exchanged a smiling glance, and appeared much amused by the girls'
discomfiture.
"Well, my dear, we had the carriage to ourselves as far as Dover, and
your mother suggested in her thoughtful way that it would be wise to get
some wraps ready, as it was often very cold on the pier. Obedient as
ever, I unstrapped the bundle, and discovered your nice little plot. We
lifted the cushions, poured all the loose rice on the seats, shook the
cloaks out of the window, put down the cushions again, and had
everything clear and tidy in ten minutes' time! It was a nice little
diversion, which came just as we had finished reading our papers. Most
thoughtful of you to provide it for us!"
"And you had no stray pieces left? None that caught in your clothes,
and shook out afterwards?"
"I had a cloth brush in my bag, and I used it well. I am sorry to
distress you; but we were not once mistaken for Edwin and Angelina. It
was a brilliant inspiration on your part, and I sympathise with your
disappointment. I said at once, `This is Nan's doing!' and wished I was
near, to pay you out for your audacity. I hope your other pranks
afforded you more satisfaction. I expect you have been up to all manner
of mischief while we were away!"
"I've been most industrious, father, and good, and docile. Ask Maud if
I haven't. I had a few accidents: they _will_ occur, you know! Trays,
for instance, jumping out of my hand, and smashing the glass. It's a
mercy I was not killed."
"Glass? What glass?" queried Mrs Rendell quickly; and Nan smiled back
at her with infantile candour.
"Better tell her the first evening, when she can't find it in her heart
to be cross," she had decided diplomatically; and there was certainly no
nervousness apparent in the manner in which she made her confession.
"Oh, only some tumblers. Not so many. Seven or eight, perhaps. They
were not the best ones; none of the best set were broken except two
little water-bottles. Such a mercy, wasn't it?" She affected not to
hear Mrs Rendell's groan of dismay, and spread out her scarred hands
with an air of thanksgiving. "As for me, I can't imagine how I escaped.
There were knives on the tray, and they fell in showers round me--
literal showers--and dug into my hands! The blood--oh-oh!" Nan rolled
her eyes to the ceiling, and shuddered dramatically. "Ask Maud! She
wanted me to go to bed, but I struggled on. We were particularly busy
that night, and wanted to help the servants."
"Ned Talbot was here. He appeared suddenly, when we were laying
carpets, and went down on his knees to help us. He seemed to expect to
stay to dinner, so we gave him a scramble meal, and he left by the 8:30
train," explained Maud hurriedly. She, like Nan, had decided to give
her own special piece of news on the evening of her parents' return; but
though she appeared to be looking in an opposite direction, she was
acutely conscious of her mother's searching glances.
"In-deed!" Mrs Rendell said slowly. "He is staying in town, then, I
suppose? Is he to make a long visit? Shall we see him again this
time?"
"He said of his own accord, mother, that he would like to come from
Saturday until Monday if it would not inconvenience you so soon after
your return. I promised to give you the message, and said you would
probably write yourself."
"He said he wanted particularly to speak to you and father. I wonder
what about! He doesn't generally care to be with you as much as with
us; but he said it as if he meant it--he really did. I can't imagine
what he wants!" said Agatha the tactless, blurting out her thoughts as
usual, and beaming round the company, unconscious of the consternation
which her words had caused.
Maud flushed crimson. Elsie and Nan blushed in sympathy for her
confusion, and Chrissie from sheer rage and irritation, and longing to
take the big, blind blunderer by the shoulder and administer a good
shaking. Only Lilias remained cool and self-possessed, and came to the
rescue with a change of subject, for which her sisters blessed her in
their hearts.
No further reference was made to Ned Talbot that evening, nor was any
letter forwarded to his London address; but next day, as Maud passed the
morning-room on some domestic errand, a voice called her by name, and
she entered, to find her mother seated before an open desk.
"I am writing to Ned Talbot," she said, "and I wanted to consult you
before finishing. I think the time has come for plain speaking, Maud.
Am I to tell this young fellow that we shall be pleased to see him or
no? It has been easy to see that he has had a special attraction in
this house for some years past; and now that his position is
established, he may have made up his mind to state his wishes. I have
little doubt what they will be, nor, I think, have you, so it lies with
you to decide the question."
