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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> <h3>"I WILL NEVER BE FAITHLESS AGAIN."</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Nothing begins and nothing ends That is not paid with moan,  For we are born in other's pain And perish in our own." Thompson. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "He had a face like a benediction." Cervantes. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> In spite of her terrible exhaustion, Waveney instinctively dreaded the surprised looks and curious questionings which she feared awaited her. The idea of Joanna's pity and Betty's welcoming caresses seemed alike repugnant; and when Thorold opened the parlour door, she drew back as though afraid to enter; but he gently led her in. "They are all out," he said, quietly; "but you can rest and get warm." And then he drew up an easy-chair to the fire and placed her in it, and brought her a footstool; the next moment, with careful hands, he removed her hat, and put a cushion under her head; then he drew off her gloves, and gently rubbed her benumbed fingers. Waveney submitted to it all passively. The warmth and stillness soothed her, in spite of herself. When Thorold left the room to speak to Jemima, she rested her weary head against the soft cushion and closed her eyes. How kind he was!—how kind every one was! And then, all of a sudden, great tears welled up in her eyes. The little parlours, with their drawn crimson curtains and bright fire, seemed to fade from her sight. She was sitting on a bench in Old Ranelagh gardens, and Mollie was beside her. The sunlight was filtering through the limes, the children were flitting to and fro like butterflies. "Here he is—the noticeable man, with large grey eyes," she was saying; and she could hear Mollie's sweet, scornful laughter in reply. "Dear Miss Ward, please drink this; it will warm you and do you good." Thorold spoke in a clear, persuasive voice. But as Waveney opened her eyes, the tears were rolling down her small white face. "Why did you rouse me?" she said, with a little sob. "I was dreaming, and it was so lovely. I was sitting with my Mollie, and we were laughing and talking together. Oh, Mollie, Mollie!" And here a fit of bitter weeping seemed to shake her from head to foot. No power on earth could have hindered the flow of those tears. For one moment Thorold almost lost his calmness. "Waveney, my dear child, hush!" he said, hoarsely, "you will make yourself ill. Why are you so hopeless? It is often darkest just before the dawn." And then his hand rested for a moment lightly on her head. "How do you know that your sister's life may not be spared? and then all these tears may have been needlessly shed. Child, do not lose your faith. God may be dealing mercifully with you and yours." He spoke in a voice of intense feeling; then he gently raised her from the cushions, and held the cup to her lips. "You must drink this," he said, very quietly and gently. And Waveney checked her tears and obeyed him. "There, you are better now," he said, in a tone of relief, when the cup was empty. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you, for being so good and patient. I ought not to have troubled you so." "Troubled?" returned Thorold, in a low, suppressed voice, "when there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" The last words were scarcely audible. Then he bit his lip, and rose hastily. What was he doing? He had forgotten himself. The sight of her tears, the anguish in her beautiful eyes, had utterly unnerved him. For the moment he had been oblivious of everything but her suffering, and his great love; and words of tenderness had forced themselves to his lips. Good heavens! what had he done? And here he paced the room in agitation; but a glance at the easy-chair reassured him. Poor child! she was so dazed, so confused, that probably the words had not reached her ears. If they had—and here he frowned, and stared at the fire in perplexity—if, fool that he was, he had betrayed himself! And then, in spite of his self-reproach, a gleam of joy crossed his face. What if she had understood him, and knew, without doubt, that she was the darling of his heart! But he would not trust himself to be alone with her any longer. He sent for a cab, and then went up to Joanna's room for an old fur-lined cloak, that he knew hung in her wardrobe. A few minutes later, when he returned to the room, the cloak was over his arm. Waveney was still in the same position, lying back on the cushions, with closed eyes, and listless hands folded on her lap. But at the sound of his step, she struggled into a sitting posture. "Have you come for me? May I go, now?" she asked, in a weak little voice. But he noticed that the colour had returned to her lips. "Yes," he said, quietly. "The cab is here. But you must let me wrap you in this cloak, for it is bitterly cold outside, and this room is so warm." Then she stood up without a word, and allowed him to put it round her; then, still silently, he drew her hand through his arm, and led her slowly down the little courtyard. For some minutes no word passed