THE VEILED PROPHET.
"We are ne'er like angels till our passions die."--THOMAS DEKKER.
"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive, and a hand to execute."
EDWARD GIBBON.
The evening before Waveney and Mollie returned to Cleveland Terrace
there was a family gathering at the Red House. Everard Ward and his son
and Lord Ralston dined there.
Waveney had secretly hoped that Mr. Chaytor would have been invited; but
Althea, who was not aware of the girl's secret, had said, more than
once, that no outsiders were to be admitted, and Waveney vainly tried to
hide her depression. In spite of home-sickness and longings for the
society of her twin sister, she had been very happy at the Red House.
Her affection for Althea only had deepened with time, and the thought
that she was no longer to minister to her comfort filled her with
profound sadness.
Dereham and Erpingham had grown very dear to her, and the idea of
separation from her kind friends made her heart heavy.
"You will often be with us," Althea said, trying to cheer her. "Do you
think Doreen and I mean to lose sight of you? No, my dear, no. 'Once
loved is always loved.' That is the Harford motto, and most certainly
you are not losing your friends."
"No, but it will not be the same," returned Waveney, sadly. But the real
cause of her depression was not the parting from her beloved Queen Bess.
If she could only say good-bye to her other friend! If she could see him
again and have some look and word to treasure up in her memory! On the
last Porch House Thursday he had hardly spoken to her. It almost seemed
as though he had avoided her, and certainly there had been no farewell.
Most likely he would expect to see her on the following Thursday, and
then Althea would tell him that she was gone.
Waveney tried to console herself with the thought that she would see him
at the wedding, for both he and his sister were to be among the guests.
But when one is in love even five weeks' absence seems like an eternity
in prospect. And Thorold's silent influence and unspoken affection was
already dominating Waveney's entire nature.
It was a sultry July day, and Althea had proposed to Doreen that ices
and dessert should be served in the verandah of the Porch House,
overlooking the tennis lawn; and when dinner was over she led the way to
the garden. When they came in sight of the verandah, Lord Ralston
expressed his approval with his usual frankness, but Everard looked at
Althea rather meaningly.
"It reminds me of Kitlands," he said, in a low voice. "Don't you
remember you often had dessert on the terrace?" And Althea smiled
assent.
"Dorrie and I are very fond of these _al fresco_ meals," she observed.
"I think in summer we should like to have them all in the open air."
And then, as they seated themselves in the comfortable hammock chairs,
Doreen came across the grass with some letters in her hand. She had
intercepted the postman on his way to the house.
"They are mostly for me," she said, looking at the addresses. "One from
Aunt Sara, and another from Laura Cameron, and Mrs. Bell's account.
Yours will keep, Althea; it is only a business-looking document from Mr.
Duncan. Correspondence with one's family lawyer is not particularly
interesting," added Doreen, briskly.
"Is old Andrew Duncan still in existence?" asked Lord Ralston, casually,
as he handed an ice to Mollie.
Everard looked up quickly.
"Andrew Duncan & Son, of Number Twenty-one, Lincoln's Inn? I did not
know he was your lawyer, Miss Harford."
But Noel suddenly broke in.
"Why, that is our Duncan, father!" he exclaimed, rather excitedly. "The
veiled Prophet is his client, you know. That reminds me," he went on,
with a glance at his sisters, "I am going to beard the old lion in his
den, one of these days. The Veiled Prophet shall be unmasked, as sure as
my name is Noel Ward."
"Noel is speaking of the unknown benefactor who is so generously
educating him," explained Everard. "The silly children always speak of
him as the Veiled Prophet----"
But here he stopped suddenly, as though he were shot. He had been
addressing Althea, who was sitting near him; but at his first word, her
pale face had become suddenly suffused with a painful flush, which
deepened every moment. That scorching blush seemed burnt into her very
soul as she sat with downcast eyes, unable to say a word.
"Will any one have any strawberries?" asked Doreen, hastily. Althea's
confusion filled her with compunction, and she was anxious to atone for
her carelessness. She handed some to Everard as she spoke, but he waved
them aside with some impatience.
"Good heavens! was it you, Althea?" he asked, in a tone of dismay.
Then Noel sprang from his chair.
