Back Aa

Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> <h3>"IT IS THE VOICE OF SHEILA."</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "In the grey old chapel cloister I sit and muse alone, Till the dial's time-worn fingers Mark the moment when we twain Shall in paradisal sunlight Walk together, once again." Helen Marion Burnside. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> There was no doubt that both Waveney and Mollie found their guest amusing. His views of life were so original, and there was such a quiet vein of humour running through his talk that, after a time, little peals of girlish laughter reached Ann's ears. It was Mollie who first struck the key-note of discord. Mr. Ingram had been speaking of a celebrated singer whom he had heard in Paris. "She is to sing at St. James' Hall next Saturday week," he went on. "They say the place will be packed. A friend of mine has some tickets at his bestowal if you and your sister would care to go." As usual he addressed Waveney; but Mollie's face grew very long. "Oh, dear, how nice it would have been!" she sighed; "but Waveney is going away;" and her eyes filled with tears. "Going away!" he echoed in surprise. "Yes. She is going to be a reader and companion to a lady living at Erpingham, and she will only come home on Sundays;" and then a big tear rolled down Mollie's smooth cheek and dropped into her lap. "And we have never been apart for a single day!" She finished with a little sob. "Dear Mollie, hush," whispered Waveney. "We ought not to trouble Mr. Ingram with our little worries. Erpingham is a nice place," she continued, trying to speak cheerfully. "Do you know it?" "Oh, yes," he returned, quickly. "Most people know it. There is a fine common, and some golf links, and there are some big houses there." "Yes; but the Red House is in Erpingham Lane." Then Mr. Ingram started. "I think some ladies of the name of Harford live there," he said, carelessly. "Two are very much given to good works." "Oh, do you know them?" asked Waveney, eagerly; but it struck her that he evaded the question. "We have mutual friends," he replied, rather stiffly. "They are excellent women, and do an immense amount of good. They have a sort of home for broken-down governesses, and they do a lot for shop-women. I have an immense respect for people who do that sort of thing," recovering his sprightliness. "I tried slumming once myself, but I had to give it up; it was not my vocation. The boys called me 'Guy Fawkes,' and that hurt my feelings. By the bye," as they both laughed at this, "I have never explained the purport of my visit. I understood from your sister," and here he looked at Waveney, "that Mr. Ward had a picture for sale. 'King Canute,' was it not? Well, a friend of mine has a picture-gallery, and he is always buying pictures. He wants to fill up a vacant place in an alcove, and he suggested some early English historical subject. He has an 'Alfred toasting the cakes in the swine-herd's cottage,' and a 'St. Augustine looking at the Saxon slaves in the market-place,' and it struck me that 'King Canute' would be an excellent subject." "What lots of friends you seem to have!" remarked Mollie, innocently. "There is the one who shoots pheasant, and the one who buys menu cards, and now another who buys pictures." Ingram looked a little embarrassed, but he was amused too. "One can't knock about the world without making friends," he said, lightly. "Do you recollect what Apolinarius says: 'for I am the only one of my friends I rely on.' But the Chinese have a better maxim still: 'There are plenty of acquaintances in the world, but very few real friends.'" "Is the picture friend only an acquaintance?" asked Mollie, rather provokingly. "No, indeed," returned Ingram, energetically. "We are like brothers, he and I, and I have known him all my life. Well, Miss Mollie, do you think your father would be willing to let my friend have 'King Canute'? It is a famous subject, and brings back the memories of one's school days;" and then he walked to the picture and stood before it, as though he were fascinated; but in reality he was saying to himself, "Now, what am I to offer for this very mawkish and stilted performance?" And the question was so perplexing that he fell into a brown study. Mollie looked at her sister. She was brimful of excitement. But Waveney shook her head. "Would it not be better for your friend to see the picture first?" she said, in a cool, business-like tone; but inwardly she was just as excited as Mollie. Ten pounds would pay all they owe to Barber, and Chandler would wait. "I am sure that father would be pleased to see any one who cared to look at the picture," she finished, boldly. Mr. Ingram regarded her pleasantly. "You are very good, but there is not the slightest occasion to trouble you. I am my friend's agent in this sort of thing. I have been abroad a good deal, and have served my apprenticeship to art. I