cheer a lonely old man, and was so entirely her bright merry self at the
second interview, that again, and yet again, the sound of laughter broke
the silence of the room. She discovered that the old man had a keen
sense of humour, though it had long lain dormant; and as it seemed to
please him to hear her chat away in unconstrained fashion, chat she did,
with such an accompaniment of sparkling eyes, waving hands, and sunny
smiles, as was a positive tonic to behold. She told stories of her own
adventures or misadventures, which Mr Vanburgh capped by remembrances
of his own boyhood; they compared notes as to their mutual sensations at
critical moments, and so sympathetic did they appear, that the girl was
forced into an expression of astonishment.
"You remember so well! Most old people seem to forget how it feels to
be young, especially people who have not had any children of their own.
How have you managed to remember all these things?"
The old man looked at her quietly. The smile left his face, and the
lines round his lips and eyes seemed to deepen in sudden, mysterious
fashion. Nan divined that she had touched a hidden wound, and waited
anxiously for his reply. It was a long time in coming, and then it was
altogether a surprise. Mr Vanburgh touched the bell which lay near at
hand, and spoke a word of direction to the Italian, who appeared at the
summons.
"Take this young lady into the study and show her--my pictures!" he said
slowly; and Nan followed Pedro out of the room in perplexity of spirit.
The man's dark eyes studied her face critically, but no words were said
until the room was reached, and they stood together before a curtained
alcove.
"It is his sorrow, the sorrow of his life," murmured the soft voice
plaintively, as the curtain was drawn back, and Nan gazed with awed eyes
upon four portraits hung against a fluting of crimson cloth. The rich
frames, the carved table beneath, with its bank of white flowers, gave
the alcove the appearance of a shrine; and a shrine it was indeed,
dedicated to the memory of a lost happiness.
The first portrait was of a man, the second of a woman, with a beautiful
and gentle face, which bore so strange a likeness to those of a boy and
a girl on either side that it was easy to trace the relationship between
them.
The girl bade fair to become as lovely as her mother; the boy was a
magnificent fellow, with waving locks, thrown back from a noble brow,
and such an air of pride and candour in the carriage of the head and the
flash of the eyes as would have filled a parent's heart with pride to
behold. Nan's eyes passed by the other two portraits to dwell on this
with wondering admiration; and something in the appearance of the
beautiful young lad seemed strangely familiar. Family likeness is a
marvellous thing, revealing itself in the most unexpected fashions; and
though at first sight no two people could have been more unlike than
this incarnation of youth and strength, and the bleached and weary
invalid in the next room, it was certainly of Mr Vanburgh, and no
other, that Nan was reminded at this moment. The shape of the eyes was
the same, the curve of the lips, the growth of the hair on the forehead.
She looked back at the first picture, and gave a start of recognition.
She had not realised it at first, but yes! that handsome, happy, self-
confident face had once belonged to Mr Vanburgh himself; it was his own
portrait at which she looked. Nan wheeled round to the servant with an
agitated question:
"It is himself! But why is he here? They are dead, these others, but
he--"
"He also is dead, signorina," the man replied, and bent his head as if
in obeisance before the picture. "He died with those he loved.
Something lived on, perhaps, but not my master. He lies buried with
them--his wife--his son--his daughter. All that he had. Ah, what a
tragedy! One day all happiness and love; the next it is done, it is
over, his heart is broken! We were out yachting together, and my master
and I have gone on shore on business--to make purchases, to buy
provisions. We should join them again next day; and meantime they went
a little cruise to pass the time--an excursion to a bay which the
signora wished to visit. It was all calm when they started, but those
are treacherous seas; a squall sprang up, and they were driven on the
rocks. The gale lasted two days, and at the end pieces of wood were
washed ashore from the wreck. There was nothing else--no, nothing! We
were like madmen both, searching about, and waiting, always waiting,
year after year. ... They might have been picked up, and landed at some
far-away port; they might for a time have lost their minds and been
unable to remember. Such things have been; and why not again? But at
last hope died away, and strength with it. He took no rest, no care for
himself, and so the illness came which ends as you see. Then I took him
away, for the living must come before the dead, and I had my duty to him
to remember. We have wandered over the world, signorina, in search of
health and peace, but they come not with money. Everything else,"--he
waved his hand round the exquisite room, with its paintings, its
carvings, its china, its treasures of ancient art--"everything else, but
not these. So at last we came home, to rest--and die!"
Nan trembled and was silent. She had no words in which to express her
passion of pity, but the Italian understood, with the quick insight of
his race, and flashed a grateful glance upon her.
"It is not every one to whom he shows these pictures. They are covered
with a curtain, so that they are hidden from the stranger; but every
morning we come together, he and I, and put fresh flowers. It is a
great sign of his favour to the signorina that he should have sent her
here. He has opened his heart to her as is not usual with him, and she
can help him if she will."