between them. Thorold pulled up the windows. Then he wrapped the old cloak a little closer round her, and stooped to bring it under her feet. As he did so she put out her hand to stop him. "Oh, please—please do not trouble about me so," she said, in a distressed tone. "I am quite warm now. You are so kind, and I cannot even thank you?" Then, with a sudden impulse, he took her hand, and held it firmly. "Do you know how you can thank me best?" he said, very gently. "By taking better care of yourself in future. Waveney, promise me that you will never act so recklessly again. Good heavens! what would have become of you if I had not found you! And even now——" Then, with an involuntary shudder, he checked himself. "I was very wrong," she returned, humbly, "but I was so unhappy, and I wanted to tire myself; and somehow the river, and the loneliness, soothed me. And then all at once I seemed to lose myself, and you came. I think the cold numbed me; but I understand better now, and I am sorry." She spoke in broken little sentences, and it was with difficulty that he could hear the words; they were just entering the Lodge gates at that moment, and he leant forward in the darkness and lifted the cold little hand to his lips. "Yes, you were wrong," he said, tenderly, as though he were speaking to a child, "but you will never be so foolish again. You will take care of yourself for the sake of those who love you." Then he dropped her hand as a gleam of light from the open door streamed across the shrubbery. And as the cab stopped he saw Althea standing in the porch, with a light, fleecy wrap thrown over her head. "Oh, Waveney," she exclaimed, in an anxious tone, as Thorold lifted the girl out. "Where have you been?" Then, as she caught sight of Waveney's face, "My dear child, you look dreadful. What has happened?" "Nothing has happened," returned Thorold, impatiently. "Miss Ward is not well; the cold has struck her. Please do not keep her standing here." And, unceremoniously putting Althea aside, he almost carried Waveney across the hall. "Take her to Doreen's room. There is a nice fire there," Althea said, quickly. But she was too late, for Thorold had already opened the library door. As he did so, two people, sitting by the fire, rose hastily and looked at them. The next moment Waveney uttered a cry and freed herself from Thorold's supporting arm. "Father," she exclaimed, in a voice of terror, "you have come—you have come to tell me——" Then her breath failed her, and she almost fell into Everard's arms. "My darling, I have come to bring you good news," he said, pressing her almost convulsively to him. "Oh, such good news, my Waveney! Mollie is better; the danger has passed, and——" But here he stopped, as Waveney's head fell heavily on his shoulder. "You have told her too suddenly," observed Althea, in an alarmed voice. But Thorold, without a word, took the girl from her father's arms and laid her on a couch. "She has fainted," he said, briefly. "You had better bring some brandy and smelling-salts. The sudden revulsion has been too much for her." And then he helped Althea apply the remedies, while Everard stood helplessly by, too shocked and troubled to be of any use. It seemed long before Waveney opened her eyes. She seemed rather confused at first. As Thorold put a glass to her lips, she looked at him a little wildly. "Is it another dream?" she whispered. "Was not father here really?" Then Thorold smiled at her. "It was no dream," he said, quietly. "The good news is quite true. Mr. Ward, will you take my place, please?" Then Everard knelt down by her couch. Waveney's weak arms were round his neck in a moment. "Father," she said, pressing her cheek against his, "tell it me again. Mollie—my Mollie—is not going to die?" Then Everard, in rather a tremulous voice, repeated the good news. There had been a change for the better early in the day, but he had waited until the afternoon for the physician's verdict. The danger that they dreaded was no longer imminent; the disease had run its course; everything depended now upon skilful nursing, with care and watchfulness; Sir Hindley hoped that Mollie would, in time, recover her normal strength; but in this insidious disease there was the danger of sudden collapse from exhaustion—indeed, there were other risks, but Everard did not mention this. Waveney listened with painful attention; then her heavy eyes were fixed wistfully on her father's face. "It is really true!" she murmured. "Thank God, oh, thank God! Father, dear, may I see her now?" Everard frowned anxiously; he had dreaded this question, but he had to be firm, for the doctor's orders were stringent. "No, dear," he said, sorrowfully, "you must not see her yet. It is for Mollie's sake as well as yours. No one must see her; the least excitement or agitation, in her weak state, might be fatal. You must be patient, my little Waveney, and I will promise you this, that you shall be Mollie's first visitor;" and then Waveney hid her face on his shoulder. "Do not let her talk any more," observed Althea, gently; and then Thorold came forward to take his leave. As he pressed her hand, Waveney looked at him with a touching