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Mollie's Prince

<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> <h3>"SEE THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!"</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,  If, with his tongue, he cannot win a woman." Two Gentlemen of Verona. </div> </div> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,  And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind." A Midsummer Night's Dream. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> As Moritz drove to Cleveland Terrace, he carefully rehearsed his part, as he had already rehearsed it a dozen times before. "I am going to see your sister this afternoon," he had said to Noel at breakfast that morning. "Miss Mollie, I mean; have you any message for her?" "No; only my love, and that sort of thing," returned Noel, coolly, as he cut himself another slice of bread. And then, contrary to his custom, for he was one of the most talkative and sociable of men, Ingram relapsed into silence. "Feels a bit grumpy, I fancy," thought Noel, with a suppressed grin. "If I ever have a young woman, I wonder if I should feel in that way. Why, the poor old chap has had hardly any breakfast." And Noel shook his head solemnly, and adjusted his pince-nez, and then helped himself liberally to the cold game pie. Ingram's knowledge of invalids and sick-rooms was purely rudimentary. He had a theory that sick people must be treated like children. They must be coaxed, amused, and made as cheerful as possible; there must be no agitation, no bringing forward of exciting or perplexing topics, no undue warmth of expression and feeling. "I must be perfectly cool and quiet," Ingram said to himself, as he came in sight of the house. "I must not let her see what I have gone through all this time; Monsieur Blackie must take no liberties—he must be just kind and friendly." But as the brougham stopped, Ingram looked a little pale, although he put on his usual sprightly air as he went up the courtyard. Pride must have its fall, says the old proverb. And perhaps Ingram, who was an Idealist, relied a little too much on his theories and good intentions; as Noel would have said, he was too cocksure of himself. Anyhow, when Ann, of the heavy foot, ushered him up to the old studio, where he and Everard Ward had passed so many hours of misery and suspense, and he saw Mollie's sweet face, flushing and paling with shy pleasure, Ingram found himself unable to say a word for the sudden choking sensation in his throat; he could only stand there like a fool, holding the thin little hand that Mollie had silently held out to him. "Won't you sit down?" observed Mollie, faintly; but her lips trembled as she spoke, for Ingram's dumb emotion almost frightened her. It was so unlike her dear old friend, Monsieur Blackie, to stand there without a word of kindly greeting. Mollie's flower-like face grew painfully suffused. "Do please sit down," she faltered, with a growing sense of discomfort and helplessness. Ingram did as he was bid, but he did not relinquish her hand. "Mollie," he said, and his eyes were dim with a man's trouble, and the passionate tenderness, that he was trying bravely to repress, was so evident in his voice and manner that even Mollie, innocent and guileless as she was, thrilled in every nerve. "Perhaps I had better go away," he stammered. "I shall tire you, agitate you, if I stay. I must not say what I think, and, by Heaven, I cannot talk platitudes, when you have come back from the very valley of the shadow of death. Mollie, shall I go?—for I cannot answer for myself, if I remain!" "Why should you go?" returned Mollie, piteously. "I thought it would be so nice to see you, and I wanted so to thank you. You have done so much for me! Waveney told me that you would not like to be thanked; but indeed, indeed, I am grateful." "Grateful to me!" returned Ingram, indignantly, and he dropped her hand. "Mollie, do you wish to pain me, that you say such things to me? Gratitude! when I would willingly give you everything I possess! Unsay those words, my darling," he pleaded, passionately. "Don't you know that I love you better than anything in the world? Oh, Mollie, dearest, if I had lost you I think I should have mourned for you all my life." Ingram was certainly not acting up to his theory. Monsieur Blackie had utterly forgotten his rôle. He had promised himself to keep perfectly cool and collected, to be kind and friendly, and to avoid all emotion or excitement, but before ten minutes had passed he was pouring out his pent-up feelings. "Oh, Mollie, dear Mollie!" he went on, in a broken voice—for Mollie, shaken and agitated, had hidden her face in her hands—"all this time I have been trying to win you. I want you to be my sweet wife, to give me the right to watch over you all my life. Darling, do you think you can care for poor Monsieur Blackie a little?" "I do care," sobbed Mollie. "How can I help it, when you have been so good to me? I think"—but Mollie whispered this with her soft cheek pressed against his shoulder as he knelt beside her—"I think I have cared for you all this time." And perhaps that moment's ecstasy fully repaid