Mr. Ward is a failing artist. His two daughters, Mollie and Waveney, are very close. However when the financial situation becomes insufferable, and Waveney has to enter service, the sisters have to part for the first time. The book tells both stories in a realistic and engaging way. It gives us, the readers, insight into every aspect of the sisters' lives from managing a household to going out with friends to treating servants and, of course, their love for each other.
By : Rosa Nouchette Carey (1840 - 1909)
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In this age of transition and progress, when the pleasure-seeker, like the Athenian of old, is for ever searching for things new and strange; when old landmarks are ruthlessly demolished, and respectable antiquities are shelved in outer darkness; then to some conservative minds it is refreshing to stumble upon some old-world corner, fragrant with memories of the past, and as yet untouched by the finger of the destroyer.
Cleveland Terrace, Chelsea, is one of these spots—the cobwebs of antiquity seem to cling with the vines to the tall, narrow old houses, with their flagged courtyards, and high, iron gates and small, useless balconies. There is something obsolete, old-fashioned, and behind the age in the whole aspect of the place.
One could imagine some slim, demure damsel in a short-waisted gown, not long enough to hide the dainty shoes and sandals, with a huge bonnet disguising a pyramid of curls, tripping down the few worn steps and across the road, on her way to join her friends at Ranelagh.
Just opposite is Chelsea Hospital, with its scarlet and blue-coated pensioners, basking in the sunshine; grand old veterans who have grown grey with service, their breasts decorated with the medals they have won—some in a hale, green old age, others in the sear and yellow leaf, toothless, senile, tottering slowly but surely towards their long home.
One reads a whole page of history as one gazes at the worn, wrinkled old faces; ah! they have been young once, but now the battle of life is nearly over for them; the roll-call will only sound once more in their ears. Let them sit in the sunshine and tell their old stories, and fight their battles over again in the ears of some admiring recruit. How their dim eyes sparkle with senile enthusiasm! "There were two of the black devils, but I bayoneted them one after another—spitted them like larks; and serve them right, too. That's where I got this medal;" and here a fit of asthmatic coughing impedes the bloodthirsty narrative.
One can imagine the thrilling tales told round the fire towards night as the grim old warriors nestle cosily in the high wooden settle, while envious comrades watch them from afar. How heavily the poor wooden legs stump through the long, echoing corridors! Grey hairs, old wounds, the chill stiffness of decrepit age—well, thank God for their peaceful harbourage, where the weary limbs can rest in comfort.
There is a sweet old spot just where the long Lime avenue leads to old Ranelagh, adjoining the little plots of garden ground cultivated by the pensioners. One golden afternoon in September, when a fresh, pleasant breeze was rippling the limes, a girl in brown came down the avenue, and, as she tripped past the gnarled and twisted tree-boles, the slanting sunbeams seemed to meet and envelop her, until her shabby frock became like Cinderella's robe, and the green and golden banners overhead were a canopy of glory above her.
Who does not know the beauty of a lime avenue in the early autumn, when the very air is musical with faint soughing, and every leaf adds its tiny, vibrating voice to the universal symphony—when children and birds and sunshine, and all young living things, seem to have their own way, and play in unison.
The girl was coming up from the river in the direction of old Ranelagh, and she was walking with so light and airy a step that one could have imagined it set to music—for her feet, which were very small and pretty, though, alas! shabbily shod, seemed scarcely to touch the ground.
She was small, almost childish in stature, with a thin, erect little figure, and a pale oval face, framed in short, curly hair, and at first sight people always called her plain: "an insignificant, puny little thing"—that was what they said until they saw her eyes—and they were the most wonderful and spirituelle eyes in the world. And after that they were not so sure of the plainness.
For comparisons are odious, and there is no hard and fast rule with respect to feminine beauty; at least, tastes differ, and here and there a Philistine might be found who would be ready to swear that dark spirituelle eyes, brimful of intelligence and animation, with a mirthful sparkle underneath, were worth a score of pink-and-white beauties, in spite of their fine complexions and golden hair.
Just at the end of the avenue two old pensioners were sitting; and at the sight of them, and at the sound of their raised voices, the girl began smiling to herself. Then she stepped quietly across the grass, picking her way daintily, until only a tree divided her from the old men; and there she stood shaking with silent laughter.
"I tell you it is a lee, Jack; there were three of them, as sure as my name is Fergus McGill. Look here"—and here the speaker rose stiffly to his feet. He was a tall old man, with a long grey beard, and the pinned-up sleeve and the filmy look of the sightless eyes told their own tale. His breast was covered with decorations and medals, and in spite of his high cheek-bones, his massive, almost gigantic, figure and grand face would have become an Ajax.
