Rosa Nouchette Carey

"We are ne'er like angels till our passions die."—Thomas Dekker.

"A heart to resolve, a head to contrive, and a hand to execute."—Edward Gibbon.

The evening before Waveney and Mollie returned to Cleveland Terrace there was a family gathering at the Red House. Everard Ward and his son and Lord Ralston dined there.

Waveney had secretly hoped that Mr. Chaytor would have been invited; but Althea, who was not aware of the girl's secret, had said, more than once, that no outsiders were to be admitted, and Waveney vainly tried to hide her depression. In spite of home-sickness and longings for the society of her twin sister, she had been very happy at the Red House. Her affection for Althea only had deepened with time, and the thought that she was no longer to minister to her comfort filled her with profound sadness.

Dereham and Erpingham had grown very dear to her, and the idea of separation from her kind friends made her heart heavy.

"You will often be with us," Althea said, trying to cheer her. "Do you think Doreen and I mean to lose sight of you? No, my dear, no. 'Once loved is always loved.' That is the Harford motto, and most certainly you are not losing your friends."

"No, but it will not be the same," returned Waveney, sadly. But the real cause of her depression was not the parting from her beloved Queen Bess. If she could only say good-bye to her other friend! If she could see him again and have some look and word to treasure up in her memory! On the last Porch House Thursday he had hardly spoken to her. It almost seemed as though he had avoided her, and certainly there had been no farewell. Most likely he would expect to see her on the following Thursday, and then Althea would tell him that she was gone.

Waveney tried to console herself with the thought that she would see him at the wedding, for both he and his sister were to be among the guests. But when one is in love even five weeks' absence seems like an eternity in prospect. And Thorold's silent influence and unspoken affection was already dominating Waveney's entire nature.

It was a sultry July day, and Althea had proposed to Doreen that ices and dessert should be served in the verandah of the Porch House, overlooking the tennis lawn; and when dinner was over she led the way to the garden. When they came in sight of the verandah, Lord Ralston expressed his approval with his usual frankness, but Everard looked at Althea rather meaningly.

"It reminds me of Kitlands," he said, in a low voice. "Don't you remember you often had dessert on the terrace?" And Althea smiled assent.

"Dorrie and I are very fond of these al fresco meals," she observed. "I think in summer we should like to have them all in the open air."

And then, as they seated themselves in the comfortable hammock chairs, Doreen came across the grass with some letters in her hand. She had intercepted the postman on his way to the house.

"They are mostly for me," she said, looking at the addresses. "One from Aunt Sara, and another from Laura Cameron, and Mrs. Bell's account. Yours will keep, Althea; it is only a business-looking document from Mr. Duncan. Correspondence with one's family lawyer is not particularly interesting," added Doreen, briskly.

"Is old Andrew Duncan still in existence?" asked Lord Ralston, casually, as he handed an ice to Mollie.

Everard looked up quickly.

"Andrew Duncan & Son, of Number Twenty-one, Lincoln's Inn? I did not know he was your lawyer, Miss Harford."

But Noel suddenly broke in.

"Why, that is our Duncan, father!" he exclaimed, rather excitedly. "The veiled Prophet is his client, you know. That reminds me," he went on, with a glance at his sisters, "I am going to beard the old lion in his den, one of these days. The Veiled Prophet shall be unmasked, as sure as my name is Noel Ward."

"Noel is speaking of the unknown benefactor who is so generously educating him," explained Everard. "The silly children always speak of him as the Veiled Prophet——"

But here he stopped suddenly, as though he were shot. He had been addressing Althea, who was sitting near him; but at his first word, her pale face had become suddenly suffused with a painful flush, which deepened every moment. That scorching blush seemed burnt into her very soul as she sat with downcast eyes, unable to say a word.

"Will any one have any strawberries?" asked Doreen, hastily. Althea's confusion filled her with compunction, and she was anxious to atone for her carelessness. She handed some to Everard as she spoke, but he waved them aside with some impatience.

"Good heavens! was it you, Althea?" he asked, in a tone of dismay.

Then Noel sprang from his chair.

