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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XX.</h2> <h3>"DAD'S LITTLE BETTY."</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "We have seen better days." Romeo and Juliet. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Her little face, like a walnut shell,  With wrinkling lines." Henley. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> On Monday morning, when Waveney went into the library, Althea would always ask a kindly question or two about the previous evening, to which Waveney would gladly respond. But when the girl told her, with sparkling eyes, about Mollie's promised treat, and Mr. Ingram's kindness, she looked extremely surprised, and not a little amused. Doreen, who had followed them into the room, and was hunting through the book-shelves for a volume she needed, turned with an exclamation. But Althea put her finger on her lip, with a warning gesture. "Aylmer's Dream! Why, that is the very play that Thorold is so anxious for us to see," she observed, calmly. "Why should we not have a box, too? You are driving into town this afternoon, Dorrie, and you can easily go to St. James's. It will be a treat for Waveney—and you know we always intended to go." "Yes, but not on Wednesday," returned Doreen, in a doubtful tone. But again Althea looked at her meaningly. As for Waveney, she was speechless with delight. Althea sent her into the dining-room the next moment to fetch the Times and Doreen took instant advantage of her absence. "Althea, are you serious? Do you really wish me to take a box for Wednesday?" "Oh, yes," returned Althea, flushing a little; but there was a mischievous smile on her lips, "I am quite serious. Moritz is masquerading, and I want to find out his little game. My lord is too busy to call on his old friends. But I will be even with him. Hush! here the child comes, Dorrie. We will have a nice little drama of our own on Wednesday. I long to see pretty Mollie, and that 'lad of pairts,' Noel, and it will be a grand opportunity." Then, as Waveney returned with the paper, Doreen contented herself with a disapproving shake of the head. Althea was very impulsive, she thought, when she at last left the room. It was all very well to talk about Moritz, but she feared that she was putting herself in an awkward situation. Everard Ward would be there as well as Mollie and Noel, and they could hardly leave the theatre without speaking to him. But, old maid as she was, the idea of hinting this to Althea made her feel hot all over. "Althea would only laugh at me, and pretend not to understand," she said to herself; "and if she makes a plan, nothing will induce her to give it up." In truth Althea was quite enamoured of her little scheme. "Now, Waveney," she said, in a mysterious voice, "you are not to say one syllable to Mollie, mind that!" "Is it to be a surprise?" asked Waveney, opening her eyes as widely as the wolf in Red Riding Hood. "Why, of course it is. We will all remain snugly hidden at the back of our box until the curtain draws up, and then they will be too absorbed to notice us. Think how delightful it will be to see Mollie's start of astonishment, when at last she catches sight of you!" "Oh, what fun it will be!" exclaimed the girl, joyfully. "Yes, yes, it will be far better not to tell Mollie; but I hope she will not call out when she sees me. Monsieur Blackie, too, and father and Noel. Oh, Miss Althea, how glorious it will be! There; I am forgetting your letters, and you wanted them written for the early post;" but Althea only smiled indulgently. Waveney could settle to nothing properly that day; she had only been to the theatre twice in her life, and then only in the gallery. But to be in a box!—well, her excitement was so great that she took a long walk over the Common to calm herself. Presently an unwelcome thought obtruded itself. Her white frock was losing its freshness with constant wear, but there was no possibility of buying a new one until Christmas, and she had no suitable wrap—not even "Tid's old red rag of a shawl." For a moment she was full of dismay, then, with her usual good sense, she determined to confide the difficulty to Miss Althea. She found her opportunity that very evening. Althea listened to her attentively. "My dear child," she said, very kindly, when Waveney had finished, "do you know the same thought occurred to me; but there is no need to trouble yourself. I have two or three evening cloaks that Peachy will not let me wear because she says they do not suit me, and of course you can have one. Oh, yes, there is a blue plush one that will just do." And Waveney thanked her delightedly. There was nothing now to mar her enjoyment or to damp her anticipation. And the next morning a