Chapter Eleven.
The First Engagement.
The remaining hours of that day were the most painful which Maud had ever known. The sisters returned to find the household in a state of wild excitement, for such secrets seemed to leak out in the air, so that the very servants suspected the truth, and walked about the house with curious smiles. The housemaid confided to the cook that the missis had come in from the garden all of a tremble; had replied, “Yes! No! Certainly!” when asked for instructions, and had then sent Miss Lilias to see Mr Talbot in the drawing-room all by her very own self. What did that mean, she would like to know? And cook shook her head, and said it wasn’t for nothing she had fallen up the cellar stairs the week before; and a very good thing too, if one of them did go off! When there were six of them waiting for their turns, the elders ought to hurry up and make room. Mary, the waitress, shed tears over her silver in the pantry, because there was a look about the back of Mr Talbot’s head that reminded her of her young man, who had gone abroad to prepare a home; and all three flattened their noses against the window when Ned departed, in the hope of witnessing a tender and affecting farewell. They were disappointed, however, for Lilias did not leave the drawing-room, and only Mrs Rendell accompanied the young man to the door. She had put on her bonnet, and followed him slowly down the road, for ordinary duties must be attended to, even on the exciting occasion of the first engagement in the family, and on this particular morning there happened to be a committee meeting at the vicarage, which she felt bound to attend.
When Maud returned, therefore, only her sisters were at home to receive her, and she had barely entered the house before Agatha rushed forward, flushed and beaming, and drew her forcibly into the drawing-room.
“Maud, Maud, such news! Such excitement! Have you heard? Did Nan tell you? Isn’t it lovely? The first engagement! Oh, how I have longed to have a wedding in the family, and now it’s really coming off! It’s too good to be true! Ned Talbot, too! Such a scrumptious brother! I always hoped he’d ask one of us, but I thought it was you. Funny, wasn’t it? I said to Chrissie—”
“It was very bold and interfering of you to say anything of the sort, then; what business have you meddling with other people’s love affairs?” interrupted Elsie sharply; and Maud glanced at her, and turned away quickly to avoid a look of sympathetic understanding. Elsie was old beyond her years, and had been quick to understand the true position of affairs; but Maud hardly knew which was more painful—Agatha’s tactless speeches, or the other’s undisguised commiseration. It was a relief to turn to Lilias and meet her lovely eyes, guilelessly free from any feeling but her own happiness. Lilias had little natural insight, and was, besides, so wrapped up in her own interests, that she was as blind as a bat to what was passing around. She came forward, smiling and blushing, and Maud kissed her, as was expected, and murmured words of congratulation, feeling meantime that this very unconsciousness would be her greatest assistance in the difficult time to come.
“I’ve heard all about it, Lilias. I hope you will be very happy. It is really all settled, and you are engaged?”
“Yes—no! Not formally, I mean. Mother won’t consent to anything definite until she has consulted with father; but, of course, we,”—Lilias dimpled and smiled seraphically over the unaccustomed word—“we feel that it is settled. We are quite sure of ourselves, at least.”
“Then I’d get married as soon as you could if I were you, in case you changed,” said Agatha darkly. “You do change most awfully, Lilias, you know. When you bought your last hat you said it was a ‘simple love,’ and the next month you pulled it all to pieces. And you used to adore Fanny Newby, and now you go out of the side door when you see her coming. Get married in summer and have a rose wedding, and we’ll all be bridesmaids. I pine to be a bridesmaid, with everything new from head to foot, and no nasty old clothes to wear out. That’s the worst of being number five! I never have everything new at once. There’s always a hat, or a jacket, or a blouse that has to be finished off. Let’s sit down and talk about it now! There’s half an hour before lunch, and it’s impossible to do any work. Maud, sit down and take off your hat, and let’s be comfy!”