am an art critic, don't you know. Now, would you mind telling me, Miss Ward, how much your father expected to get from the dealers?" "I don't know," returned Waveney, doubtfully. "There was no fixed price, was there, Mollie? Father told us that he would be content with ten pounds." "My dear Miss Ward," returned Ingram, in a tone of strong remonstrance, "your father undervalues himself. Ten pounds for that work of art! Heaven forgive me all the fibs I am telling," he added, mentally, and then he cleared his throat. "I am no Jew, and must decline to drive a hard bargain. If Mr. Ward will let my friend have 'King Canute,' I shall be willing to pay, on his behalf, five-and-twenty pounds: I mean"—looking calmly at the girl's agitated face—"five-and-twenty guineas." They were too overwhelmed with surprise and pleasure to answer him; and just at that moment—that supreme moment—they heard their father's latch-key. Ingram described the little scene later on to a dear friend. "It was Atalanta's race, don't you know. They both wanted to reach their father first; he was the golden apple, pro tem. "The lame Miss Ward had long odds, but my little-friend of the omnibus beat her hollow. Can you fancy Titania coming down her ladder of cobwebs? Well, you should see Miss Ward number two, running downstairs—it would give you a notion of it. And there was the golden apple on the door-mat waiting for her." "You are very absurd," returned his hearer, laughing, "but your description amuses me, so please go on." "There is something very refreshing in such originality," he murmured, languidly. "I have an idea that Gwen would love those girls. Gwen is all for nature and reality. Conventionality might have suggested that it was hardly mannerly to leave a guest in an empty room, even for golden apples, but no such idea would have occurred to the Misses Ward. They even forgot that sound ascends, and that I could hear every word." "Dear me, that was very awkward!" But the lady spoke maliciously. "I could hear every word," he repeated, and then his eyes twinkled; but he was honourable enough not to repeat the little conversation. "Father, Monsieur Blackie is upstairs!" and here Mollie giggled. "His real name is Ingram, but Ann calls him Mr. Ink-pen." "All right, my pet; so I suppose I had better go upstairs;" but Waveney pulled him back. "Wait a moment, father dear. What a hurry you are in! And your hair is so rough, and your coat is dusty. Give me the brush, Mollie. We must put him tidy. Dad, such a wonderful thing has happened. Mr. Ingram wants to buy King Canute 'for a rich friend who has a picture-gallery,' and he will pay you five-and-twenty guineas." "Nonsense, child!" But from his tone Mr. Ward was becoming excited too. "Let me pass, Mollie; you are forgetting your manners, children, leaving a visitor alone;" and Everard Ward marched into the studio, with his head unusually high. "The 'golden apple,' alias Ward père, was a shabby, fair little man with a face like a Greek god," continued Ingram. "He must have been a perfect Adonis in his youth. He had brown pathetic eyes, rather like a spaniel's—you know what I mean, eyes that seemed always to be saying, 'I am a good fellow, though I am down on my luck, and I should like to be friends with you.'" It was evident that the two men took to each other at once. Ingram's pleasant manners and undisguised cordiality put Mr. Ward at his ease, and in a few minutes they were talking as though they were old friends. The subject of 'King Canute' was soon brought forward again, and Ingram explained matters with a good deal of tact and finesse. Everard Ward reddened, and then he said bluntly, "You are very good, Mr. Ingram, to offer me such a handsome price, but sheer honesty compels me to say the picture is not worth more than ten pounds. I have not worked out the subject as well as I could wish." And then he added, a little sadly, "It is a poor thing, but my own." "My dear sir," returned Ingram, airily, "we artists are bad critics of our own work. My friends regard me as an optimist, but I call myself an Idealist. I am a moral Sisyphus, for ever rolling my poor stone up the hill difficulty." Then, as he noticed Mollie's puzzled look, he continued blandly, "Sisyphus was a fraudulent and avaricious king of Corinth, whose task in the world of shades is to roll a large stone to the top of a hill and fix it there. The unpleasant part of the business is that the stone no sooner reaches the hill-top than it bounds down again. Excuse this lengthy description, which reminds me a little of Sandford and Merton. But, revenons à nos moutons, I am ready, Mr. Ward, to take the picture for my friend at the price I mentioned to your daughters; and as I have the money about me"—and here he produced a Russian leather pocket-book—"I think we had better settle our business at once." Everard Ward was only human, and the bait was too tempting. His conscience told him that the