A DEVOUT LOVER.
"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays
And confident to-morrows."
WORDSWORTH.
"I do perceive here a divided duty."
_Othello._
When Waveney broke the news of Mollie's engagement to her friends at the
Red House, the sisters only looked at each other with a meaning smile.
"So that is the end of the comedy," observed Althea, in an amused voice.
"'All's well that ends well,' eh, Dorrie? Of course we all knew how it
would end, that evening at the theatre."
"To be sure we did," returned Doreen, complacently.
Nothing ever ruffled her placidity. If people chose to be engaged or
married, it was their affair, not hers. Doreen never envied them, never
drew unfavourable comparisons between her friends' matrimonial bliss and
her own single blessedness. She had walked contentedly "in maiden
meditation, fancy free," all these years. "I was cut out for an old
maid," she would say sometimes, laughingly, to her sister; "the _rôle_
just suits me. You are different," she once added, looking rather
wistfully at Althea as she spoke.
"Yes," replied Althea, frankly, "you and I are different people, Dorrie.
You are the happiest and most contented woman I know; but"--a little
pathetically--"I have not had all my good things." And, though she said
no more, Doreen understood her.
"It is very odd to think that that pretty little Mollie Ward is to be a
connection of ours," went on Doreen, when Waveney had bidden them
good-night. Waveney's heart was so full that she yearned to be alone in
her Pansy Room and think over the day's excitement. "Mollie will be our
cousin." And as Althea assented to this with a smile, she continued, "I
wonder what Gwen will think of her new sister-in-law?"
"My dear Dorrie, I think I can answer that. Given will be charmed with
her. You know how much Gwen thinks of beauty, and where will you find a
sweeter face than Mollie's? Then she is such a dear little
unsophisticated thing. Ah, Gwen will lose her heart to her, you may
depend on that. Upon my word," she went on, "I think Moritz has not
chosen so badly, after all. Indeed, for an idealist, he has done very
well for himself, and I shall write and congratulate him most cordially.
Mollie will make a most fascinating little viscountess. She will have
much to learn, of course; but she will be no faint-hearted Lady of
Burleigh, sinking weakly under the burden of 'an honour into which she
was not born,'" finished Althea, with a little laugh. And then, as the
old grand-father's clock in the hall struck ten, Doreen rang the bell
for prayers.
Althea did more than write her letter of congratulation. She drove down
all the way to Cleveland Terrace a day or two afterwards, to see Mollie,
and wish her joy; and she was so kind and sympathetic, she praised
Moritz, and said so many nice things about him that Mollie was ready to
worship her for her tact and gentleness.
Mollie's pretty bloom was returning to her cheeks, and on her left hand
there was a splendid half-hoop of diamonds. She showed her ring to
Althea, with a child's shy eagerness.
"It is far too beautiful," she said, proudly; "but he did not buy it for
me--it belonged to that old relative who left him the property."
"Oh, indeed," returned Althea, with polite interest; but there was an
amused gleam in her eyes. Of course the ring had belonged to old Lady
Ralston, who had been a beauty and an heiress, and whose diamonds had
been the envy of all the dowagers at the county ball. And then Moritz
had come in and interrupted them. He was evidently taken aback at the
sight of his cousin Althea; but her cordial welcome and her warm
congratulations soon restored his equanimity, and he was soon chatting
to her and Mollie in his old light-hearted fashion.
Mollie was to go down to Eastbourne the following week, and the two
girls were to be chaperoned by Nurse Helena. Mollie was recovering her
strength so fast that Nurse Helena's office was likely to be a sinecure.
But when Althea pointed this out very gently to Moritz, he put his foot
down very decidedly.
"Of course, Mollie was getting better," he said, with the air of an
autocrat, and the sea-breezes would soon set her up. But how could his
cousin Althea imagine that two girls could be alone at a place like
Eastbourne? The very idea shocked him. As Mr. Ward could not leave town,
except from Saturday to Monday, he had insisted that Nurse Helena should
be put in charge. "I shall run down myself every few days," he finished,
"and I suppose one has to study the proprieties." Then Althea very
wisely held her peace.
Moritz went to the station to see them off. The girls were in high
spirits, and Mollie, who knew that she would see him again before many
days were over, could hardly summon up gravity enough to bid him
good-bye. It was Moritz who looked melancholy; London was a howling
wilderness to him without his darling. He had sent Noel back to keep
house with his father, and he meant to go down to Brentwood Hall and
seek consolation with Gwen and her boy. Gwen would give him all the
sympathy he demanded; she was as romantic and unconventional as he was.
Gwen dearly liked a lover; she would listen patiently to all his
discourse on Mollie's perfections, and she would help him with the
decorations, and the refurnishing of the rooms that were to be got ready
for his young wife.
Moritz, who had been such a patient wooer, was now in hot haste to
clinch his bargain.
