Rosa Nouchette Carey

"Control, give, sympathise: these three must be learnt and practised: self-control, charity, and sympathy."

Oriental Saying.

Althea was glad of a few minutes' quiet to recover herself, for she felt agitated and shaken. The sight of that comfortless sick-room, and Everard's worn face and haggard eyes, oppressed and saddened her.

A perfect passion of pity for him and his motherless girls swept over her as she closed the door. She had left the room in answer to a wistful, pleading look from him; her presence there evidently troubled him, and he was unwilling for her to run any risk. It was kind, it was friendly of him, she thought. Everard always had a good heart; but at that moment her impulsive, highly wrought nature only yearned to show her sympathy in action. In spite of her sensitive nerves, she was constitutionally brave, and had no fear of any form of illness. "We shall only die when our time comes," was a favourite saying of hers, and neither she nor Doreen shirked anything that met them in their daily path of duty.

Mollie was very ill, there was little doubt of that, and she would probably be worse. The sight of the sweet, flushed face, and the remembrance of the poor, thick voice would haunt her, she knew; and there was Waveney——But at this point the sound of a hansom driving up rapidly dispersed her gloomy thoughts, and the next moment Lord Ralston entered the room.

"We have got her!" he said, triumphantly,—"Nurse Helena, the best and cleverest nurse in the Institution; and she will be here in ten minutes. I saw the matron, and there is another one coming at eleven to-morrow. I shall go round to Dr. Duncan's house presently, and have a talk with him. We must have Sir Hindley Richmond down, I am determined on that."

"Why not wait for to-morrow?" returned Althea, quietly. "You are so impetuous, Moritz. There is no need for you to see Dr. Duncan to-night. Poor dear Mollie is very ill—I have just seen her; but good nursing and the proper remedies may do wonders. Wait until to-morrow—it will be far better; and tell me what has become of Noel."

"He is up in his room putting up his things. I am going to take him round to Eaton Square directly. I shall stay there myself for the next week or two. And you really saw her, Althea? Is she—does she look very bad?" Moritz's anxiety was so intense he could hardly bring out the words.

"She is evidently in great pain," she returned, slowly. "It is impossible to judge at this stage. But she was able to speak to me. Moritz, she asked me to give you this; it was put away in a drawer, and she told me where to find it!" and Althea handed him the little white parcel.

"For me! are you sure it is for me?" he asked, breathlessly. But Althea, with a faint smile, only pointed to the direction, for, in Mollie's sprawling handwriting, was very lightly inscribed: "Mr. Ingram, with Mollie Ward's good wishes." Nothing could be more correct or proper. Then why did Lord Ralston's eyes brighten so strangely, and why did a sudden smile of tender amusement come to his lips? Because his keen scrutiny had detected something that Althea had not perceived—two half-obliterated letters before the "good": "lo"—he could make that out plainly. "With Mollie Ward's love"—that was what she had meant to write, until her maidenly scruples, and perhaps some sudden self-consciousness, induced her to change the inscription.

Moritz walked off into the inner room with his treasure. Would Mollie guess how her lover's heart beat almost to suffocation as he looked at the white vellum book with its clustering pansies?

"Little darling," he kept saying over and over to himself, "she must have known they were my favourite flowers." And then he looked at the first page and saw his name prettily illuminated. "Pansies, that's for thoughts," was the motto under it; and one or two pansies were drooping loosely underneath.

It was a dainty remembrance. Mollie had evidently not spared either time or thought for her friend. It was to be a token of her gratitude for all the pleasure Monsieur Blackie had given her, and for all his lavish gifts. But even Mollie could not guess, in the faintest degree, the intense joy that pansy pocket-book gave Ingram.

As he replaced it in its cover his eyes were dim, and his honest heart was recording its vows. If Mollie lived, her life's happiness, as far as human power could effect it, should be his task and joy. "My own darling, you are beginning to love me," he thought; "and now——" and then there was a stab of pain through the young man's heart, for how could he tell how long it would be before he saw "the angel laughing out of Mollie's eyes" again? When he went back into the other room he found Noel there. The nurse had arrived and had gone up to see her patient. And presently Everard came down to them.

He seemed a little surprised when Althea told him that Noel was going to stay with her cousin. "Moritz wants him, and they will be company for each other," she said. "It will be easier for him to go from there to St. Paul's by-and-bye." And as this was reasonable, Mr. Ward offered no objection. Then, at her suggestion, he sat down and wrote a few tender, urgent words to Waveney.