picture was a failure, and hardly worth more than the cost of the frame; and yet such is the vanity innate in man that he was willing to delude himself with the fancy that the stranger's eyes had detected merit in it. And, indeed, Ingram's manner would have deceived any one. "It is the very thing he wants for the alcove," he murmured, stepping back a few paces, and regarding the picture through half closed eyes. "The light will be just right, and"—here he appeared to swallow something with difficulty—"the effect will be extremely good." And then he began counting the crisp bank-notes. Waveney's eyes began to sparkle, and she and Mollie telegraphed little messages to each other. Not only the insolent Barker would be paid, but the much-enduring Chandler. When Mr. Ward went downstairs to open the door for his guest, Waveney threw her arm round her sister, and dragged her down upon Grumps. "Oh, Mollie, I quite love that dear little Monsieur Blackie!" she cried, enthusiastically. "Think of ten whole pounds to spend! Father can have a new great-coat, and Noel those boots he wants so dreadfully, and you must have a new jacket—I insist on it, Mollie; I shall do very well with my old one until Christmas." But Mollie would not hear of this for a moment: if any one had the new jacket, it must be Waveney. What did it matter what a poor, little Cinderella wore at home? And they both got so hot and excited over the generous conflict that Mr. Ward thought they were quarrelling until he saw their faces. "I like that fellow," he said, rubbing his hands; "he is gentlemanly and agreeable; he told me in confidence that, though he calls himself an artist, he only dabbles in art. 'If a relative had not left me a nice little property, I should long ago have been in Queer Street,' he said, in his droll way." "Oh, then he is not poor as we are?" observed Mollie, in a disappointed tone. "No, he is certainly not poor," returned her father, laughing. "I should think he is tolerably well-to-do, judging from appearances, and certainly he has rich friends. He has asked my permission to call again when he is in the neighbourhood;" and both the girls were pleased to hear this. Waveney had not seen her old friends at the Hospital for more than a week, so one morning she went across to wish them good-bye. She had a little cake that Mollie had made for them, and some tobacco that she had bought with her own money. It was a wet day, and most of the pensioners were in the big hall. One of them told Waveney that Sergeant McGill was in his cubicle with the corporal, as usual, in attendance. "They do say the sergeant's a bit poorly," continued her informant. And a moment afterwards she came upon Corporal Marks, stumping along the corridor with a newspaper in his hand. The little man looked dejected, but he saluted Waveney with his usual dignity. "I hear the sergeant is not well. I trust it is nothing serious." Then the corporal shook his head, and his blue eyes were a little watery. "Well, no, Miss Ward, not to say serious—we are none of us chickens, so to speak, and we have most of us cut our wisdom teeth a good many years ago. The sergeant has been poorly for a week now. He is down in the mouth, and I can't rouse him nohow. Would you believe it, Miss Ward, I was trying to argify with him this morning about that there Sepoy. 'For it stands to reason, McGill,' I said to him, 'that there could only be two of them;' and he fairly flew at me, lost his temper, and told me I was an infernal liar. Why, you might have knocked me down with a feather, I was so taken aback;" and the corporal's droll face was puckered up with care. "Never mind, Corporal," returned Waveney, soothingly. "McGill was ill and not himself, or he would not have been so irritable with his old comrade. Look here, I have come to bid you all good-bye, because I am going away; and my sister has made you one of those cakes you like, and I have brought you some tobacco." Then the corporal's face cleared a little. They found the old soldier lying on his bed, with a rug over his feet; his face looked drawn and pallid. At the sound of Waveney's light step he turned his sightless eyes towards her, and a strange expression passed over his features. "There was only one step that was as light," he murmured, in his thick, soft voice, "and that was Sheila's, and hers hardly brushed the dewdrops from the heather." Then, as Waveney took hold of his great hand, "and it was her small fingers, too, the brown little hands that carried the creel of peat, and stacked it underneath the eaves; and it is Sheila that has come to me—Heaven bless her sweet face!