Maud laid down her bundle, and grasped the sides of the table to steady
her trembling hands.
"Mother, I don't know--I'm not certain! I have only thought at times
that perhaps--perhaps he cared--"
"Of course, dear. I understand that. He could not show his feelings
too plainly while he was unprepared to speak. That is all right, I'm
sure. What you have to consider is your own attitude. If you do not
care for him, or do not wish to be hurried into a decision, we will
postpone this visit until a future occasion. He himself doubted whether
I could receive him so soon after our return, so that I can easily make
an excuse. On the other hand, Maud, if you would like to see him--"
She paused significantly, and looked full into Maud's eyes. For a long
silent minute that gaze continued, the mother sitting with raised head,
the girl standing before her, flushed and shy, yet showing no sign of
shrinking before her scrutiny.
"Yes, mother, I would. I'd rather you let him come!"
A quiver passed over Mrs Rendell's face, and her eyes dropped. No
mother in the world can hear that her daughter's heart has gone beyond
her keeping, without feeling a pang of pain mingling with the joy; and
this was a peculiarly tender mother, despite her little airs of
severity. There were a few minutes when she dared not trust herself to
speak, then she held out her hand and drew the girl to her side.
"Bless you, my daughter! My good girl--my dear, kind helper. I'll miss
you sorely; but I am glad of anything that makes for your happiness, now
and always. You know that, don't you, darling?"
Maud put down her head and shed a few tears of happiness and excitement,
which had in them no trace of bitterness. When the time arrived for
leaving home, that would doubtless be a real trouble; but at present she
could not realise the wrench, while her mother's certainty concerning
Ned's love was the best medicine possible for the doubts which had been
so distressing since the occasion of his last visit. In ten minutes'
time she returned to her work, with no stain of tear-marks to tell of
her recent emotion, but with a quiet illumination in her face which
satisfied the mother that this attachment to Ned Talbot was no mere
girlish fancy, but the deep faithful love which endures for a lifetime.
The important letter was posted, and the invitation which it contained
accepted by telegram within an hour of its arrival, and half Friday
night Maud lay with wide, bright eyes staring through the darkness, too
excited, too happy, to sleep.
Ned arrived on Saturday afternoon. It was a glorious spring day, the
sun shining so powerfully that for the first time in the year afternoon
tea was carried out to the summer-house, while the family gathered
around on various garden stools and chairs. They were hardly seated
when Ned came walking across the lawn, a tall, handsome figure, in a
spring-like suit, his dark face lit up with a smile of pleasure. Maud
looked at him, aglow with love and pride; but as he drew nearer she
busied herself with the teacups, and had only a casual word of welcome
to offer. It would not do to appear too glad, she told herself; and
when there were so many, an individual greeting was hardly noticed, nor
was there any opportunity for _tete-a-tete_ conversation.
When the tea-things had been carried away, however, and the girls began
to wander about the garden in twos and threes, Maud found Ned by her
side, waiting for her, and allowing the others to walk on ahead. She
looked up with a questioning glance, and met a smile of frank affection.
"Well, have you finished your duties, and got five minutes' leisure for
once? Come along, and have a walk with me. I never met such a girl for
being busy all day long. Don't think I have ever seen you sitting with
idle hands. You remember Jim's old nickname, `Maud of all work'? A
capital title! But he would have missed it badly if he had not had you
to wait upon him. I used to tell him I envied him such a sister!"
Maud smiled vaguely and turned her head aside. It was all very kind,
very flattering, very friendly, yet somehow it failed to satisfy; and
even as she listened the old ache of uncertainty came back to her heart.
It was difficult to say why, unless perhaps it was that Ned's manner
was a little too friendly to be welcome. In the old days he had not
been so much at his ease; they had talked merrily enough together while
the others were present, but so soon as they had been left alone a
constraint had been wont to fall upon them,--a silence, awkward,
embarrassing, yet in some inexplicable way more eloquent than words.
Maud thought of the past with a quick catching of breath, and through
the whole of that afternoon and evening the vague depression deepened,
and refused to be argued away. Ned, it was true, took advantage of
every opportunity of being near her, yet the time had been when he had
seemed shy of approaching; and she preferred the shyness to this open
friendliness. He talked to her more than to any one of her sisters,
yes! in frank, cheery words with unlowered voice, as a brother might
talk to a sister, or a son to his mother. He looked at her with kindly
affection, and the look chilled her heart. Once again Maud passed a
sleepless night, but the darkness was no longer illumined by rosy
dreams, but black with fear and dread.
