrs. Browning. Ah, here we
are at the Red House."
"You will come in and have a cup of tea after your long walk," observed
Waveney. "Miss Doreen is in town, but I know Miss Althea is at home."
Then, after a moment's hesitation, Mr. Chaytor assented and followed her
into the house.
"My dear child, how late you are!" observed Althea, rather anxiously, as
Waveney opened the library door. "I was getting nervous about you!"
"I am afraid I am rather late," confessed the girl; "but, fortunately, I
met Mr. Chaytor, and he has come in with me for some tea." Then there
was no lack of welcome in Althea's face and voice. Fresh tea was
ordered, and another supply of hot buttered scones, a big pine-log
thrown on the fire; and as Thorold sat in his luxurious chair, with a
glass screen between him and the blaze, with his little walking
companion opposite him, and Althea's warm smile on them both, he had
never felt himself more comfortable, or at his ease.