A WHITE VELLUM POCKET-BOOK.
"And there's pansies, that's for thoughts."--_Hamlet._
"There'll be a comforting fire;
There'll be a welcome for somebody;
One in her neatest attire,
Will look to the table for somebody."
SWAIN.
It was in the gathering dusk of the afternoon when Waveney found herself
in the neighbourhood of Cleveland Terrace. They had driven fast, and yet
to the eager girl the way had seemed strangely long. As they approached
the house, Althea shivered a little, as though her fur-lined cloak had
suddenly lost its robin-like cosiness. The steely winter's sky, the raw
dampness of the atmosphere, the gloom of the half light, which made all
objects appear out of due proportion, and gave them a hazy
indistinctness, made her feel depressed and uncomfortable.
As the carriage stopped, the door was quickly opened, though not by the
footman, and a familiar voice in the darkness said,--
"Thank you, Miss Harford, a thousand times, for bringing the child home.
Waveney, my darling, 'a happy Christmas to you!' Run out of the cold,
dear, it is beginning to snow." But Waveney kept her place.
"I must say good-night first, father. Were you watching for me? Do you
know you have not wished the dear ladies a happy Christmas yet?" Then
Althea's gentle, melancholy voice interrupted her.
"Dear child, there was no need to remind your father of an idle form. I
am quite sure we have his good wishes for the sake of the auld lang
syne. You are bareheaded, Mr. Ward. Do please go in;" and her slim,
gloved hand was stretched out to him.
Everard bowed over it as he pressed it warmly.
"You will always have my best wishes," he said, very gravely.
"Good-night, Miss Harford, good-night, and thank you, Miss Althea." And
then he swung open the gate and went up the little courtyard, with
Waveney clinging to his arm.
Althea looked after them with wistful eyes. What a stream of light met
them! What did the narrow passage and steep, ladder-like stairs matter,
or the frayed and dingy druggetting, when that starlight glow of home
radiance beamed so brightly. And indeed, when Waveney felt Mollie's arms
round her neck, and her warm cheek pressed against hers, her heart was
comforted and at rest.
"Where are you taking me, sweetheart?" she asked, softly, as Mollie
dragged her past the studio door.
"You must come upstairs and take off your things first," returned
Mollie, panting from her exertions. "We shall have tea in the
dining-room to-night, because there are muffins and crumpets, and I must
see to them." Then Mollie threw open the bedroom door, and stood still
in silent enjoyment to see Waveney's start of surprise at the sight of a
splendid fire burning in the grate.
"Oh, Mollie!" she said, quite shocked at this extravagance, "have we
ever had a fire here before, except when we had the measles?" Then
Mollie laughed and shook her head.
"I daresay not, but I was not going to let you sleep in this cold vault
for three nights when you have been used to a lovely fire in your Pansy
Room. Why, Wave, you absurd child, how grave you look! Father won't have
to pay one penny for it. I put two shillings into the housekeeping purse
out of my own money, and we will just have a beautiful fire every night;
and won't we enjoy ourselves!"
"It feels lovely," returned Waveney, kneeling down on the rug, for she
was chilly from the long drive. "No, don't light the gas, dear, the
firelight is so pretty." Then Mollie put down the match-box reluctantly.
"I wanted to show you something," she returned, in a low voice; "but
perhaps if you make a blaze you will be able to see it. Oh, what is
that?" as Waveney mutely held out a long brown paper parcel. "Is that
another present? No, please don't open it; you must look at this one
first." And then Mollie, with outward gravity, and much inward
excitement, laid a beautiful Russian leather writing-case on the rug for
Waveney's inspection.
Never had Waveney seen such a case, so dainty, so complete, so perfectly
finished. The initials "M. W." were on everything--the silver
paper-knife and penholders, and on the tiny card-case and inkstand; and
every card and sheet of paper was stamped with Mollie's address.
Waveney was silent from excess of admiration, and also from a strong
feeling of emotion. Only a lover, she thought, could have planned all
those pretty finishes and details. Surely, surely Mollie's eyes must be
opened now!
"Mollie, dear, I really don't know what to say," she answered, at last,
when the silence became embarrassing. "It is really too beautiful for
any one but Cinderella." Then a little conscious smile came to Mollie's
lips, and her cheeks wore their wild-rose flush; and yes, certainly,
there was a new wistfulness in her eyes.