letter from Mollie gave her fresh pleasure. "Oh, Wave, darling," it began, "it is so late, and father says I ought to be in bed; but I must write and tell you about such a wonderful thing that has just happened. I was mixing father's salad for supper and thinking how he would enjoy it with the cold pheasant when the door-bell rang, and the next minute Ann brought in a big box—one of those cardboard boxes that always look so tempting. It was from Marshall & Snelgrove, she said, and there was nothing to pay; and there was my name, 'Miss Mollie Ward,' written as plainly as possible. Oh, dear, how excited I was? But father would not let me cut the string, and he was such a time fumbling over the knots; and all the while he was laughing at me and calling me an excitable little goose. "There were layers and layers of tissue paper, and then—oh, Wave, dear! never, never in all our lives have we seen such a cloak! I was almost afraid even to touch it. Father was right when he said rather gravely that it was more fit for one of the young Princesses of Wales than for his daughter. "But I must try to describe it. It is a rich ivory silk, with a lovely pattern running through it that looks like silver, and it is so warm and soft, and lined with the faintest and most delicate pink, like the palm of a baby's hand—that was father's idea; and all round is the most exquisite feather trimming. And when I put it on, father said I looked like a white pigeon in its nest. "Oh, Wave, do you think that our good little Monsieur Blackie sent it? There was no name, no clue of any kind. What am I to do? Ought I to thank him for it? But there is no one else who would do such a kind thing; and yet if he did not send it, how awkward that would be! You must think over it and help me, darling. "Your loving but distracted           "Mollie." <hr style="width: 45%;" /> Waveney did not long delay her answer. "I am delighted about the cloak, sweetheart," she wrote, "and he is the very Prince of Black Princes, to make my sweet Moll so happy; and now mother's old red shawl can go back into the cedar box. "Why, of course it is Monsieur Blackie. Do you suppose any other person would do such a delightfully unconventional thing. It is like a fairy story; it is Cinderella in real life, the pumpkin coach and all. But Mollie, take my word for it, he will never own it. "Perhaps if you get an opportunity you might tell him that you had been much mystified by receiving a beautiful present anonymously, and that you greatly desired to thank the kind donor, and then you will see what he says. Oh, he is a deep one, Sir Reynard, and I should not be surprised if he professes entire ignorance on the subject. If I could only peep at you on Wednesday! 'Oh, had I but Aladdin's lamp, if only for a day!' I have been singing that ever since I read your letter." And then Waveney closed her note abruptly, for fear she should say too much; but some subtle feeling of delicacy prevented her from telling Althea. That the cloak was Mr. Ingram's gift she never doubted for a moment; but though she had written jokingly to Mollie, and called him the very Prince of Black Princes, in reality she was secretly dismayed. "If he loves her, why does he not tell her so?" thought the girl, anxiously, "instead of showering gifts on her in this Oriental fashion. Is it because Mollie is so unconscious and that she will not see, and this is his way of winning her? Mr. Ingram does nothing like other men; he is an Idealist, as he says. He is good and kind, but he is not good enough for my Mollie. She is worth a king's ransom; she is the dearest, and the loveliest, and the best;" and here Waveney broke down and shed a few tears, for her heart felt full to overflowing with mingled pride and pain. Waveney had some errands to do in the town that afternoon, and amongst other things she had to take the usual basket of flowers to Miss Chaytor. Waveney never cared for these visits. She liked Mr. Chaytor—he interested her more than any man she had ever seen; but his sister bored her. She told Mollie once that "she was as soft and damping as a November mist." She found her this afternoon in one of her most depressing moods. She had been having an argument with Jemima, and, as usual, had retired baffled from the contest. Jemima was a clever girl, and had long ago taken her mistress's measure; and she had an invariable resource on these occasions. "If I don't suit you, ma'am, I can leave this day month," she would say, crushingly; and then Joanna would hurriedly reply, "Please don't talk nonsense, Jemima. You suit me very well. But all the same you had no right to stand talking to the milkman for a quarter of an hour. Well, ten minutes, then," as Jemima, with some heat, protested against this; "and