expression of gratitude in her dark eyes. "You were right," she said, in a low voice, "and I was wicked and faithless; but I will never be faithless again." But his sole answer was a smile so bright and reassuring that in her weakness it almost dazzled her, as though some sudden sunbeam had flashed across her eyes. "Fear nothing," it seemed to say, "poor little tired child, rest and be still." And indeed, before Everard left the house, an hour later, the worn-out girl was sleeping peacefully, while Althea, with motherly eyes, watched beside her. It was late that night before Althea retired to rest. Thorold's account had filled her with uneasiness; his description made her shudder. The dark, solitary towing-path, with the dense mist rising from the river; the exhausted little creature trying to walk off her sorrow and restlessness. No wonder that Althea's kind heart ached with pity. "Oh, Thorold," she said, and her eyes were full of tears, "how do we know what that poor child may have to suffer for her imprudence? She may have rheumatic fever. Oh, one cannot tell what may be the result of such madness." Then Thorold shook his head with rather a sad smile. "You must not take such a gloomy view. Let us hope there will be no bad result. I confess Miss Ward's exhausted condition alarmed me at first. It was distressing to see her. And then there was so little one could do!" Thorold's tone had a note of pain in it, but Althea looked at him with an affectionate smile. "Don't undervalue yourself, Thorold. In any emergency or trouble I know of no one who could give more efficient help. So many kind-hearted people spoil everything by their fussiness." "Oh, that is one for Joa!" "No, no, I was not thinking of poor Joa. With all her goodness, she is the last person I should care to have near me in any sudden trouble. Perhaps it is unkind of me to say this, but I know we think alike on this point;" and though Thorold made no verbal response to this, it was evident that he agreed with her. When Waveney woke the next morning, she was conscious of aching limbs and unusual weariness and lassitude, and it was almost with a feeling of relief that she heard Althea say she must remain in bed. "You have been a naughty little child," she said, kissing her, "and Doreen and I are excessively angry with you; so we have agreed that you are to be punished by some hours of solitary confinement. I am going to light your fire, and then you are to eat your breakfast and go to sleep again." Waveney smiled quite happily at this. She had no wish to dispute the point. It was a luxury to lie still in her soft bed and watch the pleasant firelight until her drowsy eyelids closed again. In spite of her weariness and aching limbs, there was a fount of joy in her heart. "Mollie is better. Mollie will get well." Those were the words she repeated over and over again, and more than once her hands were folded, and "Thank God!" came audibly from her lips. At midday Althea brought a note that Moritz had sent by a boy messenger. It was written to her, but there was a message for Waveney. She read part of it aloud. Mollie had slept well, and the improvement continued. Both doctor and nurses seemed satisfied. "If I had my way, Sir Hindley should have a peerage," wrote Moritz. "He is worth all the other doctors put together; and Miss Mollie would never have pulled through without him, I'll take my oath of that." But Althea kept the remainder of the letter to herself. It was too strictly private and confidential even for Doreen's ears. All day long, in her waking intervals, Waveney was keeping one thought at bay. Deep down in her inner consciousness, she was aware of some strange and secret joy which she dare not face, but which seemed to distil some rare and precious aroma. "Was it a dream?" she was continually asking herself; but the answer to this perpetually eluded her. All the events of the previous evening had resolved themselves into a sort of painful vision. The dark, sullen river; her restless anguish; those confused moments when, giddy and sick, she had sat on the bench with Mr. Chaytor beside her; the walk through the lighted streets; and then the warmth and comfort of that friendly refuge. It was not until late in the afternoon, when the wintry dusk had closed in, and the Pansy Room was bright with firelight, that the power of consecutive thought and memory seemed to return to Waveney, when some sudden remembrance made her bury her face in the pillow. What were those words that, in spite of her weakness, seemed stamped on her heart and brain? "Trouble? When there is nothing on earth that I would not do for you, my darling!" No, it was no dream. She had actually heard them. He had really said them. Would she ever forget his voice, or the smile that had seemed to steal into her weary heart like a benediction? Then, for a few blissful moments, Mollie was forgotten in the overwhelming consciousness that the man she most admired and revered, who seemed so far above her in wisdom and intellect, should stoop from his great height to care for her. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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