—before I take the long journey." "My dear old friend, do you not know me?" and Waveney looked anxiously at him. "It is not Sheila, it is Miss Ward who has come to wish you good-bye." Then the old man looked bewildered, and raised himself on the pillow. "And are you ferry well, Miss Ward? And it is I who have made the mistake, like the old fool that I was. It may be I was dreaming—I was always clever at the dreams, as the corporal knows. But it seemed to me as though I could see the blue water of the loch, and the grey walls of our cottage, and the shingly roofs, and even the cocks and hens pecking in the dust. And there was Sheila coming up from the beach, with her bare feet, and red kerchief tied over her dark hair; and her smile was like sunshine, and her hands were full of great scarlet poppies. And if it was a dream, it was a good dream." "Was Sheila your sister?" asked Waveney, softly. For she knew that Sergeant McGill had never been married, though the corporal was a widower. Then, at the beloved name, McGill roused to complete consciousness. "No, Miss Ward. I had no sister, only six brothers, and Sheila was the lass of my heart; and when I had got my stripes we were to have married. But it was my fate, for when I came from the wars, there was the loch, and the purple moors, and the grey walls of the cottage; but Sheila, she would never come to meet me again with the poppies in her hand, and the wild rose in her cheek. She lay in the graveyard on the hillside, where the dead can hear the bees humming in the heather. But it is not the goot manners to be telling you of the old troubles, and very soon it is Sheila herself that I shall see." "Tell Miss Ward the message that Sheila left with her mother, McGill." "It was this that she said," he continued, in a proud tone, "'You must bid Fergus McGill not to grieve; he is a grand soldier and a good lad, and dearly I would have loved to have been his wife. But God's will be done. Tell him I will be near the gates; and that if the angels permit, that it is Sheila who will be there to welcome him.'" "That message must have made you very happy," returned Waveney, tenderly. "They were goot words, and I do not deny that they have given me comfort," replied McGill, solemnly. "But for years I had a heavy heart; for when a Highlander loses the lass of his heart, the world is a barren place to him. But it is the truth that Sheila has spoken, and it is herself that I shall see, with these dim old eyes." He sank back a little heavily on the pillows. Waveney leant over him and spoke gently in his ear. "McGill," she said, in her clear, girlish voice, "do you know you have hurt the poor corporal's feelings. You were angry with him this morning, and called him names." Then there was a flush of shame on the grand old face. "It was myself that was in fault, Miss Ward, for I lost my temper. But it is not the corporal who will quarrel with his old comrade. It was the liar that I called him, but it was I who disgraced myself." "Never mind, old mate, I was wrong to argify, and so we are quits there. For it stands to reason," continued the corporal, "that when a man is poorly, he is not in a condition for fighting." "Still, it was the bad manners to be calling any one a liar," returned Sergeant McGill. "But a Highlander's temper is not always under control. So I ask your pardon, Marks, but it was three Sepoys that I killed with my own hand, and I had the third by the throat." "Dear Sergeant," interposed Waveney, softly, "Corporal Marks quite understands all that; and what does it matter?—a little difference between two old friends!" Then a strangely sweet smile lighted up the wrinkled old face. "It is the voice of Sheila. And what will she be saying again and again: 'Blessed are the peace-makers'—and they are grand words." "Shall I read to you a little?" asked the girl, timidly. Then the corporal took down an old brown Testament from the shelf, and Waveney read slowly and reverently, passage after passage, until the heavy breathing told her that McGill was asleep. Then she closed the book and went out into the corridor. "He is very ill," she said, sorrowfully; "so feeble and so unlike himself." But the corporal refuted this stoutly. "McGill is but poorly," he returned, so gruffly that Waveney did not venture to say more. "When he has taken a bottle or two of the doctor's stuff, he will pick up a bit; he sleeps badly, and that makes him drowsy and confused," and then he saluted, and stumped back to his comrade. Waveney heard a different story downstairs. "Have you seen McGill?" two or three said to her. "The poor chap, he is breaking fast. The corporal won't believe it, but it is plain as a pike-staff;" and so on. "Mollie, dear," observed Waveney, sadly, "I have such bad news to tell you: dear old Sergeant McGill is very ill, and I fear he is going to die; and what will the corporal do without him? And it is so strange;" she went on, "he thinks he is a lad again, in his Highland home, and that his sweetheart Sheila is coming to meet him. He calls her the lass of his heart, and it is all so poetical and beautiful;" and Waveney's voice was so full of pathos that Mollie's eyes filled with sympathetic tears. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.