"It is Miss Harford!" he said, loudly. "By Jove! this is a surprise!" and the boy's face grew suddenly red. "All these years we have been talking of the Veiled Prophet, and it never entered into our heads that it was a prophetess."

"My friend the humourist has evidently hit it," observed Moritz, airily; but he was looking keenly at Althea. "Other people can play comedies," he said to himself; and then he twirled his moustache until it was perfectly ferocious-looking, and fell into a reverie.

Poor Althea tried to speak, tried to rise from her chair, but two pairs of white arms kept her a prisoner. Waveney and Mollie were kneeling beside her.

"Dear, dearest Miss Althea, was it really you?" asked Waveney, and the tears were running down her face, and Mollie was covering her hand with kisses. "How could we guess that you were Noel's unknown friend?"

"Hold your tongue, old Storm-and-Stress!" interrupted Noel, with boyish abruptness. "A fellow can't edge in a word with you women. It is for me to thank Miss Harford; it is for me——Oh, confound it all!" And here Noel, to everybody's surprise, and his own too, suddenly bolted.

"Let me go to him!" pleaded Althea, gently.

She had not said one word, or lifted her eyes to Everard's face. As she passed him, her dress almost brushing against him, he made no attempt to detain her. Doreen followed her; and then Moritz joined the agitated little group.

"My cousin is a good woman," he said, with solemnity, as though he had just discovered the fact. "She has noble purposes, and has the courage to follow them out. I admire especially the finesse and cleverness with which she has elaborated and carried out her beneficent scheme. It might almost be compared, in its grandeur of conception, and its marvellous diplomacy, with another drama of human life, in which I have played a part." And here Moritz looked at his young fiancÉe, and his humour changed. "Come and take a turn with me, Mollie darling," he whispered in the girl's ear; and then Waveney and her father were left alone.

No one ever knew what passed between Althea and Noel in the Porch House; but, for the rest of the evening, Noel was unusually grave and thoughtful. But as Althea was about to return to the verandah, where the lad had already betaken himself, she came upon Everard. He was standing alone in the porch, and was evidently waiting for her.

It was now late, and the moon had risen, and Everard's face was illuminated by the white light. At the sight of him, Althea's assumed calmness vanished; but she tried to speak in the old friendly way.

"Were you looking for me, Mr. Ward?" she asked, hurriedly. "Are they all in the verandah still?"

"Yes," he returned, curtly; "but I have come to ask you a question. Althea, why have you done this; why have you heaped these coals of fire upon my head?"

Poor Althea! The avalanche had fallen, and she had nothing more to fear; never again, as she told herself, would she live through such a moment of humiliation and shame. The purity of her motives and the absence of all self-seeking and consciousness, would make it easy to defend herself.

"Mr. Ward," she said, in her sweet, pathetic voice, "we are old friends, and to me the claims and responsibilities of friendship are very real and sacred. When your trouble came, when you lost your dear wife, I heard from a mutual friend that you were struggling in deep waters, and that, in spite of hard work, you found it difficult to make ends meet."

"That is true," returned Everard. "But——"

"Please let me tell you everything," she pleaded. "This mutual friend often spoke to me of your twin girls, but one day he mentioned Noel. 'He is a bright little lad,' he said, 'and very sharp and intelligent; but Ward frets sadly about his education. He has no means of sending him to a good school, and he is very down about it, poor fellow!' Those were his very words. I never forgot them. I know, from your own lips, what a bright happy boyhood yours had been. You had told me so many stories of your Eton days, and it seemed to me so grievous that your son should be robbed of his rightful advantages."

"You forget that it was his father who was to blame for that," returned Everard, with emotion. "My children must reap what their father sowed. When I married Dorothy, we made up our minds to renounce the good things of this life. Oh, I know the name of your informant, Althea; it was Carstairs! He was a good fellow, and he was in love with my Dorothy; but when I carried her off, he never turned against me. I remember that evening, and how low I was in my mind about the poor boy. But there! I am interrupting you, and you have not finished."