“No, she can’t. I want her! I don’t care who is going to be married; I’m ill, and I want Maud to nurse me. My head is smashing. I believe it’s sunstroke, for I sat out yesterday without a hat. I shall go crazy in a moment if somebody doesn’t do something!” cried Nan loudly; and her sisters stared in dismay at her flushed, heated face. It was so evident that she was in pain that even Agatha submitted to a postponement of the longed-for “talk,” and the conclave broke up for the time being, the sisters separating, to go off in various directions: Lilias to be petted and cross-questioned by the two schoolgirls; Elsie to indite a melancholy entry in her diary, beginning, “Yet another example of the strange intermingling of joy and pain”: and Maud to lead Nan to her own room, and devote herself to the work of nursing, at which she was so clever. Perhaps Nan’s head was really aching, perhaps the morning’s excitement had brought on an attack of neuralgia, but whatever her ailment, she certainly made the worst of it, groaning and rolling her eyes to the ceiling as one in mortal agony; for she was wise enough to realise that nothing would take Maud so much out of herself as the necessity of waiting upon another.
When Mrs Rendell entered the room, and recognised the odours of eau-de-Cologne, menthol, and sal volatile, her first thought was of poor brokenhearted Maud; but, behold! it was Maud who was playing doctor, and buxom Nan who lay prone upon the bed.
A few inquiries and expressions of sympathy were spoken, and then a gesture bade Maud follow into another room. She went, shrinking from the ordeal, yet longing to have it over, and for a few minutes mother and daughter gazed at one another in silence. The girl’s face was grave and set, but self-composed in comparison with that of Mrs Rendell, which was quivering with distress.
“My dear child! What can I say to you? I can never forgive myself for my part in this disappointment. I should not have spoken as I did the other day, but I thought at the time that it was the right thing to do, and I had no doubts on the subject. What can I do to help you, dear, through this difficult time?”
“Speak as little as possible about it, mother, please,” said Maud softly. She pressed her lips together, wincing with pain, and Mrs Rendell’s eyes flashed a look of approval in reply.
Of Spartan bravery herself, it delighted her to see her daughter bracing herself up to bear her trouble without useless outcry and repining.
“I quite agree, darling,” she said warmly. “After to-day we will never mention the subject; but there are one or two things which must be said first. To begin with, Ned has no suspicion of our mistake. I took care of that; and it may help you to know that, after all, we were not so very far from the truth. He spoke quite openly, and it seems that for the first two or three years you were the attraction! He said he had been sincerely attached to you, but that he saw you regarded him simply as a friend. Then Lilias came home, with her more demonstrative ways; he turned to her for comfort, and now,”—She stopped with a little eloquent gesture, while Maud gave a groan of pain.
“Oh, mother, that is hard—to think that it came so near, and that I spoiled my life by my own mistake! I suppose my very anxiety not to show how much I cared made me seem stiff and constrained; but I never meant him to take it in that way. It makes it worse than ever, and yet I’m glad too. It’s a comfort to feel it was not all imagination.”
“I thought you would feel it so; that is why I told you. But you must not talk of your life being spoiled, dear. These are early days, and I hope there are many, many blessings which still remain open to you. It is a great mistake to think that marriage is the only gate to happiness. A single woman may have a most full and useful life.”
“Yes, mother!” assented Maud dutifully. Poor Maud! her heart died down within her as she spoke, and her thoughts flew away to old Mary Robins in her lodging, and Miss Evans in her stuffy little cottage, and she wondered if it were really, really possible that she—Maud Rendell—could ever grow like them, and feel satisfied with the duties and pleasures which constituted their lives! “Full and useful!” It sounded estimable enough; but her young heart hungered for happiness also, and at the moment that seemed lost for ever. The downcast face was so pitiful that the tears came into Mrs Rendell’s eyes as she watched it.
“Don’t think of the future, dear,” she said fondly. “Take each day as it comes, and try to bear it bravely, and I’ll help you in every way I can. Ned will come down pretty often, for I must consider Lilias as well as you, and we cannot consent to have a formal engagement until they know each other more intimately than at present; but it will not be so hard as you expect. You must be at home sometimes, for the last thing we want to do is to arouse suspicion; but I will arrange that you have as many changes as possible; and in any way that I can help I am at your service, dear, if you will only let me know!”