"Oh, I will! I will! I long to help him," murmured Nan brokenly. She
stood gazing at the pictures until the curtain dropped once more, and
she found herself being escorted back to her seat.
Mr Vanburgh looked at her silently. It was not possible for him to be
whiter than usual, but his lips were contracted in a nervous pressure,
and a nerve was throbbing visibly at his temples. Nan stretched out her
hand impetuously and laid it over his; the fingers were icy cold to her
touch, and she rubbed them between her own with tender care.
"Thank you!" he whispered breathlessly, and looked at her with kindly
eyes.
"You are a wise child. You understand how to console. Words are too
weak. You judged too quickly, you see, in taking for granted that I had
always been alone. Fifteen years ago--you saw their portraits?"
"Yes. They are all beautiful; and oh, the boy!"
"My son!" sighed the father softly. "Yes, if you could have seen my
son. It was not only I, but every one who met him said the same thing:
that they had never seen his equal. All that I did was for him, to
prepare for the time when he should succeed me. He was so strong, so
full of life; it seemed impossible that he could die."
"Mr Vanburgh, how did you bear it? How can people go through such
trials and live? To lose everything at once, and live on, and keep
one's reason--I can't understand it. You must be very good!"
The old man smiled sadly.
"No, child, I am not good. I had my time of madness and rebellion, and
my old self died, never to revive again; but I have kept my faith in
God. I could not afford to lose that, as well as everything else. He
has taken from me all that made life beautiful--first my dear ones, and
then the strength which might have made it possible to find fresh
interests; but such discipline must be for some great end, and I am
growing nearer and nearer to the time when I shall know the reason.
There is an explanation ready for me, and I am waiting to hear it. You
will never have a trouble sent to you in life, child, without the
strength to bear it; and the greater the trial the greater may be the
reward. Even in this life I have had compensations; when the sun of
prosperity is shining we do not realise our need of God, but when the
clouds gather, we turn homewards like tired children, and the help never
fails. In my loneliness I have learned to know Christ, and the peace
which is His gift to those who trust Him!"
He shut his eyes and remained silent for a long time, while Nan studied
the emaciated face with anxious gaze; but when he looked up again he was
calm and collected, almost smiling.
"My little friend, I have shown you my Holy of Holies, but we will never
speak of it again. You know my sorrow, and we will understand each
other without words. I have learned to be thankful for the unexpected
blessings which come into my life, of which your companionship is one.
You will always be welcome when you can spare an hour to sit with a
lonely old man; and I am glad to have made the acquaintance of some
young people for another reason. My nephew, my heir,"--he drew his
brows together with a frown of pain,--"is coming next month to pay me a
visit. He will be with me for some time, and if you will be kind enough
to extend your friendship to him I shall be grateful!"
"We will! We will! But oh, I wish he were a girl! Are you sure you
have no girl nieces that you want to invite as well?"
"More girls?" Mr Vanburgh smiled faintly. "I should have thought you
had enough, with five sisters of your own. A boy would surely be more
change, though, as far as that, Gervase is more than a boy now. It is
three years since he left Oxford, and he is quite a man of the world by
this time."
Nan groaned deeply.
"I know them! I know them well, and I detest them! Really old men are
quite sensible and humble, but the young ones put on as many airs as if
they owned the world, and didn't think much of it at that. I like
schoolboys immensely--mischievous, grubby little schoolboys, who keep
white mice in their bedrooms, and are full of pranks and jokes; but no
young men for me, thank you! Jim, our brother, is the only really nice
one I know, and even he thinks that the world was made for his
convenience. No one dares to contradict him; and it is the most
maddening thing in the world to argue with him, for he never even takes
the trouble to answer, but simply chuckles in condescending fashion, and
chucks you under the chin. We know another very nice man, too--Ned
Talbot; but for a clever man who has taken degrees and scholarships and
appointments above everybody else, you wouldn't believe how stupid and
blundering he is. As blind as a bat. He--but never mind! I didn't
mean to speak about him, only to say that if your nephew is coming down
at all, do have him in June instead of next month! Jim is coming home
then, and Ned will be here, and we have all sorts of plans in the air.
It would be nicer for him when there would be some men to take him
about, and he would have a really good time. Don't you think he could
come in June?"
"He could probably arrange to stay on a little longer. He will be with
me for some considerable time, as there is a great deal of business
which we must do together. I will tell him what you say when I write,
and impress upon him that June is a period of special attraction!"
"And then he will be at our sale!" said Nan gleefully to herself; and
the same thought occurred to each of her sisters, when this latest piece
of news was unfolded.
"How lovely!" gushed Agatha. "Now he can buy my shaving-case! Father
said it was a useless bauble; but a rich young man can afford baubles,
and I feel sure he would like the look of it upon his dressing-table.