Mollie, startled and protesting, had been carried away by his masterful
eloquence, and had signed away her freedom. They were to be married in
the middle of August, and to spend their honeymoon at his shooting box
in the Highlands. The moorland air would be good for Mollie, he said,
and they and the grouse would have it to themselves.
"I don't hold with rushing about from place to place, on one's wedding
trip," he observed to Althea--for he had his theories on this subject
also. "When Jack and Gwen were married, they went off to the Austrian
Tyrol, and Heaven knows where besides. But I know a thing or two better
than that. The Hut is a cosy little place, and there are some
comfortable rooms in it. I will send down Murdoch--he is a Highlander
and a handy fellow, too, and his wife is a capable woman--to make things
ship-shape for a lady. We will have a few days in Edinburgh first, and
show Mollie Holyrood and Arthur's Seat, and she shall feast her eyes on
the shops in Princes Street"--for Moritz remembered, with lover-like
accuracy, Mollie's girlish _penchant_ for shop-windows. Moritz could be
practical on occasion, and he somewhat astonished Althea, when he took
her into his confidence, by his thoughtfulness for his young _fiancée's_
comfort.
It was to his cousin Althea that Moritz entrusted the formidable but
delightful task of ordering the _trousseau_. Gwen was too far from
London to undertake such an onerous business; he had already talked the
matter over with Mr. Ward, and had wrung from him a reluctant consent.
Even Everard's pride and independence could not resist Moritz's urgent
entreaties that a _trousseau_ befitting Mollie's future rank should be
provided at his expense. But before this could be done, Mollie must see
her future home, and be made aware of her splendid position. And for
this purpose it was arranged that, when the month at Eastbourne was
over, she should pay a visit to the Red House; and then Moritz's
long-deferred picnic to Brentwood should take place.
Althea had her own little plans, which she did not impart to Moritz,
although she had already talked them over with Waveney.
"You know, my dear child," she had said, seriously, to her, the evening
before Waveney started for Eastbourne. "I have been thinking a great
deal of you and Mollie, and I have made up my mind to part with my dear
little companion."
"What can you mean?" asked Waveney, in a startled voice; but she flushed
uneasily. "I know I have been very little use to you lately, and that I
have neglected my duties shamefully; but I was going to speak to you
about that; I want you to give me less money--indeed--indeed," as Althea
looked extremely amused at this, "I am quite serious. I have not earned
my salary, and I cannot take it--it would not be honest;" and here
Waveney drew up her slight figure, and looked very resolute.
"Why, Waveney, my dear child," remonstrated Althea, "surely you are not
going to disappoint me after all these months! I thought we were such
good friends, you and I, and that we understood each other thoroughly!"
And as the girl looked at her in dumb questioning she continued,
affectionately, "Dear friends do not differ for a trifle, or stand on
their dignity. What are a few pounds, more or less, compared to all you
and Mollie have done for me?"
"How do you mean, dear Miss Althea?" asked Waveney, quite taken aback
at this. "I have done little enough, I know, and as for Mollie----"
"You have brought fresh interests into my life," returned Althea,
quietly. "You have given me two more human beings to serve and love.
Yes," she continued, but her voice was not quite steady, "I am very fond
of you and your pretty Mollie, and it adds to my happiness to feel that
I am any help or comfort to either of you."
"Comfort! What should I have done without you?" replied Waveney, with
emotion. "My own mother could hardly have been kinder and more patient!"
Then Althea flushed slightly.
"Well, then, you will be a good child, and let me finish what I have to
say." And then, in her clear, sensible way, she explained her views
about the future.
When Mollie married, Waveney would have to leave them. It was impossible
for her father and Noel to do without her.
And Waveney, who had not taken this into consideration, felt a sudden
thrill of pain at the idea of leaving the Red House.
As this was the case, went on Althea, she and Doreen both agreed that it
would be cruel to part her and Mollie during the few months that
remained to them. Mollie was coming to the Red House for some weeks to
do her shopping, but when she went back to Cleveland Terrace, Waveney
must go with her. "That is why I say that you and I must part, my
child," finished Althea, gently. "I shall miss my bright companion
sadly--so sadly, indeed, that I never mean to have another. But,
Waveney, your father has the first claim to your services. I dare not
deprive him of your society when Mollie has gone. There, we will not
talk any more," as she saw that Waveney's eyes were full of tears.
"Think over what I have said when you are at Eastbourne, and take Mollie
into your confidence. I know she will say that I am right."
And, indeed, when Waveney consulted her, Mollie, who was a very sensible
little person, fully endorsed Queen Bess's opinion.
"Of course I could not do without you, darling," she remarked with
decision. "Moritz"--she always said his name so prettily and
shyly--"would not like me to be alone, and as for father and Noel, they
would be too uncomfortable with only that stupid Ann to look after
them." And then Waveney owned, with a sigh, that she and Miss Althea
were right.