"Was it not splendid of Mr. Ingram!" she said; but her voice was not
quite steady. "It was so kind that I could not help crying a little, and
then father laughed at me. I can't understand father, Wave. When I asked
him if I ought to write and thank Mr. Ingram, he got quite red, and said
that I must know my own feelings best. It was so odd of father to say
that."
"Did Mr. Ingram write to you, Mollie?"
"No," returned Mollie, with her cheeks a still deeper rose. "There was
only a slip of paper, with Monsieur Blackie's good wishes. But Wave, he
is not coming back for a long time--he told me so. He said society had
claims on him, and that he had a house-party impending, and other
engagements; but I did not like to question him."
"Well, then, I suppose you had better write--only just a short note,
Mollie; and pray, pray do not be too grateful. If he gives you presents,
it is to please himself as well as you. But you do not know his address,
you silly child."
"No," returned Mollie, with a sigh; "that is one of his mysteries. He
calls himself a nebulous personage. 'If you ever want to write to me,'
he said, the last time he came, 'if your father breaks his leg, for
example, or my friend the humourist plays any of his tricks and requires
chastisement, and the strong arm of the law, you can ask my cousin
Althea to send on the letter for you.' Is that not a funny, roundabout
way?"
"Rather," returned Waveney, drily, feeling as though she were on the
edge of a volcano. "I think, Mollie dear, that under these circumstances
it would be better not to write, but just wait and thank Mr. Ingram when
he comes." And though Mollie looked a little disappointed at this
decision, she agreed, with her usual loyalty, to abide by it.
When the new dress had been duly admired and Miss Althea praised to
Waveney's entire satisfaction, they went downstairs to begin their
Christmas merry-making in earnest.
Noel, who was always the Lord of Misrule on these occasions, had
insisted with much severity on the usual programme being carried out.
So they had snapdragon in the dark dining-room after tea, and Mollie as
usual burnt her fingers, and then they went up to the studio and acted
charades and dumb Crambo to an appreciative audience--Mr. Ward, who
occupied the front row, and Ann and Mrs. Muggins, who represented the
pit.
"Laws, miss, ain't it beautiful and like-life?" observed Ann, the
heavy-footed, for the twentieth time. But Everard's eyes were a little
misty. If only Dorothy could have seen them! he thought. And then his
imagination flew off at a tangent to his old friend, Althea Harford. All
the evening her soft, melancholy voice had haunted him. "For the sake of
auld lang syne" she had said, and her tone had been full of pathos. "She
has never forgotten. I think she is one of those women who never
forget," he thought; but he sighed as he said it.
To Waveney those three days were simply perfect, and every hour brought
its enjoyment. On Sunday afternoon a snowstorm kept them prisoners to
the house, and there was no evening church, so they sang carols by the
fire instead, and Ann sat on the stairs with Mrs. Muggins on her lap,
and an old plaid shawl of her mother's to keep her warm, and listened as
devoutly as though she were in the vestibule of heaven.
"Which is my opinion, Miss Waveney," she observed afterwards, "as the
Sadducees and Pharisees could not have sang more sweetly, not with all
their golden harps neither."
Waveney looked puzzled for a moment; but Ann's idiosyncrasies were too
well known in the household, and after a moment of silent reflection she
said,--
"I see what you mean, Ann. You were thinking of the cherubim and
seraphim, and it is a fine compliment you are paying us." And then she
went off to share the little joke with Mollie and Noel; and the peals of
laughter that reached Ann's ears somewhat perplexed that stolid maiden.
On Monday they woke to a white world, and then there was snow balling in
the back garden, and then a long walk down Cheyne Walk and across the
bridge to Battersea Park. And Mollie went with them, on her father's
arm; and when she got tired, which she did far too soon, Noel took her
home, grumbling at every step, and Waveney and her father went on. It
was Everard's greatest pleasure to walk with his girls, but no companion
suited him like Waveney; her light, springy step hardly seemed to touch
the ground--and then she was so strong and active, and nothing seemed to
tire her. Mollie's sad limp always made his heart ache.
As they stood looking at some floating ice in the river, Everard asked a
little abruptly if Mollie had written to Mr. Ingram.