I will thank you to be more careful for the future." Waveney heard the whole history of Jemima's misdemeanours. Joanna had taken a fancy to the girl, and often mentioned her to her brother. "She has such a pretty manner, and she is bright and sympathetic. She is just the person for Althea;" and Thorold had assented to this. Joanna wanted her to stay to tea; but Waveney had had an excuse ready—she was only too glad to get out of the house. Her own vitality was so strong, and the interest of her own personality so absorbing, that she could not understand how any human existence could be so meagre and colourless as Miss Chaytor's seemed to be. "Is it because she is an old maid?" thought the girl, as she walked over the bridge. "If Mollie or I did not marry, should we ever be like that?" and then she added, piously, "Heaven forbid!" What was it Miss Althea had said that first Sunday morning, as they walked through the village?—that it always made her angry when people talked of empty, blighted, or disappointed lives, and that it was their own fault if they did not find interests. "I wondered at the time what Miss Althea could mean," she said to herself; "it sounded a little hard. But I have thought it out since. We must fertilise and enrich our lives properly, and not let them lie fallow too long; there is no need that any life should be thin and weedy. I suppose Miss Chaytor has had her troubles, but she is not without her blessings, too. I daresay her brother is very good to her. Oh, yes, certainly, Miss Chaytor has her compensations." Waveney had finished all her errands, but she meant to take a turn on the Embankment. The grey, November afternoon had a certain charm for her. It was not at all cold, and she wanted to sit down for a few minutes and watch the barges being tugged slowly against the tide. How mysterious they looked, emerging from the dark arches of the bridge! Already they were lighting the gas, and bright flickers were perceptible across the river. A faint wind was flapping the brown and tawny sails of some vessels that were waiting to be unladen; they reminded her of the tattered pennons in the chapel at Chelsea Hospital. And then she thought sadly of the dear old sergeant. He had died peacefully in his sleep about a week after her visit, and his last conscious words had been about Sheila. Mollie had seen the corporal two or three times, and one Sunday she and Waveney had gone over to the Hospital. The little corporal had looked aged and dwindled; but at the sight of Waveney he had brightened. "Aye, he is gone," he said, in a subdued voice. "McGill is gone, and I am fairly lost without him. Ah! he was a grand man for argufying, and would stick to his guns finely. 'For it stands to reason,' says I, 'that a man with two eyes can see farther than a blind one'—not that McGill was blind then?—'and I'll take my oath that there were only two of those darned black niggers'; and then, how he would speechify and bluster, and there would be a ring round us in no time—and 'Go it, McGill!' and 'Up at him, corporal!' Ah, those were grand times. But the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away"—and here Corporal Marks bared his grey head. "And must you be going, Miss Ward? Well, good-bye, and God bless you!" And now the slow tears of age were coursing down the corporal's wrinkled face. "Aye, Jonadab frets sorely after his old comrade," remarked Nurse Marks, when Waveney told her about her interview with the corporal. "What is it we are told, my lamb?—'One taken and the other left'; and it stands to reason that the world is a poorer place for him." Waveney was thinking about her old friends as she seated herself on a bench overlooking the river. At the farther corner a little girl was sitting. But there was no one else in sight. Waveney was fond of children, so she smiled and nodded to the child in quite a friendly way. "You must not sit long, or you will take cold, my dear!" she said. "Oh, I am always cold," returned the child, in a plaintive little voice, "and I am tired, too, for I have got two bones in my legs, and they do ache so!" Waveney looked at her curiously; she was not a pretty child—indeed, it was rather a singular little face, with oddly pronounced features. She had pathetic-looking eyes, and fair hair, which she wore in a long plait, and in spite of her shabby dress and worn boots her voice was refined and sweet. When she made her little speech, she sidled up to Waveney in the most confiding way. "Do you have bones in your legs, too—but you are one of the grown-ups; grown-ups don't mind being tired. Daddie says when my legs grow longer they will leave off aching, and I suppose daddie knows." "Poor mite!" thought Waveney, pityingly; and then she said, kindly, "Are you