I'll mark it `Sold,' and say I kept it specially for him."
"I don't believe he will come at all. Men detest bazaars; but if he
does, we must make him buy far more than that," said Elsie firmly. "If
we can't sell that veil-case, we will pretend it is for ties, and that
no gentleman's wardrobe is complete without it. And we'll raise all the
prices whenever he comes near!"
"I don't suppose he'll eat toffee, but he must hand round the tea and
make himself useful. We can keep him busy at our stall," said Chrissie;
while Lilias stared into space, and smiled in a soft, dreamy fashion.
"After all," she said thoughtfully, "after all, I think he had better
help me, instead of Ned! Ned knows quite a number of the people, and
could make himself agreeable going about and talking; but this poor
fellow will know nobody but us. Yes! yes! he shall be my assistant in
the punt!"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
A BUDGET OF LETTERS.
One bright May morning Mrs Rendell sat by her desk ostensibly busy with
accounts, but in reality watching the movements of her daughter Lilias,
who lounged on the window seat reading the letters which had just been
delivered by the second post. Mrs Rendell herself had brought these
letters into the room, and consequently knew full well who were her
daughter's correspondents, and which envelope contained the separate
effusions. The dainty grey, with its edging of white, came from
Lilias's bosom friend, a certain Ella Duckworth, whose sayings and
doings were so constantly quoted in the schoolroom that her very name
had become the signal for groans of disapproval; the fat white packet
bore the magic name of the _Bon Marche_, Paris, and contained patterns
of material for the frock in which Lilias intended to array herself at
the garden parties of the coming season; and the narrow envelope, with
its bold, even writing, was a familiar object in the Rendell household,
whose authorship required no explanation.
Mrs Rendell handed this letter to her daughter with a smiling
remembrance of the days when such letters used to come to herself--of
her eagerness and delight, her insatiable appetite for more. As she
added up her weekly bills and balanced her accounts, soft little trills
of laughter greeted her ears from the other end of the room, and she
smiled again in enjoyment of her child's happiness, and lifted her head
to regard the pretty picture. The sun shone on Lilias's fair head,
transforming it into an aureole of gold; pink and white were the colours
of her morning dress, pink and white was her face, and the blossom on
the hawthorn tree which shaded the window seemed made on purpose to form
a background to the charming figure. Mrs Rendell's eyes softened with
motherly pride; but the next moment her brows contracted and her
expression grew troubled, for there on the seat lay Ned Talbot's letter
unopened, while Lilias smiled and dimpled in enjoyment of her friend's
effusion. It seemed strange that a girl should show so little eagerness
to read a lover's letter; but Mrs Rendell reflected that perhaps Lilias
preferred to leave the greater treat to the last, and comforted herself
thereby. When Ella's letter had been read, then of course Ned's would
be even more eagerly devoured; but no! Lilias regretfully folded away
the sheet in its envelope, regarded the two unopened envelopes with
languid indecision, and finally selected the packet from Paris as more
worthy of attention. If she had looked up at that _moment_ and caught
the flash in the watching eyes, Miss Lilias would have been on her
guard; but, as it was, she complacently settled herself to the study of
patterns, holding up the little squares of gauze to the light, laying
them against her dress, and pleating them in her fingers with an
absorption which rendered her unconscious of her surroundings. Five
minutes passed, ten minutes, and still she turned from one novelty to
another, unable to make a choice among so many temptations; and still
her mother watched from her corner, the pencil stayed in her busy hands.
The irritation had faded from Mrs Rendell's face, and given place to
an expression of anxious tenderness; for Lilias's indifference to Ned's
letter was but another strengthening of the growing conviction that the
girl's feeling for her lover fell short of what it should rightly be. A
dozen signs, too subtle to be put into words, but none the less
eloquent, had attracted Mrs Rendell's attention within the last few
weeks, and sent a chill to her heart. Above all things it was
imperative that Lilias should love her future husband with all the
strength of which she was capable, for Lilias's mother knew that no
other power but love could develop a selfish nature, and make a noble
woman out of a vain and thoughtless girl. Love has wrought this miracle
before, and will again; and through all her grief for Maud's
disappointment, Mrs Rendell had comforted herself by the reflection
that Lilias was the one of all her children who was most in need of a
softening influence, the one to whom the love of a good man might be
most valuable. Dear, sweet Maud could not be selfish if she tried, but
an early engagement might be the only means of saving Lilias from the
injurious effect of flattering and worldly friends. So the mother had
reasoned with herself; but her arguments would lose all their force if
Lilias herself had no love in her heart for her future husband. A
loveless marriage is a catastrophe for any girl, but for Lilias it would
mean moral suicide: a deliberate settling down into a selfish, self-
seeking life! Was it possible that she had accepted Ned for no higher
motive than a love of excitement, and the puny triumph of making the
first marriage in the family? Mrs Rendell would not judge the girl so
harshly without unmistakable proof, but, her suspicions being aroused,
she could not be content until she grasped the true position of affairs.