Althea took her leave after this. She had made another fruitless attempt to dissuade Moritz from going to Dr. Duncan; he was utterly unmanageable. "I mean to make a clean breast to him," he said, recklessly. "If he is a sensible man, he won't want any explanation. I shall tell him that Mr. Ward has influential friends, and that they wish a second opinion. Why, good heavens, Althea"—working himself up to a pitch of nervous excitement, "how do we know what that poor child needs, and that only money can buy?" And then Althea, with a vivid remembrance of that bare, dingy-looking room, wisely held her peace.

As she drove off she wondered vaguely, but without much interest, how Moritz was to keep up his masquerading at Eaton Square. Noel was a sharp-witted lad, as he had himself said, and there had been no opportunity of coaching the servants. An old retainer of the family, who had been the old viscount's butler, took care of the house when it was not occupied, and his wife and one or two maids kept a few rooms always in order. Moritz, who was a thorough Bohemian, had a habit of running up to town for a night or two as the fancy seized him, and he seldom announced his intention beforehand. More than once Mrs. Barham had been at her wits' end to make his lordship comfortable, but she soon got used to his odd ways, and now, when Moritz arrived at his town house, he was sure of finding his dining-room and library and a couple of bedrooms in first-rate order. Althea need not have wondered if she had listened to the brief conversation that took place between Moritz and Noel on their way to Eaton Square.

It was rather late, for Moritz, like an obstinate man, had had his way; he had left Noel in the cab and had seen the doctor alone. Though Dr. Duncan was a sensible man and no toady, he was much impressed by Lord Ralston's impetuous generosity. He could not deny, he said, that there were many things that his patient required, though he had forborne to name them, as he knew Mr. Ward had small means. Sir Hindley Richmond! Oh, certainly, he had no objection to meet him; but there was no need for that at present. He would keep it in mind; and Mr. Ward must be consulted. And then, after a little more talk, and a promise on the doctor's part to respect his confidence, the interview ceased. Moritz felt a little happier when he jumped into the hansom again. He thought Dr. Duncan had spoken hopefully of the case; and then, as he looked at the list in his hand, he foresaw a delightful morning's work before him.

To rush from shop to shop, to pay the highest price possible for each article, to order in fabulous quantities of the needed commodities, would be purest joy to him. If Mollie recovered she would find herself stocked for a year or two with eau-de-cologne and other good things.

"What an age you have been!" grumbled Noel. The poor lad was too cold and hungry and miserable to mind his manners. "Wasn't the old chap in?"

"Oh, yes, he was in," replied Ingram, vaguely. And then he pushed up the little trap-door and told the man to drive to Number Fourteen, Eaton Square. "I hope Mrs. Barham will be able to give us something to eat," he continued. "You see, she does not expect us, and there may be nothing in the house."

Noel's face grew rather long at this.

"Is it your house? Do you live there?" he asked, curiously.

"Yes," returned Ingram, "It is my house, but I am not often there. I have another house in the country." And then, rather abruptly, "Noel, lad, can you keep a secret—honour bright, you know, and all that sort of thing?"

Then Noel looked up in his face a little suspiciously, and there was a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

"Mum's the word," he said, quickly, "but I know what you are going to say. Your name isn't Ingram."

"Oh, yes, it is," returned the other, rather amused at this, "only I have another. It is the family name. My father was Colonel Ingram, and until eighteen months ago I was plain Mr. Ingram."

"And now?" and there was growing excitement in Noel's voice.

"Well, the only difference is an old cousin died, and so I became Viscount Ralston. Why, my boy," with a little chuckling laugh, "I was as poor as a church mouse before that—poorer than your father. I painted bad pictures that would not sell, and lived in a tin shanty, hold hard—don't interrupt me, for we shall be at my diggings directly. I want you to understand that for the present, at Cleveland Terrace and at the Red House, I am still Mr. Ingram. I have my reasons, and some day you shall know them; but I want you to promise that you will not betray me." Then Noel, feeling utterly bewildered, and not a little mystified, nodded an assent to this, and the next moment they stopped before one of the big, gloomy-looking houses in Eaton Square. A tall, grey-haired old man admitted them.

"I have taken you by surprise, Barham," observed Lord Ralston, carelessly; "and you see I have brought a friend."

"Yes, my lord," returned Barham, tranquilly. "And I am glad to say there is a fire in the library; but there is something wrong with the dining-room chimney, and the workmen have been there."