His companion was a short, sturdy man, with a droll physiognomy; his light, prominent blue eyes had the surprised look of a startled kitten, and he had a trick of wrinkling his forehead as he talked until his eyebrows disappeared; and when he took off his cocked hat his stubby grey hair looked as stiff as Medusa's crest of snakes.
Wide-awake Jack was the name by which his mates accosted him—in reality Corporal Marks. He, too, was decorated, and had a wooden leg, which he found useful in conversation, when emphasizing some knotty point. He was tapping the ground pretty smartly at this moment, as he cut himself another quid of tobacco.
"Lees!" he returned, in a huffy voice, "it is the truth and nothing but the truth, and I'll take my oath to that."
But here a little peal of girlish laughter interrupted him. These two old men loved each other like David and Jonathan, or Damon and Pythias, or like any other noble pair of friends, and would have died for each other, and yet would wrangle and argue and spar fifty times a day; and the chief bone of contention was a certain episode—on an Indian battle-field half a lifetime before.
Human nature is sadly faulty—and even in Chelsea Hospital there were mischievous spirits; and on cold, windy nights, when old bones ached, and there was general dullness, and the draughts made one shiver and huddle round the fire—then would one or another slyly egg on Sergeant McGill—or Corporal Marks—with some such question as this:
"Was it three of them Sepoys that McGill bayoneted before he got that sword-thrust—or only two?"
Or perhaps more cunningly and artfully,—
"I wish I had nabbed two of those dratted Sepoys like McGill. Marks can tell that story best——"
"Two, John Perks!" interrupted McGill, wrathfully, "it was three that I killed with my own hand, and the third was so close to me that I could see the whites of his eyes—and the devil's smile on his wicked lips—and I laughed as I ran him through, for I thought of those poor women and children—and it is the goot English I am speaking, for I have forgotten the Gaelic, I have lived so long in the land of the Sassenachs—not but what the Gaelic is milk and honey in the tongue that speaks it."
When that little mocking laugh reached their ears, both the old men reddened, like children discovered in a fault. Then they drew themselves up and saluted gravely; but the girl's eyes were full of mirth and mischief.
"Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, you two, quarrelling over a silly old battle, that every one else has now forgotten? One would think you were heathens, and not Christians at all, to hear you talk in that sanguinary style." The girl's voice was deep, but very clear and full, and there was a curious timbre in it that somehow lingered in one's memory—it was so suggestive of sweetness and pathos.
"Are you fery well, Miss Ward? Ah, it is always a good thing when one has the joke ready,"—and Sergeant McGill's tone was full of dignity,—"but it is not quarrelling that we are after, Miss Ward—only a little difference of opinion."
"Yes, I know. But what does it matter, McGill, how many of those poor wretches you killed?" But she might as well have spoken to the wind.
"It was three, Miss Ward," returned McGill, obstinately; "and if you had seen the sight that Jack and I saw you would not be calling them poor, for they were the devil's sons, every one of them, and their hearts was black as sin, and it was the third man that I got by the throat; and when Jack came up——" But here the girl shrugged her shoulders, and a little frown came to her face.
"Yes, I know, but please spare me those horrible details," and then she laughed again; but there were tears in her eyes. "I daresay there were more than three if the truth were known. Corporal, why do you vex him with contradiction? If you were in another part of the field how could you know what he did?"
"Ah, it is the goot English that Miss Ward speaks," murmured McGill; but Corporal Marks struck in.
"Hold your tongue, McGill—you are like a woman for argifying—argle-barking, as Sergeant Drummond calls it—from noon to night. This was how it was, Miss Ward. Our company was scattered, and I found myself suddenly in the corner of the rice-field where McGill was. There was a barricade of dead Sepoys round him, and he had his foot on one of them, and had got another by the throat; and then——" But a peremptory gesture stopped him. "Thank you, I have heard enough; but I am inclined to take McGill's part, for how could you see clearly in all that smoke and crowd? Come, let us change the subject. I owe you sixpence for those flowers that you brought yesterday, for my sister tells me that she never paid for them."
"No, Miss Ward, and there was no sixpence owing at all. I left the flowers with my duty."
"Ah, but that is nonsense, Corporal," returned the young lady quickly. "I will not rob you of all your lovely flowers."
"It's not robbing, Miss Ward," replied McGill, in his soft thick voice. "It is a pride and pleasure to Jack that you take the flowers, for it is the goot friend you have been to us, and the books you have read, and the grand things you have told us, and what are roses and dahlias compared to that?"
"Well, well, you are a couple of dear old obstinate mules, but I love you for it; but please do not argue any more. Good-bye, Sergeant. Good-bye, Corporal," and the girl waved her hand, and again the old men saluted.
"They are two of the most pugnacious, squabbling old dears in the whole hospital," she thought, as she walked quickly on. "I wonder which of them is right? Neither of them will yield the point." And then she smiled and nodded to a little group that she passed; and, indeed, from that point to Cleveland Terrace it was almost like a Royal progress, so many were the greetings she received, and it was good to see how the old faces brightened at the mere sight of the girl.