Sunday was a glorious day, and Maud felt it another drop in her cup to
be obliged to wear winter clothes instead of blossoming out in the
pretty spring costume which she had hoped to possess. The dressmaker
had proved faithless, like the rest of her kind, and, being unable to
finish two dresses by the promised time, had followed her usual custom
and sent home the one destined for the younger sister; for, in spite of
her gentle manners, Lilias had "a way with her" which carried infinitely
more weight than Maud's good-natured placidity.
The sisters were standing in the hall providing themselves with hymn-
books from the pile laid out on the top of the oak bench, when Lilias
came tripping downstairs in her pale grey draperies, a very incarnation
of the beautiful spring morning. Maud looked at her with ungrudging
admiration, then turned instinctively to see how Ned in his turn was
affected by the charming vision. She saw him flash one quick glance at
Lilias, and immediately turn on his heel and walk to the other end of
the hall, and throughout the walk to church she puzzled over the meaning
of such behaviour. Why should the sight of Lilias in her fresh beauty
disturb Ned's equanimity? Was it possible he had taken a dislike to
her, or felt a masculine disdain for her innocent vanity? Maud honestly
hoped not; for, though she desired above all things to possess Ned's
love for herself, it would be still necessary for her happiness that he
should accept as his own her five beloved sisters.
The day passed without any important developments. Maud went off to
teach her Sunday-school class in the afternoon, trying hard to conquer
the spasm of envy which overcame her at the sight of Lilias seated in
the garden hammock, swinging herself to and fro on the tips of her
little shoes, while Ned mounted guard by her side, and Agatha and
Chrissie paced lazily up and down. Maud was devoted to her "boys," but
on this occasion there was no denying that it was an effort to tear
herself from home, and she would gladly have welcomed a holiday. Her
path led through the garden, and as she approached the gate the hope
flitted through her mind that Ned might offer to accompany her on her
walk. It would be an opportunity for a quiet _tete-a-tete_, which was
rarely to be gained in the midst of such a large family; and if Mrs
Rendell's surmises were correct, surely--surely! But Ned did not even
rise from his seat beside the hammock: he only waved his hand and nodded
an unclouded farewell. The twelve mischievous little boys behaved with
unprecedented decorum that afternoon; for, in spite of their elfish
ways, they were devoted to Maud, and the ringleader sent round an
imperative message to the effect that "Teacher was bad, and must not be
worried."
It was characteristic of Maud also that she did not allow the lesson to
suffer because of her own depression, but rather put into it more than
the usual earnestness. She had always felt a heavy sense of
responsibility in taking this class, and every week, as she looked at
the eager young faces, she was thrilled with a fresh longing to help
them to grow up into strong, upright men, who would be a power for good
in the world,--"gentlemen of Christ," as the grand old phrase has it.
When they were indifferent or callous, after the manner of boys, she
strengthened herself against disappointment by remembering how words
committed to memory in her own careless youth remained indelibly printed
on the brain, to be a strength and solace in after years. The hymns and
chapters were learnt as lessons now, but in time to come their true
meaning would be revealed; and she loved to combat the suspicion that
the Bible was a dull, uninteresting book, by relating the histories of
its heroes in a manner most calculated to arouse schoolboy enthusiasm.
Brave, lovable David, with his chosen friend Jonathan, the type of
princehood; the gloomy but majestic figure of Saul, trustful Abraham,
and fearless Daniel. It was a joy to make them live in the boys'
imagination, and see the bright interest on the listening faces!
When Mrs Rendell said good-night to her daughter, she was especially
tender in her manner, for she vaguely felt that all was not going well,
and took herself to task for having forced a confidence. Could it be be
that she had taken too much for granted? that her motherly pride had
given her an exaggerated idea of Ned Talbot's feelings? He had shown no
anxiety to speak to her in private, and at one time it seemed as if he
would go back to town without touching on any but impersonal topics; but
on Monday morning, after wandering restlessly about the house for some
time after breakfast, Ned seemed suddenly to take his courage in both
hands, and, coming up to his hostess as she sat writing notes, begged
the favour of a few minutes' private conversation.