Waveney took herself to task severely for her reluctance at leaving the
Red House. Was she guilty of loving the flesh-pots of Egypt? Was her
home to be less to her because Mollie would not be there? Waveney cried
"Shame!" to herself because the thought of Ann's clumsiness fretted her;
while the meagre housekeeping, and all the pretty economies that had
been Mollie's share, and were now to be shifted to her shoulders, filled
her with a sore distaste and loathing. She had grown to love the Red
House, and every room in it. The luxury, the comfort, the perfection of
the trained service, the homelike atmosphere, the cultured society of
the two sisters and their wide work and sympathies, all appealed
strongly to Waveney's nature. Her life in the Red House had been a
liberal education. How much she had learnt there! And then the Porch
House Thursdays----But at this point in her reflections Waveney checked
herself abruptly. Too well she knew where the sting lay, and why the
pain of leaving Erpingham would be so sharp and continuous; only there
could she enjoy the society of Mr. Chaytor, and she knew well that at
Cleveland Terrace her Thursdays would be blank and sad.
"Wave, dear," exclaimed Mollie, on that first evening, as they were
together in their comfortable sitting-room looking out on the Parade and
the sea, while Nurse Helena was busy in the room above unpacking their
boxes, "isn't this one of our dreams come true, that you and I should be
at the seaside together?"
"It was your dream, not mine, Mollie," returned Waveney, in a teasing
voice. "You were the dreamer in the old days. I was far more prosaic and
matter-of-fact." And then she settled herself more comfortably against
Mollie's couch. "There was your Kitlands dream, you know, and a hundred
others."
"Oh, never mind Kitlands," replied Mollie, with a touch of impatience in
her voice. "That was a dear dream, but of course it was too big and
grand ever to come true. But how often we used to make believe that we
were going to the seaside! Don't you remember, Wave, the little
bow-window parlour over the tinman's in High Street that we were to
take, and the sea-breezes that would meet us as we turned the corner,
and how we were always to have shrimps for tea?" And then Mollie laughed
with glee. "But this is much better, isn't it, dear?" and she looked at
the big, cosy room that Ingram had selected for their use.
They were like a pair of happy children that evening. Mollie had
insisted that she and Waveney should share the big front bedroom; and
she was so wide-awake and excited that she would have talked half the
night, only Waveney sternly refused to be cajoled.
"Nurse Helena has begged us not to talk," she said, "and I feel I am on
my honour. No, Mollie, I will not be coaxed. I am a woman of my word,
and I gave Nurse Helena my promise. There shall be no pale cheeks for
the Black Prince to see on Saturday. Go to sleep like a good child." And
then Mollie consented to be silent.
It was a happy month, and nothing occurred to mar their enjoyment. They
spent delightful mornings on the beach or parade; in the afternoon,
while Mollie had her _siesta_, Waveney and Nurse Helena wrote their
letters, or enjoyed the books with which Ingram had provided them; after
tea, when the evenings were fine and warm, they drove into the country,
coming back to an early supper.
Moritz always came down from Saturday to Monday, and put up at the hotel
close by. Once he brought Mr. Ward with him, and another time it was
Noel; and then, indeed, Mollie's happiness was complete.
Only one thing troubled Mollie as the days went on. In spite of her high
spirits, Waveney was not quite herself. She had silent fits at times.
She was absent and _distraite_, and did not always hear what Mollie said
to her; and more than once as they sat in the moonlight, looking at the
silvery path across the dark sea, Mollie had heard a suppressed sigh.
"There is something on her mind, something she is keeping to herself,"
thought Mollie, anxiously, "and we have never, never had a secret from
each other. It is not like my own Wave to hide anything from me, and I
shall tell her so." And, indeed, Mollie was so tearful and pleading, so
pertinacious in her questions, and so quick and clever in her surmises,
that before they returned to the Red House Waveney's poor little
secret--her unfinished story--was in Mollie's keeping. Mollie was full
of tender sympathy. She cried bitterly over Waveney's description of
that meeting by the river. She quaked and shivered,--was hot and cold by
turns with excitement.
"Of course he cares for you, darling," she said, putting her arms round
her sister's neck. "How can he help it? Oh, it will all come right," she
continued, cheerfully. "One day you will be as happy as we are. What a
pity he is so poor and proud! Men are so blind. It would be so much
nicer to be engaged, and wait--oh, any number of years," went on Mollie,
with womanly philosophy.
But to this Waveney made no answer. Perhaps in her secret heart she was
glad Mollie knew. Never in their lives had they had a thought unshared
by the other.
But when Mollie was alone she made a naughty little _mouche_.
"How can she care for that plain, old-looking man?" she said to herself.
"Why, I should be frightened to speak to him, he looks so grave. Waveney
is a hundred times too good for him. 'A noticeable man, with large grey
eyes,' is not to my taste," went on Mollie, with a blissful remembrance
of her own dear Monsieur Blackie.