“Thank you, mother,” said Maud again, and made a little involuntary movement towards the door, whereupon Mrs Rendell dismissed her, after a lingering embrace. She saw that it was misery to the girl to discuss her disappointment, and realised that it would be the truest kindness to allow the subject to drop. It was only natural that Maud should find it easier to talk to a friend of her own age, and Nan would be able to help more than any one else in these first painful days. Later on her own turn would come; and all day long the mother’s mind was busy weaving plans by which Maud could be shielded from suffering, and her life made bright and interesting during the months ahead.
Lessons came off badly that afternoon, for the girls were too much absorbed in the excitement of the prospective wedding to be able to fix their attention on the problems of arithmetic and geography. When the great problem of the hour was to decide the number of bridesmaids and what kind of frocks they should wear, how could they be expected to feel any interest in discovering how many yards of paper it would take to cover the walls of a problematical chamber, or in describing the eccentricities of the Gulf Stream? Miss Roberts realised the impossibility of the situation, and shortened the hours in considerate fashion; and no sooner had she taken her departure than the three girls rushed to the porch-room, surrounded Lilias in a whirlwind of excitement, and dragged her to a chair in their midst.
“At last we can talk! Such a pity Nan is ill, and won’t let Maud leave the room; but we can have it all over again with them to-morrow. Talk! I feel as if I could talk for ever! Oh, Lilias, how do you feel? If I were engaged, I don’t know what would happen to me! I should go stark, staring mad with excitement.”
“How nice for him! You would have another person to consider then, remember,” said Lilias prettily. “I am not at all inclined to go mad, though I am certainly very much excited. It is difficult to describe my feelings. I can’t realise it yet, and feel all—”
“Jumbled up!” suggested Agatha sympathetically. “Of course you do. I should myself. Oh, Lil, do have them in yellow! I’ve been thinking about it all the afternoon, and I think yellow would be sw–eet! With bouquets of daffodils! Very few people have yellow, and it would be so uncommon, and make us look much paler too. I shall have a face like a beetroot with excitement; I know I shall.”
“I daresay! And how should I look, I’d like to know?” queried Christabel loftily. “Sea green, my dear. I’m sallow enough as it is, but imagine my appearance in a yellow dress! I should present a shocking spectacle! Nothing is so nice as pink: it suits every one, and is so bright and pretty. Pink silk dresses, with Leghorn hats.”
Elsie grimaced in disapproving fashion.
“So commonplace! Every one has pink. We must have something altogether unique and striking. No use deciding now, for we will change our minds a dozen times before the time arrives. When are you to be married, Lilias? What is the date?”
“My dear, I’ve no notion! I am not even properly engaged yet, so how could we begin talking about marriage? I believe we are to be put on probation for some months, so it will certainly not be this year at any rate.”
“What a bore! I’m longing to stay with you in your own house. It’s my idea of happiness to go and stay with you girls when you are married. You will ask us all in turns, won’t you? I’d like to come with Chrissie; and then, if you and Ned get too affectionate, we can amuse ourselves in another room. It will be lovely having no grown-up person in the house. Oh, well, of course, you are grown-up, if it comes to that, but only young grown-up, and that makes all the difference. You won’t make us do things because they are ‘good for us’—send us a walk when we don’t feel inclined, for instance, or to bed early, or make us eat ‘good plain food.’ When I come to stay with you, I should like never to go out unless I have something special to do, and to have tea for lunch, and nice rich cake, and laze about from morning till night, just as I felt disposed.”