"It is Miss Harford!" he said, loudly. "By Jove! this is a surprise!"
and the boy's face grew suddenly red. "All these years we have been
talking of the Veiled Prophet, and it never entered into our heads that
it was a prophetess."
"My friend the humourist has evidently hit it," observed Moritz, airily;
but he was looking keenly at Althea. "Other people can play comedies,"
he said to himself; and then he twirled his moustache until it was
perfectly ferocious-looking, and fell into a reverie.
Poor Althea tried to speak, tried to rise from her chair, but two pairs
of white arms kept her a prisoner. Waveney and Mollie were kneeling
beside her.
"Dear, dearest Miss Althea, was it really you?" asked Waveney, and the
tears were running down her face, and Mollie was covering her hand with
kisses. "How could we guess that you were Noel's unknown friend?"
"Hold your tongue, old Storm-and-Stress!" interrupted Noel, with boyish
abruptness. "A fellow can't edge in a word with you women. It is for me
to thank Miss Harford; it is for me----Oh, confound it all!" And here
Noel, to everybody's surprise, and his own too, suddenly bolted.
"Let me go to him!" pleaded Althea, gently.
She had not said one word, or lifted her eyes to Everard's face. As she
passed him, her dress almost brushing against him, he made no attempt to
detain her. Doreen followed her; and then Moritz joined the agitated
little group.
"My cousin is a good woman," he said, with solemnity, as though he had
just discovered the fact. "She has noble purposes, and has the courage
to follow them out. I admire especially the _finesse_ and cleverness
with which she has elaborated and carried out her beneficent scheme. It
might almost be compared, in its grandeur of conception, and its
marvellous diplomacy, with another drama of human life, in which I have
played a part." And here Moritz looked at his young _fiancée_, and his
humour changed. "Come and take a turn with me, Mollie darling," he
whispered in the girl's ear; and then Waveney and her father were left
alone.
No one ever knew what passed between Althea and Noel in the Porch House;
but, for the rest of the evening, Noel was unusually grave and
thoughtful. But as Althea was about to return to the verandah, where the
lad had already betaken himself, she came upon Everard. He was standing
alone in the porch, and was evidently waiting for her.
It was now late, and the moon had risen, and Everard's face was
illuminated by the white light. At the sight of him, Althea's assumed
calmness vanished; but she tried to speak in the old friendly way.
"Were you looking for me, Mr. Ward?" she asked, hurriedly. "Are they all
in the verandah still?"
"Yes," he returned, curtly; "but I have come to ask you a question.
Althea, why have you done this; why have you heaped these coals of fire
upon my head?"
Poor Althea! The avalanche had fallen, and she had nothing more to fear;
never again, as she told herself, would she live through such a moment
of humiliation and shame. The purity of her motives and the absence of
all self-seeking and consciousness, would make it easy to defend
herself.
"Mr. Ward," she said, in her sweet, pathetic voice, "we are old friends,
and to me the claims and responsibilities of friendship are very real
and sacred. When your trouble came, when you lost your dear wife, I
heard from a mutual friend that you were struggling in deep waters, and
that, in spite of hard work, you found it difficult to make ends meet."
"That is true," returned Everard. "But----"
"Please let me tell you everything," she pleaded. "This mutual friend
often spoke to me of your twin girls, but one day he mentioned Noel. 'He
is a bright little lad,' he said, 'and very sharp and intelligent; but
Ward frets sadly about his education. He has no means of sending him to
a good school, and he is very down about it, poor fellow!' Those were
his very words. I never forgot them. I know, from your own lips, what a
bright happy boyhood yours had been. You had told me so many stories of
your Eton days, and it seemed to me so grievous that your son should be
robbed of his rightful advantages."
"You forget that it was his father who was to blame for that," returned
Everard, with emotion. "My children must reap what their father sowed.
When I married Dorothy, we made up our minds to renounce the good things
of this life. Oh, I know the name of your informant, Althea; it was
Carstairs! He was a good fellow, and he was in love with my Dorothy; but
when I carried her off, he never turned against me. I remember that
evening, and how low I was in my mind about the poor boy. But there! I
am interrupting you, and you have not finished."