"All right. Just pay the cabman." And then Lord Ralston led the way to the library. It was a large room, and the firelight played fitfully over the carved oak furniture and red morocco chairs. The next moment the soft electric light enabled Noel to see his surroundings more plainly. Since his visit to the Red House his views had been considerably enlarged, and he at once told himself that this room beat Miss Harford's library hollow. Lord Ralston left him for a few moments. When he returned he said, with something of his old whimsical dryness,—

"I have just been interviewing my worthy housekeeper, and have left her metaphorically tearing her hair in the larder. She tells me that there is literally nothing in the house, so I suppose we may expect Barmecide's feast."

Noel nodded. He was well acquainted with the story of "The Barber's Sixth Brother," and quite understood the allusion. But the youthful pangs of hunger were so overmastering that he murmured something about bread-and-cheese, and then coloured up to the roots of his hair, fearing that he had taken a liberty.

"Oh, Mrs. Barham is a woman of resources; she will do better for us than that," was the indifferent reply. "But we must exercise our patience. I will take you up to your room now."

And Noel presently found himself ensconced in a most luxurious chamber, with a bright fire, and everything prepared for his comfort.

"It is like the 'Arabian Nights,'" muttered the lad, when his host had left him. "To think of my cheek—Monsieur Blackie, indeed!" And then Noel sat on the edge of the chair and chuckled. "A viscount! Great Scott! Lord Ralston! My word, how the pater and old Storm-and-Stress will open their eyes! To think that 'the wobbly one' will be my lady some day!" And here Noel gave a long, low whistle, proving that, in spite of that vulgarity, inherent in the English school-boy, the embryo barrister had his wits about him. "It does not take much eyesight to see a blank wall—especially when it is painted white, and the sun shines," he had observed once to Waveney. "Any fool can see that chap is dead nuts on Mollie"—which was forcible if a trifle coarse.

When Noel found his way back, with some difficulty, to the library, he saw a charming little dinner-table laid in readiness. Mrs. Barham evidently knew her business well. The fish and cutlets, and sweet omelette, were all excellent; and a wonderful dessert followed.

Lord Ralston was most kind and hospitable, but he was hardly as good a companion as usual; he seemed absent, and was continually falling into a brown study. When dinner was over, and coffee had been brought, he gave up all attempt to be sociable. He even invited Noel to help himself to a book, and for the remainder of the evening Lord Ralston sat in silence, with his eyes fixed on the beech-logs, which were burning and sputtering so merrily.

It was nearly dinner-time at the Red House when Althea reached home. Doreen, who was already dressed, was waiting for her in the library. Waveney was still upstairs.

There was a short and hurried explanation on Althea's part, and a few ejaculations of pity from Doreen. Then she followed her sister upstairs and sent Peachy away.

It was one of their pretty sisterly ways to wait on each other occasionally, and Althea, who was accustomed to this loving ministry, took it calmly and as a matter of course. Doreen wanted to talk to her, that was all.

"I am so sorry you had such a wretched afternoon," observed Doreen, affectionately. "Poor dear, you were hardly fit for it. How was Mr. Ward? I am afraid he will be dreadfully anxious."

"Anxious! I should think so from his looks. I should say he had had no sleep. Do you know, Dorrie, I have discovered something to-day; dearly as Everard loves all his children, it is Waveney who is the apple of his eye."

"He loves her better than his pretty Mollie? Oh, no, Althea."

"Yes, dear, I am sure of it, and I cannot say I am greatly surprised. Mollie is a dear, sweet child, but Waveney is more human and spirituelle, her nature has greater depth. Oh, there is the gong. Please help me to arrange this ruff. Dorrie, you must do all the talking at dinner. Waveney must have no hint of anything until we have finished—there is the shopping and your purchases; you must make the most of those."

"So you went out, after all?" was Waveney's first remark, when grace had been said; and her voice was rather reproachful. "And you promised that you would have a day's rest!"

"It hardly amounted to a promise, I think," returned Althea, with a forced smile. "One never knows what may turn up in the day's work, and I had to go out on an errand of charity. Well, how have you enjoyed your shopping expedition?" And this question launched Waveney at once into a lengthy description of all their purchases.

"It was too late to think of going to Cleveland Terrace," she finished, regretfully, "so we had tea at Fuller's instead. The cakes were delicious. Oh, how I longed for Mollie to be with us! She does so love buying pretty things."

"Oh, I forgot," interposed Doreen, abruptly. "Mrs. Craven was at Marshall & Snellgrove's, buying things for Augusta's trousseau. We had quite a long talk, in the mantle department. I have ordered a nice waterproof cloak, Althea; it is Harris tweed, and your favourite grey." And so on, discussing the merits of each article purchased until dinner was over, and, with an unmistakable look of relief, Althea rose from the table.