Mrs Rendell looked up sharply, met an embarrassed yet steadfast glance,
and felt a throb of relief.
"Certainly!" she said. "In ten minutes from now I shall have finished
my household arrangements, and will meet you in the summer-house. Go
into the garden and enjoy a smoke until I come."
Ned walked away obediently, and Mrs Rendell thrust the half-finished
note under her desk, too agitated to complete it. She had shown no
signs of surprise to the young man himself, but her heart was beating
quickly, and she bundled away her writing materials in a haphazard
fashion very unlike her usual methodical ways. Her first thought was
for Maud, and most of the ten minutes of Ned's waiting were taken up in
interviewing the girl, and deputing to her a dozen little shopping
commissions which would keep her occupied in the village for an hour to
come.
"I am going to have a talk with Ned in the summer-house. You will find
us there when you return. Come straight to me, and tell me how you have
succeeded."
These were her last instructions, and when she had given them she turned
sharply aside, lest her face should betray the meaning that lay behind
her words.
Ned was waiting for her with an evident nervousness mingling with his
usual kindly courtesy. He made no attempt to open the conversation with
meaningless commonplaces, and, after they were both seated, several
moments passed in silence. Then suddenly the two pairs of eyes met; the
young fellow flushed and paled, and laid a hand on his hostess's chair
with a boy-like pleading gesture.
"Oh, Mrs Rendell," he cried, "I have a great favour to ask you!"
CHAPTER TEN.
A TRAGIC SURPRISE.
Half an hour later, Nan Rendell let herself out of the front door, and
ran hurriedly down the steps. Her sailor hat was perched uncertainly on
the top of her heavy braids, the buttons of her jacket were unfastened,
and she drew on her gloves as she walked, as if she had been in too much
haste to finish dressing before leaving the house. Several
acquaintances saluted her as they passed, but she rushed along
unconscious of their greetings, and presently arrived at the point in
the high road where houses stopped and the little township began. The
shops which Mrs Rendell patronised were indiscriminately situated on
either side of the road, which no doubt accounted for Nan's erratic
dives to and fro. She peered her head round the corner of the draper's
door, dashed across the road and craned through the grocer's window,
stood on tip-toe to investigate the interior of the post office, then
ran back once more, to interview the fishmonger, and ask if Miss Rendell
had yet called to leave the morning order. It was in the confectioner's
that Maud was run to earth at last. She was coming out of the doorway
counting her change into her purse, when suddenly Nan's face confronted
her, and she started back in surprise.
"You?"
"Yes, it's me. I've been looking for you everywhere."
"But I thought your were going to work? I left you hard at it. Got a
headache?"
"Fer-ightful!" said Nan; and her looks justified the word, for her
cheeks were pale, and her eyes looked worn and strained. "I couldn't
work any longer. I thought a little walk would do me good, so came out
to meet you."
"But--er,"--Maud hesitated uncertainly. She did not wish to appear
inconsiderate towards her beloved Nan, but, remembering her mother's
instruction, she could not bring herself to stay away from home longer
than was necessary. She looked at her sister appealingly, and slid a
hand through her arm.
"But--I've finished my shopping, dear, and mother said I was to go
straight back. Wouldn't it do just as well to sit in the garden? You
would get the air without fatigue, and I'd make you so cosy in the deck
chair. You know, Nan, I--I want to go back!"
Nan turned her head aside, and spoke in a queer, muffled tone.
"Very well; but we'll go round the back way. It's only five minutes
longer, and it's quiet. I don't want to meet any one. You'll do that
to oblige me, won't you, Maud, as you have finished your shopping?"
Of course she would. Maud gave a little grip to her sister's arm, and
turned willingly enough up the side street which led off the high road.
As in all small towns, the change from town to country came surprisingly
quickly. Three minutes' walk took the sisters into a pretty lane
running parallel with the High Street, and commanding a sweeping view
over the countryside. Here were no houses, only an avenue of beeches,
with here and there a seat in a position of welcome shade. Maud often
returned home by this quieter route, and seated herself on one of the
benches to make up her accounts and enjoy the view at one and the same
time. It was a favourite spot; but after this morning she could never
pass it without a shrinking of the heart, a sickly remembrance of
misery. At the first seat Nan slackened her pace insinuatingly, while
Maud marched ahead, intentionally obtuse; but at the second a hand was
laid on her arm, and such a trembling voice besought her to stop, that
she forgot herself in sympathetic alarm.