A broken engagement was the last thing which she desired to have in her
family, but better that, a thousand times over, than that two lives
should be wrecked for ever!
She waited patiently until, at last, Lilias deigned to read her lover's
letter, watching her face with scrutinising eyes. It was evident that
something in the closely-written sheet did not commend itself to the
girl's approval; for as she read the white forehead grew fretted with
lines, and the lips took a sullen droop. The smiles faded away, and it
was a very blank, dejected edition of Miss Lilias Rendell who looked up
at last, to meet her mother's glance.
"Well, what is it, dear? You seem troubled. No bad news, I hope?"
"Oh no--nothing serious, at least. Ned seems worried. Things don't go
smoothly in the new Works, and he has such high-flown ideas. It seems
to me he makes troubles, by expecting every one else to be as quixotic
as himself. He is not likely to find high-flown notions among ordinary
business men!"
"And since when, my dear, have you become acquainted with the feelings
of business men?" inquired Mrs Rendell sharply; then, in a softer tone,
"My dear child, I implore you not to begin your engagement to Ned by
discouraging his highest motives. Men, as a rule, are not overburdened
with sentiment, and it is the duty of a wife to encourage all that is
good and generous. You would be grieved, I am sure, to feel that your
influence had a sordid or worldly direction!"
"Oh, mother!" protested Lilias, shocked beyond words at the possibility
of such a charge, as we are all shocked when our secret thoughts are put
into words, and we see them before us in all their naked hideousness.
"Oh, mother, as if I could do anything so dreadful. Ned says I am his
good angel; of course, of course, I want him to be good; but it is
depressing, isn't it, when as soon as one gets engaged business begins
to go wrong, and every letter brings news of some fresh worry or
unpleasantness? It is enough to make one feel melancholy!"
"Yes, dear, it is, and I'm sorry for you. It is a disappointment to us
all to hear that Ned is so unhappy in his new position, for it seemed to
promise so well six months ago. Father is anxious to have a talk with
him on the subject, and see if he can help to smooth the way, so the
sooner he can come the better it will be. Does he make any suggestion
in his letter as to the date that will suit him best?"
"Y-es!" said Lilias; and her face clouded once more. "He wants to come
on the twentieth; and it is so awkward, for the Duckworths want me to go
to them for that very week. They are having a tennis party, and their
first day on the river, and several teas and dinners. It would be such
a delightful week! I thought, perhaps, Ned might put off his visit
until June. Maud would be home by that time, and they would both be
sorry to miss each other if he came earlier."
Mrs Rendell looked at her with a mingling of exasperation and relief--
relief that she should be so ignorant of Maud's feelings, exasperation
that it should be possible for one sister to be so oblivious to the
sufferings of another. She could not but realise also that Lilias would
prefer a week of gaiety at Richmond to a visit from Ned Talbot; and her
distress at the thought made her voice sound somewhat sharp as she
replied--
"There is some one else to be considered besides yourself, my dear. You
forget that your father and I would prefer to see Ned at once, and would
not approve of postponing his visit. It is you, and not Maud, whom he
comes to see; and you would surely not choose to spend the time in
frivolity which might be given to helping and comforting the man you
have promised to marry?"
"No--no, of course not, mother!" cried Lilias, shocked once more at the
suggestion of her own selfishness. "I'll write at once, and say that
the twentieth will suit us all." She gathered her letters together as
she spoke, and rose to leave the room, holding her head well in the air,
and keeping up an appearance of composure so long as she was in her
mother's sight, but once outside the door the tears of disappointment
rushed to her eyes, and she brought down her foot on the floor with a
stamp of irritation. She felt jarred and disappointed, and thoroughly
ill-used into the bargain. Only two months engaged, and already
involved in trouble and anxiety, and expected to give up her own
pleasure in order to condole with a dejected lover! She had imagined
that it would be Ned's place to console her; and if his fears should
prove well founded, surely it would be she who needed consolation in the
prospect of a long, uncertain engagement. Lilias had known one or two
girls who had waited year after year while their _fiances_ struggled
against adverse circumstances, and she was by no means anxious to follow
their example. They lost their beauty, and grew thin and pale; people
spoke of them with expressions of commiseration; the subject of marriage
was studiously avoided in their presence. Lilias grew hot at the
thought that any one might possibly regard her in such a fashion. When
she had become engaged to Ned Talbot, the future had appeared _couleur
de rose_, and she had sunned herself in the prospect of increased
importance at home, and the honour which would be paid to the beautiful
young bride by her husband's friends and relatives. How miserable, how
humiliating, if all these dreams came to naught, and she found herself
bound to an unsuccessful man, with all her ambitions nipped in the bud!