Moritz for all the pain of the last few weeks. Moritz behaved very well on the whole. When the first few minutes of beatitude were over, Mollie's pale cheeks and tearful eyes reminded him that she was an invalid, and he forbore to overwhelm her with his delight and gratitude. He sat beside her talking quietly, while Mollie lay back on her pillows in languid happiness, listening to her lover. He was telling her how proud he was of his sobriquet, and that no other name would ever be so dear to him as "Monsieur Blackie." "I hope you will always call me by that name, Mollie, darling. To you I would always be Monsieur Blackie." "But Moritz is so much prettier," she objected; "and Monsieur Blackie would be so long for daily use." And then Ingram hastened to explain, in his eager way, that he had not meant that. Of course his wife—how Mollie blushed at that—must call him Moritz; but he never intended to lose his dear old title. "Wave often calls you the Black Prince," returned Mollie, with a low laugh. "Oh, dear, how wonderful it all seems! Do you know"—very shyly—"I never imagined that any one would ever care for me, because of my lameness. Are you sure that you do not really mind it?" and here Mollie's voice grew anxious and even sad. "I am so awkward and clumsy. You know Noel often calls me 'the wobbly one.'" "Noel will never call you that again," returned Ingram, quite sternly. "I gave him a good lecture the other day. Why, Mollie dearest, you are simply perfect in my eyes. I am afraid to tell you how lovely and dear I think you. The wonder is that you could ever bring yourself to care for me; for, as Gwen says, I am about as ugly as they make 'em," continued Ingram, in his quaint way. And then Mollie laughed again, though there were tears in her eyes of sheer joy and gratitude. Mollie was very humble on the subject of her own merits; she had no conception how Ingram worshipped her sweetness and beauty. His crowning triumph had been that Monsieur Blackie, and not Viscount Ralston, had won her love. "Gwen may laugh at me, and call me a fool," he thought, "but her sarcasm and smart speech will not trouble me in the least. I have played my little game, and got my innings, and the loveliest and dearest prize in the world is mine." And then he fell to musing blissfully on the surprise in store for his sweetheart. What would Mollie say when he showed her her future home? What would she think of Brentwood Hall, and the Silent Pool, and the big conservatory that Gwen had called their winter-garden, and the long picture-gallery, where, in an obscure corner, "King Canute" hung as large as life? Moritz smiled happily to himself as he thought of the family diamonds, over which Gwen had gloated, and which he had vainly entreated her to wear. "Jack would not like it," Gwen had answered, gravely. "They are for the future Lady Ralston, not for me." How glad he was now that Gwen's unworldliness and good sense had been proof against the temptation! For in those days how was he to know that a certain sweet Mollie Ward would steal away his heart? When Mollie asked him, a little curiously, why he was smiling, Moritz returned, without a moment's hesitation, that he was merely thanking Heaven that she was not rich in worldly goods. Mollie opened her eyes rather widely at this. "I mean, dear, that I shall so love to give you all you want," he said, tenderly. "But—but you are not really rich, are you?" asked Mollie. "Of course I know you are not poor, because of all the lovely things you have given me, and—and——" But here Mollie stopped; she had not the courage to mention Sir Hindley's fees. "No, I am not poor," returned Ingram, quietly. "I have had a nice little property left me by a relative. We shall be very comfortable, dear, and when you are my wife you will not have to bother your poor little head with making ends meet." For once he had discovered Mollie shedding tears over her battered little housekeeping book, because she had exceeded the week's allowance. It was only seven-and-sixpence, or some such paltry sum, but Mollie was covered with shame at her own carelessness, and Ingram, who was, even in those early days, head over ears in love, longed to take her in his arms and kiss the tears away. "Yes, I think we shall be very comfortable, darling," went on Ingram, somewhat hypocritically, as he remembered with secret glee his thirty thousand a year. Then, as even his inexperienced eyes detected signs of exhaustion in Mollie's increasing paleness, he somewhat quickly dropped the subject. Mollie was not merely tired; she was dazed with the wonderful new happiness that had come to her. In spite of her love of pretty things, her little girlish vanities and harmless ambitions, she was far too simple-minded to be really worldly. If Moritz, in the old approved fairy-tale fashion, had suddenly filled her lap with diamonds and emeralds, they would only have dazzled Mollie's tired eyes. Later on, perhaps, these baubles and adjuncts of rank and wealth would gratify and delight her, but at this present moment she would have regarded them with indifference. It was the man, Moritz Ingram, whom she wanted. It was Monsieur Blackie, with all his quaintness, his