“And you’ll ask people to meet us, won’t you, Lil, and take us about, and give us all your old gloves and ribbons? Marie Elder’s sister is engaged, and he won’t let her wear any gloves that are the l–east little bit soiled; so Marie gets them all. I hope Ned will be fussy about your things, too. What shall you call your house? I hope it’s a nice one. Florrie Elder is going to have a blue drawing-room, and Marie is working her a cushion of the most ex-quisite ribbon-work you ever did see. Florrie says she would quarrel with her nearest and dearest if he dared to lean against it. If you like, I’ll ask her for the pattern, and do one for you. It wouldn’t matter having them the same, when you live so far apart.”
“What will Jim say? Ned and he vowed that they would be bachelors all their lives, and live together when they were old. Now he will be obliged to marry himself, in revenge. How I shall detest the girl! She won’t be half nice enough for him, and he will like her better than us, and that will be horribly exasperating. I don’t envy her when he brings her to see us, that’s all! Six sisters all glaring at her in a row, and saying to themselves, ‘I don’t like her nose!’ ‘I don’t like her eyes!’ ‘What a hat!’ ‘However could he fall in love with her!’ And mother all icy kind, and father smirking behind his moustache. That’s what will happen to you one of these days, Lilias, when you go north, ‘on view,’ to Ned’s people.”
Lilias rolled her eyes, and affected to tear her hair in despair.
“Oh, don’t! I pray you, don’t! I shall die with nervousness. Poor little me! His parents are reserved and undemonstrative, like most North-country people, he says, but are very tender-hearted at bottom. That means, I suppose, that they would be stiff and polite all the time I was there, and begin slowly to unbend just as I was coming away. Frederica, the girl, goes in for higher education, and doesn’t care a bit about going about with other girls. I know they will be disappointed with me. Ned is so silly, and he is sure to tell them.”—She stopped, sweetly simpering, and the hearers had little difficulty in guessing what it was that Ned would tell his people. He would say that his fiancée was the loveliest girl in the world; that she had hair like spun gold, a complexion of milk and roses, and eyes soft and dewy as a violet. Then Lilias would arrive in person, and his people would think that he had not said half enough. Each of the three hearers had a vision of Lilias advancing to meet the new relatives with lifted eyes, and a smile that would melt a heart of stone; each one saw in imagination the sudden thaw on the watching faces, and beheld Lilias installed forthwith as the pride and darling of the household. They smiled at one another in furtive amusement, but discreetly avoided putting their thoughts into words, for Lilias fished so transparently for compliments, that it had become an unspoken law never on any condition to encourage her by giving the desired assurance.
Agatha turned aside to hide her amusement, and, the next moment, gave a jump of astonishment.
“Keep still! Don’t move! For your lives don’t look out of the window! Sit where you are, and go on talking. My dears, he is watching us! The Vanburgh! I distinctly saw him lean forward and stare across. He is in the room directly opposite, and he dodged back the moment I looked. Fancy his being as much interested in us as we are in him! How exciting!”
“We must look very ridiculous, sitting here in a row, chattering and waving our hands as if we were mad. I don’t wonder he stared, but I do want to stare back. Let us take it in turns to peep beneath our eyelashes, while the others go on talking,” suggested Elsie; and the proposal was carried out forthwith, each girl watching till the coveted glimpse had been obtained, and informing her companions of her success by groans and exclamations.
“I see him, I do! He is staring across. He looks very ill. His hair is quite white. Poor old man, how dull he must be!”
When it came to Chrissie’s turn she stared across with undisguised curiosity, and refused to accept her sisters’ reproaches when the white head was hurriedly withdrawn from view.
“I was the last! You had all had your turns, so I have not deprived you of anything,” she maintained. “I only meant to smile at him in a kind, neighbourly fashion. He will look out again in a few minutes, never fear!”
But Mr Vanburgh’s face appeared no more at the window, and it seemed as if the knowledge that he had been observed had been so unwelcome as to put an end to his scrutiny. The girls could only comfort themselves with the remembrance that their mother had promised to call at the Grange during the next few weeks, when, no doubt, first-hand information would be forthcoming about its occupant.