CHAPTER VII.
A HUMOURIST AND AN IDEALIST.
"The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but, I think, now 'tis not to be found."
_Love's Labour's Lost._
"A merrier man, Within the limits of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal."
_Act II._
While Waveney was doing her very best to make a favourable impression onthe Misses Harford, an interview of a far different character was takingplace at Number Ten, Cleveland Terrace.
Mollie, who was conscientious and strictly truthful, having been taughtfrom childhood to abhor the very whitest of white lies, was tryinglaboriously to carry out a certain programme drawn up by Waveney. Shewas not to cry or to think of anything disagreeable, and she was only tolook at the clock twice in an hour, and there was no need for her eitherto be always standing on the balcony and straining her eyes after everypasser-by. It was sheer waste of time, and it would be far better tofinish one of her pretty menu-cards; and Mollie, who was docile andtractable, had agreed to this.
"It shall have a spray of golden brown chrysanthemums," she said, quitecheerfully; and when Waveney left the house she arranged herpainting-table and selected the flowers from Corporal Mark's nosegay.
But, alas!
"The best-laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft agley."
Scarcely had Mollie wetted her brush before Ann the heavy-footed came upwith an inflamed face and red eyes.
"The pain was horrible," as she expressed it, "and was not to be borne.Would Miss Mollie spare her for half an hour, and she would get Mr.Grainger's young man to pull the tooth out?"
"Oh yes, Ann, certainly," returned Mollie, who was tender-hearted. Butwhen Ann had withdrawn with a snorting sob, she mused with someperplexity over all the ills to which maids-of-all-work were liable.
Ann had looked so strong when they had engaged her, and yet she wasalways complaining of something. She was addicted to heavy colds in herhead, and to a swollen face, sometimes diversified by an earache. Shewas a good-tempered, willing creature, but her infirmities were great,and more than once Waveney had advised Mollie to send her away.
"But she is so honest," Mollie would plead, "and she is so devoted toMrs. Muggins," and so Ann had been suffered to remain. Noel took her offto the life. He would tie up his face with a wisp of flannel and sithugging the cat for ten minutes at a time.
"Was it a poorty leddy, then, and did she want the poor littlechickabiddies?" Ann would choke with suppressed laughter when she camein to lay the table. "Ain't it natural, Miss Mollie? and it is just whatI did say to Mrs. Muggins."
Mollie was studying the chrysanthemum pensively when Annie put her headin again.
"The fire must not get low, Miss Mollie, because of the cake."
Then Mollie jumped up in dismay.
Ann was going out, and leaving that precious cake--Noel's birthdaycake--and it was such a nice one! She had made it herself, and it hadbeautiful pink-and-white icing on the top. That her cake should bespoilt was a thought not to be endured for a moment. She knew what Ann'sfires were--black, smoky concerns. As Mollie rushed into the kitchen thefront door bell rang, and Ann, with her hat on, admitted a visitor.
"A gentleman, Miss Mollie, and I have shown him up in the studio." ButMollie, whose face was in the oven, did not hear this; her wholeattention was absorbed by her cake--menu cards were forgotten. Shestirred the fire, put on coals, and then sat down on the rug to watchthe oven.
Meanwhile, the visitor walked briskly into the studio. He was a small,dark man, and his dress was somewhat Bohemian; he had a brown velveteencoat, and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, and he had bright, cleareyes, that saw everything worth seeing, and a good deal that ordinaryfolk failed to see--not that people always found this out. He had plentyof time for observation, and when he had grown a little weary of hissolitude, he made a tour of the room. He stood for some time by Mollie'spainting table. The menu cards struck him as very pretty and graceful intheir design.
"My good little Samaritan is artistic, I see," he said to himself; "butthere was no need for her to put on her best frock because a strangercalled. But vanity and women are synonymous terms." And after thisatrocious sentiment--which all women would utterly repudiate--he lookedcuriously at a framed picture standing on the floor.
"'Canute and his Courtiers.' Yes, I see; rather stale, that sort ofthing. 'Canute' decidedly wooden, ambitious, but amateurish--wants forceand expression." And then he shook his head. "Hulloa, what have wehere?" and he stepped up to the easel.
It was a roughly executed sketch in crayon and was evidently a boy'swork; but in spite of considerable crudeness, it was not without spirit.
A young lady was stepping down from an omnibus, and a queer little manin a peaked hat, and a huge moustache, was handing her out. He wasgrinning from ear to ear, and in his other hand was a sixpence.
"Your eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie," was written under thepicture.
The visitor seemed puzzled; then a light dawned. Finally he threw backhis head and laughed aloud. "We have a humourist here," he said tohimself; and to restore his gravity, he began walking up and down theroom; but every time he passed the easel he laughed again. "This isclearly not my little Samaritan," he said to himself. He had brought ina beautiful bouquet, and had laid it down on the round table. Every fewminutes he took it up and looked at the door.