Presently she stopped before one of the tall old houses in Cleveland Terrace, and glanced up eagerly at the vine-draped, balconied windows, as though she were looking for some one; but no face was outlined against the dingy panes. Then she let herself into the dim little hall, with its worn linoleum, from which all pattern had faded long ago, and its dilapidated mahogany hat-stand with two pegs missing, and an odd assortment of male and female head-gear on the remaining ones, and then she called out, "Mollie! Mollie!" finishing off with a shrill, sweet whistle, that made an unseen canary tune up lustily.
And the next moment another whistle, quite as clear and sweet answered her, and a deliciously fresh voice said, "I am in the studio, darling." And the girl, with a wonderful brightness on her face, ran lightly up the stairs.
"Oh! what an age you have been, Waveney! You poor dear, how tired and hungry you must be?" and here another girl, painting at a small table by the back window, turned round and held out her arms.
When people first saw Mollie Ward they always said she was the most beautiful creature that they had ever seen; and then they would regard Waveney with a pitying look, and whisper to each other how strange it was that one twin should be so handsome and the other so pale and insignificant.
But they were right about Mollie's beauty: her complexion was lovely, and she had Irish grey eyes with dark curled lashes, and brown hair with just a dash of gold in it; and her mouth was perfect, and so was her chin and the curves of her neck; but perhaps her chief attraction was the air of bonhomie and unconsciousness and a general winsomeness that cannot be described.
"Where is father, Mollie?" asked Waveney; but her eyes looked round the room a little anxiously. "Ah, I see the picture has gone;" and then a look of sorrowful understanding passed between the sisters.
"Yes, he has taken it," almost whispered Mollie, "but he will not be back yet. Ann is out—she has gone to see her mother; so I must go and get your tea. Noel is downstairs;" and, indeed, at that moment a cracked, boyish voice could be heard singing the latest street melody, and murdering it in fine style.
Mollie rose from her chair rather slowly as she spoke, and then—ah, the pity of it!—one saw she was lame—not actually lame so as to require crutches; but as she walked she dragged one leg, and the awkward, ungraceful gait gave people a sort of shock.
Mollie never grew used to her painful infirmity, though she had had it from a child; it was the result of accident and bad treatment; a sinew had contracted and made one leg shorter than the other, so that she lurched ungracefully as she walked.
Once in the night Waveney had awakened with her sobbing, and had taken her in her warm young arms to comfort her.
"What is it, Mollie darling?" she had asked, trembling from head to foot with sympathy and pity.
"It means that I am a goose," Mollie had answered. "But I could not help it, Waveney. I was dreaming that I was at a ball, and some one, quite a grand-looking man, in uniform, had asked me to dance, and the band was playing that lovely new waltz that Noel is always whistling, and we were whirling round and round—ah, it was delicious! And then something woke me and I remembered that I should never, never dance as long as I live, or run, or play tennis, or do any of the dear, delightful things that other girls do;" and here poor Mollie wept afresh, and Waveney cried too, out of passionate love and pity.
Mollie did not often have these weak moments, for she was a bright creature, and disposed to make the best of things. Every one had something to bear, she would say with easy philosophy—it was her cross, the crook in her lot, the thorn in her side; one must not expect only roses and sunshine, she would add; but, indeed, very few roses had as yet strewn the twins' path.
When Mollie had lumbered out of the room, Waveney folded her arms behind her and paced slowly up and down, as though she were thinking out some problem that refused to be solved. It was really two rooms, divided at one time by folding-doors; but these had been taken away long ago.
It was a nondescript sort of apartment, half studio and half sitting-room, and bore traces of family occupation. An empty easel and several portfolios occupied one front window; in the other, near the fireplace, was a round table, strewn with study books and work-baskets. Mollie's painting table was in the inner room.
A big, comfortable-looking couch and two easy chairs gave an air of cosiness and comfort, but the furniture was woefully shabby, and the only attempt at decoration was a picturesque-looking red jar, in which Corporal Marks' flowers were arranged. Presently Waveney stopped opposite the empty easel, and regarded it ruefully.
"It will only be another disappointment," she said to herself, with a sigh. "Poor father, poor dear father! And he works so hard, too! Something must be done. We are getting poorer and poorer, and Noel has such an appetite. What is the use of living in our own house, and pretending that we are well off and respectable and all that, and we are in debt to the butcher and the coal-merchant; and it is not father's fault, for he does all he can, and it is only because he loves us so that he hates us to work." And then she sat down on the couch as though she were suddenly tired, and stared dumbly at the vine-leaves twinkling in the sunshine; and her lips were closed firmly on each other, as though she had arrived at some sudden resolution.
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