"Nan, you _do_ look ill! As white as a sheet. Lean forward and put
your head on your knee, as low as you can get it! That is the best
thing to do if you feel faint. Sit still for a minute, and then we will
make another dash for home. You ought to lie down!"
But Nan sat bolt upright, clasping her fingers in nervous misery.
"I'm not faint. I'm thinking of you, not myself!--Maud darling; it's
been a mistake--we were all mistaken; but you are so good, you will be
brave for our sakes, if not your own. It would break our hearts to see
you suffer."
She stopped short with a little sob of agitation, and Maud stared at her
with wondering eyes.
"Suffer! I? Why should I suffer?" Then the colour rushed in a sudden
wave to her cheeks, and her voice broke in the single, stifled inquiry,
"Ned?"
"Yes. It is Lilias! He has asked mother for Lilias. She came upstairs
and sent me out to meet you, so that you might not hear it suddenly.
She thought you would rather have it so."
"How kind of her! That was good of you both!" said Maud calmly. Her
heart had stopped for a moment, and was now beating away at
extraordinary speed; a singing noise was in her ears: it was as if some
one had dealt her a violent blow, and she was as yet too stunned to
realise its nature. She turned her head aside, and _gazed_ vaguely up
and down. A nursemaid wheeled a perambulator on the opposite pavement,
while a little white-robed figure trotted at her side, tossing a ball in
the air. Maud watched her movements with fascinated gaze. It seemed as
though some tremendous issue depended on whether the ball was caught in
those tiny, uncertain fingers.
"Ned wants to marry Lilias, does he?" Her voice sounded strange and far
away, and she noted as much, and pondered on the peculiarity. "They
will make a handsome couple. Lilias is so fair. She will look well
beside him."
"Maud, don't! For pity's sake don't take it like that!"
The tears were raining down Nan's cheeks, and she seized her sister's
hand in a passionate grasp.
"I know all about it. I am almost as wretched as you are. Don't
pretend to me. Say what you feel to me, at least, and it will help you
to bear it."
"But I don't feel anything," said Maud dully. "It seems like a dream.
Lilias! He loves Lilias, and not me; he never loved me at all! He has
been thinking of Lilias all this time. It's--very--strange! I think
what I feel most is shame for my own conceit. I have been deceiving
myself all along, and that is a miserable thought! You should not
sympathise with me, Nan: you should scold me, and tell me to be ashamed
of myself."
She spoke in the same dull, strangled note, and Nan continued to cry and
clasp her hand in distress.
"I could never do that, or be anything but proud of you, darling! It
was no conceit at all on your part, for we all thought the same. He
always seemed to prefer being with you, and to be so shy and constrained
with Lilias. I suppose that was a sign, but we did not recognise it.
Even mother was sure it was you: every one was, except Lilias."
Maud gave a quick glance upward.
"Did Lilias guess? Did she know that this was coming?"
"I have not seen her; but from what mother said, I imagine she did."
"And she will--she cares for him too?"
"Yes!"
It was a very low little yes, almost a whisper, but at the sound of it
Maud shrank as at a blow, and her face became drawn with pain. For the
first time a realisation of what the news meant, broke upon her, and she
cried aloud in a voice sharp with misery--
"They will be engaged; they will be married; and I shall have to stay at
home and look on! I shall have to take part, and pretend that I don't
care. Oh, I can't--I can't do it! If it had been some one at a
distance, some one I need never have seen, I could have borne it; but my
own sister, living in the same house together all day long--that is too
bitter! I'd rather die than face it!"
"Then I'll die too!" cried Nan hotly. "Whether Ned cares for you or
not, you are all the world to me. You don't know how I love you, Maud!
It would have broken my heart if you had married and gone away, and I
never want to marry myself, if you and I can live together. No man
could make up for you. I hate them all! Wretches! Nothing but misery
wherever they come. I'll never fall in love, and you'll get over this
in a few months, and we will look forward to having our own little
house, and growing old together,--won't we, darling?"