"There is not much to say," replied Althea, gently. "Mr. Carstairs'
account troubled me greatly. I wanted to help you, but I knew, and
Doreen knew, too, that any offers of assistance would have been
indignantly refused. We Harfords are obstinate folk, Mr. Ward, and we
love to get our own way, and then and there I concocted my little
scheme, and my good Mr. Duncan helped me to carry it out. But for
Doreen's unlucky speech, the Veiled Prophetess would have remained
veiled." And then she tried to laugh; but the tears were in her eyes.
"Everard, dear old friend, you are not angry with me?" and she stretched
out her hand to him.
"Angry!" returned Everard, vehemently. "One might as soon quarrel with
one's guardian angel, for Heaven knows you have been an angel of
goodness to me and mine."
"No, I have only been your friend," returned Althea, a little sadly.
"But now it is your turn to be generous, and do me a little favour. Will
you let me finish my work? Noel is a dear boy, and I have grown to love
him; he and I understand each other perfectly. It was always my
intention to send him to Oxford. Mr. Ward, you will not refuse me this
pleasure?"
But Everard shook his head.
"We will talk about that later on, when Noel has got his scholarship;"
and something in his tone warned Althea to say no more. "She would bide
her time," she said to herself; and then, after a few more grateful
words from Everard, she made some excuse and returned to the house. But
for some time Everard did not follow her. He lighted his cigarette, and
paced up and down the garden path.
Coals of fire, indeed! They were scorching him at this very moment. Long
years ago he had wronged this woman, and she knew it. He had inflicted
on her the most deadly wound that a man can inflict. He had won her
heart, and then in his fickleness he had left her; and now, in her sweet
nobility, Althea had rendered him good for evil. Secretly and
unsuspected, she had befriended him and his; but even now he little
guessed the extent of her benevolence, and that, in the home for
workers, many of his pictures had found a place. Althea had kept her
secret well.
"Good God!" he said, almost with a groan. "Why are men so weak and women
so faithful? I can never repay her goodness." And then he thought of his
dead wife. Dorothy had been the love of his youth; she was the mother of
his children; he had never ceased to regret her loss, and he had always
told himself that no other could take her place. In his way he had been
faithful, too, but he knew now, when it was too late, that he had built
his happiness on the wrecked hopes of another woman's heart.
The next day the girls returned to Cleveland Terrace. Althea had driven
them to the door, and then she left them. Everard was out, but as they
stood in the old studio, hand in hand, Mollie's bright face clouded.
"I never thought it was quite so shabby," she said, rather dejectedly.
"How bare and comfortless it looks!" Probably Waveney had thought the
same, but she played the hypocrite gallantly.
"Nonsense, Mollie," she returned, energetically. "We are just spoiled
and demoralized by all the comforts of the Red House. We will unpack our
boxes, and then we will put the room in order. Moritz has sent in a
cartload of flowers, and it will be such fun arranging them!" And then
Mollie cheered up; but she had no idea, as Waveney chattered and bustled
about, that her head was as heavy as lead. It was Thursday, and that
evening Mr. Chaytor would look for her. But the place by Nora Greenwell
would be vacant.
After the first day, things were better. Lord Ralston paid them daily
visits, and Althea and Doreen drove over constantly from the Red House.
Everard was generally absent. He had not yet given up his drawing
classes. But the summer vacation would set him free. Waveney and Mollie
contrived to amuse themselves; they sat in old Ranelagh Gardens with
their work and books. Moritz often followed them there. Sometimes, when
Mr. Ward had a leisure afternoon, he would organise some pleasure-trip.
Once he drove them down to Richmond, and they had dinner at the "Star
and Garter." And one sultry July day they went by train to Cookham, and
spent the afternoon in the Quarry Woods. Indeed, Moritz was never happy
unless he was contriving some new pleasure for his darling.
The wedding was fixed for the tenth of August, and on the third, Mollie
and Waveney returned to the Red House. The _trousseau_ was complete, but
there were finishing touches that needed Mollie's presence.
When she tried on her wedding-dress, and Althea had flung over her head
the magnificent Brussels lace veil that was one of Lord Ralston's
presents, she and Doreen exchanged looks of admiration.
"She is almost too lovely," Althea said afterwards. "And then, she is so
unconscious of her great beauty. 'I know I am pretty,' she once said to
me. 'And I am so glad, for Moritz's sake.' I think I must tell Gwen
that."