oddities, and eccentricities, his old-world chivalry, and true, manly tenderness, whom Mollie loved and honoured. Mollie, with all her simplicity and childliness, had been wiser than most women, in going straight to the root of the matter. It was nothing to her that her chosen lover was short of stature—a small, dark man, with a sallow skin, and closely-cropped hair that would have done credit to a convict. Mollie saw nothing but the kind, dear eyes, and pleasant smile, and she would not have exchanged him for any Adonis, though he stood six feet in his stockings. Moritz's conscience was uneasy. More than once he had made an effort to go, but Mollie's soft little hand had kept him a willing prisoner. "Waveney will be here directly," she said. "She has promised to make tea for us." And at that very moment Waveney entered the room. The lamp had not been lighted, and only the firelight threw a flickering, uncertain glow over the two faces before her. But something in Mr. Ingram's attitude, in the very atmosphere of the warm, flower-scented room, made Waveney's heart beat with quick, sympathetic throbs. "Oh, what is it?" she said, stumbling a little in her haste. But, as she put out her hands to save herself, Ingram caught them in his own. "My little Samaritan," he said, affectionately, "do you know, I am going to be your brother. Will you wish me joy, dear!" And then in his airy, foreign fashion, Moritz lifted her hand to his lips. "My brother!" gasped Waveney. Well, she had expected it. But, all the same, she felt a little giddy. Mollie's Prince had come, as she knew he would, and would carry Mollie away. "Darling, come here," and Mollie stretched out her arms almost piteously. "Wave, why do you stand there, as though you were turned to stone? Don't you want me to be happy?" she whispered, as Waveney, at this appeal, knelt down beside her. "Oh, Mollie!" returned poor Waveney, "I know that I ought to be glad, and I am glad. But"—with a sob that would not be kept back—"But—but, I have lost my old sweetheart." "Never!" returned Mollie, energetically, and her arms were round her sister's neck as she spoke. "Wave, dear, you must not say such things. Nothing, nothing, can ever come between us, or make our love less. Kiss me, darling," she went on, "and promise me that you will never say that again." And then, as Waveney stooped over her, she whispered in her ear: "After all, I have found out the best way of thanking him." Perhaps it was as well that Nurse Helena made her appearance at that moment with the lamp, and so broke up the agitated little group. Waveney got up, feeling rather guilty, when Nurse Helena commented somewhat severely on Mollie's flushed and tired face. "There has been too much talking," she said, in her quiet, authoritative voice. "Miss Mollie must have her tea, and go upstairs and rest." And then she regarded Ingram rather suspiciously. Nevertheless, when she went out of the room there was an amused twinkle in the nurse's grey eyes. When Ann brought up the tea-tray Waveney was assiduous in her attentions to Mollie and her fiancé. She chatted to Ingram in her old frank way. Mollie was to rest and listen to them; she was to enjoy her tea and the delicate tongue sandwiches that Nurse Helena had cut so carefully. But Nurse Helena was right, and there must be no more talking. And then she amused them both by retailing to them the corporal's odd speeches. Directly tea was over Ingram took his leave. "Before Nurse Helena turns me out," he observed, with a laugh. Waveney, who waited for him outside, was somewhat taken aback at the length of the farewell. "Parting is such sweet sorrow," she said to herself; but she sighed as she said it. Waveney, who was bitten with the same disease, was certainly not disposed to be hypercritical on the behaviour of the lovers. She had a few words with Mollie before nurse came to claim her charge. "Oh, Wave, I cannot understand it!" Mollie exclaimed, and her eyes looked bright and excited. "Fancy my being engaged before you! I, who never expected to have a lover of my own! Dearest, you must love him for my sake, he is so good. Oh, there is no one like him!" and Mollie seemed almost appalled at the magnitude of her bliss. Waveney had promised to wait for her father; he was to put her into the train. And Althea had directed her to take a cab from Dereham station straight to the Red House. Everard was somewhat later than usual, and they had only a little while together. He listened to the wonderful news with the air of a man who had fully expected it. "I knew Ingram would steal a march on us," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I told him to wait until the child was stronger, and I thought he agreed to this; but you can never depend on a man when he is in love. And so Mollie really cares for him," went on Everard, in a pleased voice. "Well, she is a sensible girl, and does me credit. As for Ingram, he is a capital fellow, a son-in-law after my own heart," went on Everard, with a smile that perplexed Waveney, it was so mysterious and yet so full of amusement. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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