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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2> <h3>ORLANDO TO THE RESCUE.</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Macbeth. "If we should fail!" Lady Macbeth.          "We fail!  But screw your courage to the sticking place,  And we'll not fail." Shakespeare. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> Waveney was secretly piqued to see that there was no sign of recognition in Mr. Chaytor's eyes. He bowed as though to a stranger in whom he took slight interest, exchanged a few words with the sisters, looked at his watch, and then lifted his hand as a signal for silence, and the buzzing, girlish voices were instantly hushed. The readers had already taken their places round the centre table. Miss Harford's throne and a reading-desk stood beside it. The rest of the girls had grouped themselves round the tables with their work. A few of them had a volume of Shakespeare in their hands. The moment after Mr. Chaytor's entrance one of the girls had left the room rather hurriedly, and a minute later Althea was summoned. Mr. Chaytor was giving a few instructions in a low voice, and had not noticed the circumstance until Althea returned with a perturbed countenance. "I am so sorry," she said, in a tone of vexation; "it is most unfortunate, but Miss Pierson has one of her giddy attacks, and is obliged to go home. She is in tears about it, but, as I tell her, it is no fault of hers." Mr. Chaytor looked blank. His audience was impatient; already he had heard sundry thimbles rap the table, and his readers were eager to begin. But now there was no Orlando, what was to be done? Such failure was not to be borne. He frowned, considered the point, and then looked persuasively at Althea. "If you will be so good——" he began; but Althea shook her head and turned a little pale. Not for worlds would she have read that part. To her relief, Doreen came to her aid. "You must not ask Althea," she said, in her quick, decided way. "She was quite ill yesterday, and her head is not right to-day. I wish I could help you, but I am no reader, as you know. But there is Miss Ward; I think she would do nicely. You will help them, will you not?" turning to Waveney. Poor Waveney was ready to sink through the ground. She grew hot and then cold. "Do try, dear," Althea whispered, coaxingly; and, to her dismay, she found Mr. Chaytor's grave, intent look fixed on her. The clear grey eyes were somewhat beseeching. "It will be a great kindness," he said. "Your audience will not be critical, Miss Ward. Let me beg you to do us this favour." "It is impossible. I should spoil everything," stammered Waveney, in great distress. "I have only once read As You Like It, and that was a long time ago." But she might as well have spoken to the wind. Mr. Chaytor evidently had a will of his own. His only reply was to put a book in her hand and offer her a chair. "I have promised that we will not be critical," he said, quietly. "You will soon get into the swing of it. To give you confidence, I will read Orlando's opening speech to Adam." Then, as Waveney took her place, with hot cheeks and downcast eyes, a delightful clapping of hands welcomed her. Althea looked anxious as she returned to the oak settle. "Poor little thing, she is frightened to death," she whispered; "but Thorold was so masterful with her." "I like men to be masterful," returned Doreen, in an undertone; "but I wish he would try it on with Joanna." And then they both smiled, and Althea said "hush!" as Mr. Chaytor's full, rich tones were audible. Waveney's turn came all too soon. Her voice trembled, and was sadly indistinct, at first: but as one girl after another took up her cue, she soon forgot her nervousness, and entered into the spirit of the play. Several of the girls read well, but none of them equalled Nora Greenwell. Celia was passable, and Ph[oe]be certainly understood her rôle; but Nora read with a sprightliness and animation that surprised Waveney. The girl seemed a born actor. Her enunciation was clear, and the changes of expression in her voice, its mirth and passion, its rollicking, girlish humours and droll witcheries, were wonderfully rendered. But it was Mr. Chaytor's reading that kept Waveney spell-bound. When as First Lord he narrates the story of the melancholy Jacques and the sobbing deer, the pathos of his voice brought the tears to her eyes; and as Touchstone his dry humour and clownish wit were so cleverly given that once Waveney laughed and was covered with confusion. Twice the reading was interrupted by a charming little interlude, when three or four girls went up on the platform and sang "Under the Greenwood Tree" and "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind." At the conclusion of the play, which was shortened purposely, Althea took her seat at the piano, and all the girls joined in an evening hymn. Waveney did not sing, for her heart was full. The evening's performance had excited her, and her imagination, which was always remarkably vivid, seemed suddenly to grasp the full beauty and meaning of the scene. Was not this Christian socialism in its fairest aspect? she thought. Could any picture be sweeter or more symbolical than that group of young faces gathered round the two dear ladies; for Doreen was on the platform, too. Some of the faces were far from being beautiful—some were absolutely plain; and one or two sickly-looking girls with tangled hair, and decked out with cheap finery, were singularly unattractive. And yet, as Althea's long, slim fingers touched the notes, and the dear old tune that they had loved in childhood floated through the wide hall, each