Waveney shook her head. The question rather surprised her.
"Why, no, father," she replied, slowly; "we do not know Mr. Ingram's
address, so I persuaded Mollie to wait until he calls."
"Well, perhaps you are right," returned Mr. Ward, doubtfully. "But
Waveney, child, I am getting a little bothered about things. I like the
fellow, I like him better every time I see him--he has real grit in him,
and he is a gentleman; but I never saw a girl courted after this
fashion."
"What do you mean, father?" asked Waveney, a little timidly; for she and
Mollie were not at all up to date, and their shyness and reticence on
this subject were quite old-fashioned.
"Why, any child can see that Ingram worships the ground Mollie walks
on," returned Mr. Ward, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "When
she looked at him, with her big, innocent eyes, he stammered and changed
colour more than once. Oh, the man is in earnest, I would take my oath
of that; it is Mollie's side of the question I want to know; she ought
not to encourage him by taking his presents unless she means to have
him."
This was plain speaking, but Mr. Ward was getting desperate. His
motherless girls had no protector but himself. It was pretty to see how
Waveney blushed on Mollie's account.
"Father, dear," she stammered, "I can't be quite sure but I think Mollie
is beginning to care a little for Mr. Ingram. She certainly misses him;
he is very keen and clever, and I fancy that he understands her so well
that he will not hurry things. I mean"--explaining herself with
difficulty--"that he will not speak until he is certain that her heart
is won."
"That is my opinion, too," returned her father; and then he looked at
her with tender curiosity. "Where did you gain your knowledge of men,
little girl?" But Waveney had no answer ready for this question.
That night, as they sat on the rug in the firelight, like two blissful
salamanders, Mollie said, in a flurried and anxious voice,--
"Wave, darling, I want to consult you about something, and you must give
me all your attention; you know," clearing her throat, as though it were
a little dry; "we have decided that I had better not write to Mr.
Ingram."
"Oh, yes, Mollie, we decided that long ago." Waveney spoke in a calm and
judicial voice, but Mollie only grew more flurried.
"But I must do something to please him," she returned, in quite a
distressed tone. "Think of all the pleasure he has given me, Wave. I
have got such a lovely idea in my head. I have finished the
_menu_-cards, and I want to paint one of these white velum pocket-books
for Mr. Ingram--a spray of purple pansies would look so well on it. And
I will have it all ready for him when he comes next. Don't you think he
would be pleased, Wave?"
"Of course he would be pleased, sweetheart; he would carry it next to
his heart, and sleep with it under his pillow." But this nonsense was
received rather pettishly.
"I wish you would be serious when a person asks advice," returned
Mollie, with a little frown. "You would not like any one to say those
silly things to you." Then Waveney was on her best behaviour at once,
and the naughty, mischievous sparkle faded out of her eyes.
"Don't be cross, Mollie darling," she said caressingly. "I do think your
idea very pretty, and I should think Mr. Ingram will be very pleased, he
does admire your painting so. Why have you selected pansies, I wonder?"
Then, at this very simple question, Mollie looked a little confused.
"They are his favourite flowers," she almost whispered; "he says you can
never have too much heart's-ease in this world." And this answer fully
satisfied Waveney.
The next morning they started off to Sloane Street to purchase the
pocket-book, and Mollie expended the last of her earnings; and the
moment Waveney left her, to return to Erpingham, she sat down to her
little painting table and worked until the short winter's afternoon
closed in.
Waveney did not see it until it was finished, and then her admiration
fully satisfied Mollie. It was a charming design, and a pansy with a
broken stalk, dropping from the main cluster, had a very graceful
effect.
"Father likes it; he says I have never painted anything better!"
observed Mollie, with modest pride; and Waveney cordially endorsed this.
Privately she thought the dainty pocket-book was more fit for some
youthful bride. "Mr. Ingram could not possibly use it," she said to
herself; "he will put it under a glass case, or lock it up in a drawer.
And if Mollie ever writes love-letters to him, he will keep them in his
pansy-book." And then she smiled to herself as she thought of his
delight when Mollie, with many blushes and much incoherence, should hand
him the book; she could almost see the flash of pleasure in his eyes.
But as her lively imagination pictured the little scene, she was far
from guessing under what different circumstances Ingram would receive
his pansy-book.