"There is not much to say," replied Althea, gently. "Mr. Carstairs' account troubled me greatly. I wanted to help you, but I knew, and Doreen knew, too, that any offers of assistance would have been indignantly refused. We Harfords are obstinate folk, Mr. Ward, and we love to get our own way, and then and there I concocted my little scheme, and my good Mr. Duncan helped me to carry it out. But for Doreen's unlucky speech, the Veiled Prophetess would have remained veiled." And then she tried to laugh; but the tears were in her eyes. "Everard, dear old friend, you are not angry with me?" and she stretched out her hand to him.

"Angry!" returned Everard, vehemently. "One might as soon quarrel with one's guardian angel, for Heaven knows you have been an angel of goodness to me and mine."

"No, I have only been your friend," returned Althea, a little sadly. "But now it is your turn to be generous, and do me a little favour. Will you let me finish my work? Noel is a dear boy, and I have grown to love him; he and I understand each other perfectly. It was always my intention to send him to Oxford. Mr. Ward, you will not refuse me this pleasure?"

But Everard shook his head.

"We will talk about that later on, when Noel has got his scholarship;" and something in his tone warned Althea to say no more. "She would bide her time," she said to herself; and then, after a few more grateful words from Everard, she made some excuse and returned to the house. But for some time Everard did not follow her. He lighted his cigarette, and paced up and down the garden path.

Coals of fire, indeed! They were scorching him at this very moment. Long years ago he had wronged this woman, and she knew it. He had inflicted on her the most deadly wound that a man can inflict. He had won her heart, and then in his fickleness he had left her; and now, in her sweet nobility, Althea had rendered him good for evil. Secretly and unsuspected, she had befriended him and his; but even now he little guessed the extent of her benevolence, and that, in the home for workers, many of his pictures had found a place. Althea had kept her secret well.

"Good God!" he said, almost with a groan. "Why are men so weak and women so faithful? I can never repay her goodness." And then he thought of his dead wife. Dorothy had been the love of his youth; she was the mother of his children; he had never ceased to regret her loss, and he had always told himself that no other could take her place. In his way he had been faithful, too, but he knew now, when it was too late, that he had built his happiness on the wrecked hopes of another woman's heart.

The next day the girls returned to Cleveland Terrace. Althea had driven them to the door, and then she left them. Everard was out, but as they stood in the old studio, hand in hand, Mollie's bright face clouded.

"I never thought it was quite so shabby," she said, rather dejectedly. "How bare and comfortless it looks!" Probably Waveney had thought the same, but she played the hypocrite gallantly.

"Nonsense, Mollie," she returned, energetically. "We are just spoiled and demoralized by all the comforts of the Red House. We will unpack our boxes, and then we will put the room in order. Moritz has sent in a cartload of flowers, and it will be such fun arranging them!" And then Mollie cheered up; but she had no idea, as Waveney chattered and bustled about, that her head was as heavy as lead. It was Thursday, and that evening Mr. Chaytor would look for her. But the place by Nora Greenwell would be vacant.

After the first day, things were better. Lord Ralston paid them daily visits, and Althea and Doreen drove over constantly from the Red House. Everard was generally absent. He had not yet given up his drawing classes. But the summer vacation would set him free. Waveney and Mollie contrived to amuse themselves; they sat in old Ranelagh Gardens with their work and books. Moritz often followed them there. Sometimes, when Mr. Ward had a leisure afternoon, he would organise some pleasure-trip. Once he drove them down to Richmond, and they had dinner at the "Star and Garter." And one sultry July day they went by train to Cookham, and spent the afternoon in the Quarry Woods. Indeed, Moritz was never happy unless he was contriving some new pleasure for his darling.

The wedding was fixed for the tenth of August, and on the third, Mollie and Waveney returned to the Red House. The trousseau was complete, but there were finishing touches that needed Mollie's presence.

When she tried on her wedding-dress, and Althea had flung over her head the magnificent Brussels lace veil that was one of Lord Ralston's presents, she and Doreen exchanged looks of admiration.

"She is almost too lovely," Althea said afterwards. "And then, she is so unconscious of her great beauty. 'I know I am pretty,' she once said to me. 'And I am so glad, for Moritz's sake.' I think I must tell Gwen that."