face brightened into new life. "They are all workers," thought Waveney, as she watched them. "Some of them have hard, toilsome lives; they are away from their homes and amongst strangers, and, though they are so young, they know weariness and heartache. But when they come here, it is like home to each one, and it makes them happy. If I were a shop-girl at Dereham, I should look forward to my Thursday evening as I look forward to Sunday;" and then she said to herself, happily, "To-morrow I shall say the day after to-morrow, and how delightful that will be!" Waveney was smiling to herself, when she suddenly raised her eyes and encountered Mr. Chaytor's amused glance. He had evidently been watching her for some time, for he was leaning back in the carved arm-chair, with the air of a man who felt he had earned his repose. The next moment he came towards her. The hymn was over, but the girls were still gathered round Althea and wishing her good-night. Under the cover of their voices he addressed Waveney. "I have not properly thanked you for your kind assistance, Miss Ward, but I assure you that I was most grateful. Miss Pierson's indisposition had placed us in an awkward dilemma, but you came to our help most nobly." "I am afraid I acquitted myself badly," returned Waveney. She would have given much for a word of praise. People generally liked her reading, but she feared that Mr. Chaytor would be no ordinary critic. "You did very well," he returned, quietly. "Indeed, considering you had only once read the play, I ought to give you greater praise. You see, Shakespeare is a sort of divinity to me. I think a lifetime is hardly long enough to study him properly. My reverence for him makes me unreasonable. Orlando did not suit you; you would have made a better Rosalind. If you were staying at the Red House, and liked to join my Thursday evening classes, I could give you a few valuable hints." "I should like to join them," observed Waveney, colouring a little, "if Miss Harford could spare me." And as he looked a little perplexed at this, she added hastily, "I have come to the Red House as Miss Althea's reader and companion." And this explanation evidently satisfied him. But the next moment, as Waveney was moving away, he stopped her. "Will you pardon me, Miss Ward, if I ask if we have ever met before? I have a fancy that your voice,"—he was going to say eyes, but he checked himself—"is not quite unknown to me. I have been puzzling over it half the evening." "Oh, yes, we have met before," returned Waveney, who was quite at her ease now. "It was in old Ranelagh Gardens, and you asked us to direct you to Dunedin Terrace. I hope you found it;" and he smiled assent to this. "You were with your sister," he hazarded, and Waveney nodded; and then Doreen joined them, and Mr. Chaytor said no more. Of course he recalled it now, and it was only last Monday too. But how was he to identify the little girl in her shabby hat with this dainty little figure in white? True, her eyes had attracted him that day, but this evening he had not seen them fully until a few minutes ago. He recalled everything now; the beautiful face of the other girl, and the sweet, refined voices of both. He had wondered who they were, and why they were sitting hand in hand in the sunshine, and looking so sad; and it was only three days ago. Doreen proposed that Waveney should come back with her to the house. "My sister and Mr. Chaytor often stop behind for a little chat about the girls," she explained. And Waveney, glancing at them as she left the room, saw that she was right. Althea had seated herself on the settle, and was holding up a small screen between her face and the firelight, and Mr. Chaytor was standing with one arm leaning against the mantelpiece looking down at her. "I am so glad the reading went off so well," she said, when the door had closed after her sister and Waveney. "At one moment I was terribly afraid, until our little Orlando came to the rescue. She read very nicely, Thorold." "Yes, very fairly, considering all things; but the part did not suit her. I hope you were proud of your pet protegée. I consider Miss Greenwell achieved a striking success to-night. I am not easy to please, but really once or twice I found myself saying 'Bravo!' under my breath." "No; as a critic you are terribly censorious. Thorold—you will laugh at me—but Nora's cleverness and her undoubted talents almost frighten me. What is the good of her learning all this Euclid and French, and robbing herself of some of her rest to get time for her studies, if she is to spend her life in snipping off lengths of ribbon and tape from one end of the year to the other?" "All the good in the world!" he returned, in a most energetic tone. "Why need the snipping of ribbon, as you describe it, interfere with the development of the higher life? Your argument is a weak one. You might as well say that cutting muslin by the yard for so many hours at a stretch interferes with the religious life; and yet I expect plenty of shop-women are good Christians." There was a flash of amusement in Althea's eyes, though she pretended to be indignant. "How absurd you are! But I will not believe that you have so misunderstood me. Let me explain what I really do mean. I am very proud of Nora, but I am so afraid that all this education and cultivation will make her discontented with her surroundings; no life can be perfect that is out of harmony with its environment. I know a dozen girls from Gardiner & Wells', and only one of them, Minnie Alston, is worthy of Nora's friendship. She is very lonely, and, as you know, her home is most unsatisfactory—a virago of a step-mother, and a lot