alone, little one? Is your home near?" But the child shook her head. "Daddie and I have not got any home," she returned, wearily. "There aren't any homes in England, are there? We live with Mrs. Grimson in Chapel Road. I think she is a good woman," she continued, gravely, in her old-fashioned way; "she bathed my feet so nicely when I got wet. But I don't like her rooms; they are not like my own dear home." "Where was your home, my dear!" asked Waveney, taking the little cold hand in hers; but the child hesitated. "We had many homes, but they were all across the sea, a long, long way off. We came in a big ship, with such a nice captain. Daddie's gone to Hamerton to look for Aunt Joa, and Mrs. Grimson's Susan left me here. I never knew before that grown-ups could be lost, but we have been looking for Aunt Joa, till I have got the aches in my legs, and we have not found her yet!" This was rather puzzling to Waveney, but she was one of those motherly girls who knew by instinct how to win a child's heart, so she only cuddled the cold little hands comfortably, and asked her if she had a pretty name. Then the little girl smiled, showing a row of white, pearly teeth as she did so. "Dad and I think it nice," she returned, nodding her head; "but it is very short. Daddie says I am too small to have a big name. I am Betty," with an important air. "Dad's little Betty. But dad does always call me Bet. Is your name long or short?" Waveney was about to answer this friendly question when a man's voice behind them made her start. "Why, Bet," it said, "why are you perched up here, like a lost robin? And Susan has been looking for you half over the place." "It is my daddie. It is my dear dad," cried the child, joyously, and the next moment she was running to meet a tall man, who was walking quickly towards them. Waveney watched the meeting. She saw the man stoop and kiss the little one fondly; and then Bet took hold of his rough coat and drew him towards the seat. "Susan was naughty, dad. She did tell me to sit there, and she would fetch me, and she did never come at all, but this young lady was very kind, so I did not cry." "That's my brave little Bet." And then the man took off his hat to Waveney. "Thank you, very much," he said, heartily. "I was obliged to leave my little girl, and I am afraid they neglected her." Waveney felt vaguely perplexed. The man's face, and even his voice, seemed strangely familiar to her, and yet she was sure she had never seen him before. He was a handsome man, though his face looked weather-beaten and somewhat worn. His clothes were rough and shabby, but his voice was unmistakably cultured; he had evidently seen better days. "Susan is not always naughty," observed Betty. "She gave me a peppermint once, and it was very nice. Dad, dear, did you find Aunt Joa?" Then the man shook his head in rather a depressed way. "No, Bet, and we are still down on our luck. There is no such name at Hamerton. Perhaps this lady may know it"—and then he looked a little eagerly at Waveney. "I am a stranger in these parts. Can you tell me if any one of the name of Chaytor lives at Dereham?" "Why, yes," returned Waveney, surprised by the question. "Miss Chaytor and her brother live in High Street." "And their names?—their Christian names, I mean?" asked the stranger, hoarsely. "Mr. Chaytor's name is Thorold," returned Waveney, simply, "and his sister is Joanna." Then the man snatched up the child in his arms; he seemed almost beside himself. "Thank God, we have found them, Bet. My dear old Theo and Joa! Oh, what a fool I have been, going so far afield, and all the time they are actually at Dereham;" and then he sat down, and a few words cleared up the mystery. About an hour later, as Joanna was drawing the crimson curtains over the window, Jemima threw open the door with a little fling. "There is a child outside wanting to speak to you, ma'am. I would not let her into the passage, because she might have come to beg; but she said she wanted Miss Chaytor most particular." "Very well, Jemima, I will go and speak to her;" and Joanna, who was very tender-hearted and never turned away a tramp unfed, went quickly to the door. A little girl, a tiny creature, was standing there. She looked up in Joanna's face wistfully. "Oh, please will you tell me if you are Miss Chaytor—Miss Joanna Chaytor," correcting herself with careful pronunciation. "That is my name, certainly," returned Joanna, rather surprised at this. "And what do you want with me, my little girl?" "Oh, please, Aunt Joa," returned the child, "I am Betty, dad's little Betty, and daddy is at the gate." And then, the next moment, a man's shadow was distinctly visible. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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