The household was certainly a peculiar one. An extraordinary youngfemale, with her face tied up in flannel, had shown him upstairs aftertelling him that Miss Ward was in. He had been waiting nearly twentyminutes. Should he ring the bell? But there was no bell--not a semblanceof one. Then he thought he would leave the flowers and the sixpence,with his card. Yes, perhaps that would be best. And then he hesitated.It was very absurd, but he rather wanted to see the little girl again;there was something so bright and piquant about her. Perhaps she waskeeping out of the way on purpose. Perhaps Monsieur Blackie--and here helaughed afresh--was not to her taste. No sooner did this idea come intohis head than, with manlike perversity, he determined to persevere.
He walked downstairs and into the dining-room. Here fresh amusementawaited him in the inscription, "Noel Ward, his Study."
"My friend the humourist again," he said softly; and then he pricked uphis ears, for in some back premises he could distinctly hear a veryclear, sweet girlish voice. He stole into the passage to listen.
And this is what he heard:--
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen And here's to the housewife that's thrifty, Let the toast pass; Drink to the lass-- I'll warrant she prove an excuse for the glass."
"_School for Scandal_," muttered the stranger. "A very good song andvery well sung. I should like to clap. Let me see: that is what theyused to do in the Arabian Nights entertainment--clap hands, enterbeautiful Circassian slave, with a golden dish full of jewelled fruits.I will knock instead at the mysterious portal."
"Oh, is that you, Ann!" exclaimed a voice, cheerfully. "However did youget in? Fetch me some coals, please. And oh, I forgot your poor tooth.Was it very bad?"
"Pardon me," observed the young man, hurriedly. Then, at the strangevoice, Mollie turned round.
Once, many years ago in a foreign gallery, Ingram had stood for a longtime before a little picture that had captivated his fancy; it was thework of an English artist, and a very promising one, and was entitled"Cinderella." A little workhouse drudge was sitting on a stool in thechimney corner of a dark underground kitchen; a black, cindery fire wascasting a dull glow; a thin tabby cat was trying to warm itself. Thetorn, draggled frock and grimy hands of the little maid-of-all-work wereadmirably rendered, but under the tangled locks a pair of innocentchild's eyes looked wistfully out. A story book, with the page opened atCinderella, lay on the lap.
Ingram thought of this
picture as Mollie turned her head and looked athim, and, man of the world as he was, for the moment words failed him.
He was standing in a dull little kitchen--a mere slip of aplace--looking out on a long straggling garden, very narrow, and chieflyremarkable for gooseberry-and-currant bushes; and sitting on the rug infront of the fire, like a blissful salamander, was a girl with the mostbeautiful face that he had ever seen.
Then poor Mollie, blushing like a whole garden full of roses in herembarrassment, scrambled awkwardly to her feet.
"Oh, dear! I thought it was our Ann. Will you tell me your name, please?Father is out, and we do not expect him home until eight."
"My business was with your sister," returned Ingram, regaining hisself-possession as he saw the girl's nervousness. "Your servant let mein exactly five-and-twenty minutes ago, and as I thought the householdwas asleep I was endeavouring to discover a bell; and then I heardsinging,--
"'Let the toast pass; Drink to the lass,'
Awfully good song that."
"Oh, dear," faltered Mollie--she would have liked to sink through thefloor at that moment, to avoid that bright, quizzical glance; "that wasfather's song, not mine. Oh, I know now who you are. You are thegentleman whose pocket was picked yesterday."
"Exactly. Monsieur Blackie, at your service;" and then Mollie turnedcold with dismay. Ann had let him in, and he had been in the studio, andNoel's absurd sketch was on the easel. He had recognised himself. AndMollie's confusion and misery were so great that in another minute shewould have disgraced herself for ever by bursting into tears; onlyIngram, fearing he had taken too great a liberty, hastened to explainmatters.
"You see, Miss Ward, I was anxious to pay my debts, and thank yoursister. If I remember rightly, I told her that I should call."
"Oh, yes; at least, Waveney was not sure that you would, and she had togo out."
"I should like to have seen her. Perhaps another time you will allowme----" Ingram reddened and hesitated.
"She may not be long. She has gone to Berkeley Square on business. Ah,"as the bell rang, "that is Ann, so please will you go upstairs."
Mollie was not quite equal to the situation; she wanted to get rid ofMonsieur Blackie, but he did not seem inclined to go; and Ingram took amean advantage of her inexperience.
"I have left my hat upstairs," he said, hypocritically, "and there aresome flowers which I brought for your sister, and I think they ought tobe put in water." This appealed at once to Mollie.
"Oh, certainly," she said; and as she limped down the passage beforehim, a pained look came in Ingram's eyes.