of boisterous children. Her work does not suit her, but she dare not throw herself out of a situation." "Yes, I see what you mean," returned Mr. Chaytor, gravely. "Increase of knowledge often creates loneliness, and one member of a family may move on a different plane, where his relations cannot follow him. But if they are sensible people they do not beg him to climb down to them, and leave off his star-gazing. I think we need not disquiet ourselves about Miss Greenwell; perhaps she may have good things waiting for her." Mr. Chaytor spoke in an enigmatical tone—he was grave and reticent by nature, and some up-to-date people would have thought a few of his ideas antiquated. He had a great dislike to any kind of gossip, and never mentioned reports which reached him until they were actually verified. Some one had hinted to him that Nora Greenwell had found favour in the eyes of her employer's son. Robert Gardiner was well educated and intelligent, but his parents, who were very proud of him, wished him to marry well. "I have saved my pennies, Bob, and when you think of taking a wife I shall buy a plot of ground in the Mortimer Road and build you a house." But as Mr. Gardiner said this he was thinking of his partner's only child—Annie Wells. She was a pretty, fresh-looking girl, and when her father died she would have six or seven thousand pounds—for Gardiner & Wells drove a flourishing trade in Dereham. If Mr. Chaytor had mentioned this report to Althea it would have thrown a little light on a circumstance that had come under her observation. There had been a mistake in her quarterly account with Gardiner & Wells, and one Thursday afternoon Robert Gardiner had walked up to the Red House to speak to Miss Harford. Althea kept him waiting for ten minutes, as she was entertaining a visitor; but on entering the dining-room she found him standing at the window, so intent on watching a game of tennis that she addressed him by name before she could gain his attention. "I beg your pardon, Miss Harford," he said, hastily; he was a fair, good-looking man, and almost gentlemanly in manner. "I was watching the game. You have a capital tennis-court." "So every one says. Miss Greenwell is our best player." "She plays splendidly. I never saw such strokes;" and all through the brief interview Althea noticed how his eyes were following the girl's graceful movements. "If Nora and Minnie had not been playing, I think I should have invited him to have a game," she said afterwards to Doreen; "but I thought of Gardiner père, and was afraid I might shock his sense of propriety." "It would not have been good taste," returned Doreen, sensibly. "You may depend upon it that Robert Gardiner has very little to do with the young ladies of the establishment." And then they both laughed. "By the bye, Althea," observed Mr. Chaytor, when they had finished the subject of Nora Greenwell, "I am so glad you have taken your friends' advice, and have engaged a reader. I am sure Miss Ward will be a comfort to you." "I think so, too. She is very bright and intelligent, and she talks in the most amusing way. She is so natural and unsophisticated." "So I should imagine. Where did you pick her up?" "Doreen applied to an agency in Harley Street. But Thorold," and here her voice changed, "what singular coincidences there are in life! Is it not strange that she should be Everard Ward's daughter?" Mr. Chaytor was now sitting beside her, and as she said this he turned round and looked at her. He was evidently very much surprised. "I had no idea of that," he said, in a low tone. "There are so many Wards. Such a thought would never have occurred to me." And then he glanced at her keenly. "Is it not a little awkward for you, Althea?" Then a faint flush came to her cheeks. She was five or six years older than Thorold, but they had been old playfellows and dear friends, and his brother had been one of Althea's lovers in the Kitlands days; and he knew all about the Ward romance, and, lad as he was, he had predicted its ending, as he watched Dorothy play the part of Rosalind in the pastoral play. "I do not see why it should be awkward," she observed, quietly. "I have not met Mr. Ward for twenty years, but I should have no objection to do so to-morrow. He is very poor, Thorold, and I am afraid they are often in difficulties. His pictures do not sell well." "Perhaps they are not worth much. I fancy Ward's genius is purely imaginary. None of his friends believed that he would do much as an artist. Well, it is getting late, and I am keeping you up, and then Doreen will scold me. Let me help you turn out the lights, and then I will walk with you to the house. It is a glorious night, and I shall enjoy my stroll home." But as they stood in the porch a moment in the starlight, Althea touched his arm. "How is Joa?" she asked, kindly. "She is quite well!" he returned. "Joanna seldom ails anything; but she is no happier, poor soul. I sometimes think she never will be." Then his voice grew suddenly tired. "I do not profess to understand women, Althea. I suppose some natures are naturally depressed, and live in an atmosphere of worry; but they are scarcely pleasant house-mates. I am afraid that is hardly a brotherly speech;" and he laughed a little grimly as he shook hands. "Poor Thorold!" Althea said to herself, as she crossed the hall. "Joa is the Old Man of the Mountains to him; she is a dead weight on him. And yet how seldom he utters a word of complaint!—scarcely ever, and only to me. But he can say what he likes to me; he knows I am a safe confidante." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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