"Oh, what a grievous pity," he thought, "that lovely face to be alliedwith such a cruel infirmity."
"Oh, what flowers!" exclaimed Mollie, burying her face in them; and thenshe glanced at the card shyly. "Moritz Ingram." What a nice name! Yes,he was rather nice, too. In spite of his droll looks, she liked hisvoice; but, all the same, if he would only go! He ought to go--andIngram evidently shared this opinion, for he was hunting sedulously forhis hat; and as his efforts were unavailing, Mollie was obliged to go tohis help.
"I brought it upstairs," he kept saying. "'Manners makye man,' and I wasalways remarkable for my good manners. Why, even your sister took me fora Frenchman." And at this Mollie broke into a merry laugh, and Ingram'seyes twinkled sympathetically.
The next minute the door-bell rang again, and Mollie, who had justdiscovered the hat underneath the sofa--though how it got there, no oneknew--was just going to dart to the door, when a cracked voice calledout, "Cat's meat!" and the faint mewing of Mrs. Muggins was clearlyaudible in the distance and then Noel strolled in. He looked at Ingramin unfeigned amazement; then, being an acute lad, he grinned.
"Noel, this is Mr. Ingram, the gentleman Waveney saw in the omnibusyesterday."
"I recognised myself," returned Ingram, with an airy wave of the handtowards the picture, "though perhaps it is not a speaking likeness--asort of cross between Mephistophiles and Daniel Quilp, with perhaps a_soupcon_ of the Artful Dodger. I prefer to sit for my own portrait,don't you know."
Then Noel grinned again, rather sheepishly. For once he was reaping thejust reward of his impudence.
"You are a humourist, my young friend," continued Ingram, blandly. "I aman Idealist. All my life--and I am exactly thirty seven--I have beenseeking 'the impossible she.' That does not mean" (interrupting himself,as though he feared to be misunderstood) "any individual woman. Oh dear,no; originality is my favourite fetish."
Mollie looked bewildered, but she was rather impressed by this fine flowof words, but Noel's eyes brightened. "Was this not a man and abrother?"
"Women don't understand that sort of thing," he observed,confidentially; "they never laugh at the right jokes unless you labelthem;" and here Noel threw up his head and cocked his chin. "That is whyI have taken to drawing--a picture pleases the poor things, and thefunnier you make it, the more they like it."
"Indeed!" remarked Ingram, mildly. And then he looked at the handsomelad with unfeigned approval. "It is for your sister's benefit that youdo these clever sketches? I am an artist myself--an embryo artist, Iought to say, for I have never sold a picture--but I recognise a brotherin the art."
Then Noel, who detected irony in the smooth voice, looked a littlesulky.
"It is not clever a bit," he growled; "it is beastly rot. I did it toget a rise out of Waveney--Waveney is the other one, you know."
"Did you say Waveney? I never recollect hearing the name before."
"No. It is a queer sort of name. Father had a great-aunt Waveney. When Iwant something short and handy, don't you know, I call herStorm-and-stress."
"Upon my word, Miss Ward, your brother is perfectly dangerous. If I stayhere any longer I shall take the infection. I told you my special andparticular fetish was originality. I seem to have met it here. Thankyou"--as Mollie meekly handed him his hat--"I have trespassed on yourkind hospitality far too long already. With your kind permission I willcall again, in the hope of seeing your sister."
"What could I say?" asked Mollie, anxiously, when she related theaccount of the afternoon. The sisters were safely shut up in their ownroom--a large front room over the studio. Mr. Ward slept in the littleroom behind. "I could not say, 'No, please do not come, I am _sure_Waveney does not want to see you!'"
"Why no, of course not. You did quite right, Mollie dear. Did not dadsay he showed his gratitude in a very gentlemanly way. And as for Noel,he has been talking about him all the evening."
"Yes, Noel took a fancy to him; and Wave, I do think he must be nice; hesays droll things in a soft, sleepy sort of voice, and I am afraid I wasrather stupid and did not always understand; but his eyes looked kindand gentle. I was _not_ afraid of him after the first few minutes."
"Poor little Moll. Well, it was rather embarrassing to have to interviewa live stranger all alone, and in the kitchen too!"--for Mollie haddrawn a highly colored and graphic description of her first meeting withMonsieur Blackie.
Waveney had laughed mercilessly at first.
"Mollie Ward enacting the part of Cinderella or Cinder Maiden--enter theBlack Prince with the glass slipper. Mollie, dear, I grieve to say it,but your feet are not as pretty as mine;" and Waveney, who was excitedwith her eventful day, kicked off her shoes, and began dancing in themoonlight, her tiny feet scarcely touching the floor.
And behold the spirit of mischief was in her; for, as Mollie sat on thebed and watched her with admiring eyes, she suddenly broke into a song;and this is what she sang:
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Here's to the widow of fifty, Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass."