Chapter Fifteen.
Diogenes at Home.
“This way, please, ma’am. Will you come up-stairs?” said the butler; and Nan stumbled blindly forward, past the branching palms, the Indian cabinets, the knight in his glittering armour, past a hundred treasures, with never an eye to notice one of them, and a heart beating fast with agitation. The ascent seemed to last for a year, yet it would be over far too soon; the dreaded moment of introduction would arrive, and, in the name of all that was horrifying and perplexing, what should she do then? By what name should she be announced? What should she state as the object of her visit? What excuse could she offer for her intrusion?
“If I ever get out of this alive, I’ll first pay out Miss Chrissie, and then turn over a new leaf for life! No more practical jokes for me!” said Nan to herself, and pulled her bonnet resolutely over her face. The butler had paused, and was looking at her inquiringly as he threw open the door of his master’s room, and waited to announce her name. She croaked at him,—there is no other word to describe the inarticulate sound which issued from her lips,—then swept forward, and the man retired, no doubt thinking the stranger’s manner on a par with her appearance.
Left to herself, Nan took a few steps forward and stopped abruptly, finding herself in a room which was at once the most beautiful and the most extraordinary which she had ever beheld. In every direction in which she turned her eyes, they were greeted by some quaint treasure, which had been brought from the ends of the earth to be stored against a background of tapestry and carved oak panel. It was like stepping back hundreds of years, and finding one’s self in an old baronial castle; and the occupant of the room was in keeping with his surroundings. He lay on his couch, staring at her with sunken eyes, a picturesque-looking old man, with a complexion of bleached transparency; a white head, covered by a velvet skull-cap, and a wasted form, wrapped in a dressing—gown of embroidered Oriental silk. He looked both sad and suffering, and Nan recognised as much with a pang of regret for all the hard terms she had lavished upon his want of hospitality. Yes, indeed! he looked too ill to receive visitors; too weary to be troubled with the commonplaces. What could she say to explain her own visit? What in the world should she find to talk about?
“Won’t you sit down?” said a melodious voice. “Pray take a seat! I cannot wait upon you myself, as you see, but I can recommend that old saddle-bag. It is most comfortable.” As he spoke, the invalid waved his hand towards a chair near his own, and Nan seated herself upon it in silence, glancing timidly in his face. This dumbness was appalling. She racked her brains to think of something to say, but no ideas were forthcoming; she could only twist her fingers in embarrassment, and wait another lead.
“It is most kind of you to come to see me on such a tempestuous afternoon,” Mr Vanburgh continued politely. “I did not expect any callers. Ladies, as a rule, are not fond of venturing out in the rain, unless they have special business on hand.”
Bravo! Here was a lead at last! What could be better than to follow up the suggestion of a business call? Nan asked herself eagerly. Mrs Maitland had regretted the loss of subscriptions upon which she had counted from the wealthy owner of the Grange: would it not be a good action if she could draw Mr Vanburgh’s attention to the needs of the Incurables, and induce him to promise a subscription? She would not take the money, but leave the address of the secretary, to whom it could be forwarded. Oh, it was admirable—an admirable idea! The afternoon’s escapade would lead to good after all. Nan’s elastic spirits rose with a bound, and she smiled upon her companion with restored equanimity.
“I have a special business. I did not come merely to pay a call, but to ask your help for a cause in which I am much interested. I hoped that you might feel inclined to give a subscription, and can assure you that any sum which you may decide to give—”
To her dismay, the benevolent expression upon the watching face disappeared, as she spoke, to give place to one of suspicion and distrust. Mr Vanburgh moved himself on his pillows, so as to face her more fully, and stared at her fixedly, beneath frowning brows.
“You want a subscription! You have come here to beg—to ask for money?”
“But not for myself!” explained Nan eagerly. The scrutiny bent upon her was so searching that she felt bound to protest against a personal interest. “It was for a charity, a local hospital, which is in want of funds. It was thought—I thought that, as a newcomer to the neighbourhood, you might like to hear about the various organisations, and to give some support. There is a large poor population at Sale, a mile from here, and the committee is always short of funds. Many of the old residents have left, and the new ones don’t—don’t always.”—Her remembrance of odd sentences heard at committee meetings came to a sudden end, and the voice trailed off in inarticulate murmurings.
“Do not always come forward in their place. Just so! And I am to understand that you are deputed by these various charities and organisations to plead their cause and collect subscriptions?”
Nan cleared her throat vigorously. It was the only way she could think of by which to gain time, and decide how to evade the question.
“They are most grateful for all they can get. The committee would send you an acknowledgment of your subscription. It would be better to send it direct, instead of giving it to me. I just wish to call your attention—to tell you particulars and enlist your interest—”
“Just so!” said Mr Vanburgh again; and Nan fancied that there was a slight softening in the watching eyes. “Just so. And for what special charity do you wish to plead to-day?”
“For the Home for Incurables!”
“Ah!” The word came with a hiss from between closed teeth. “Indeed! You choose your object well, madam! I congratulate you on your discretion. The cause is truly fitting.”
She had made a false move this time, there was no doubt about it, for the old man’s voice was sharp with displeasure; but blundering Nan could not even now imagine wherein lay the offence.
She gaped at him, with a stammering—
“Fitting! Why fitting? I don’t understand what you mean!”
“Only that being incurable myself, I need your charity every whit as much as those for whom you come asking help—”
“Incurable! You won’t get better! Never get better until you—”
“Die? Precisely! That is what it means. I shall spend my life upon this couch, or being wheeled about in a bath-chair, suffering torments of pain and weariness until death comes to set me free—the kindliest friend that could step inside my door!”
“Oh!” cried Nan sharply. “Oh!” The tears rushed to her eyes, and she trembled from head to foot. It was terrible to listen to those words, terrible to her youth and strength to hear death spoken of in those yearning tones; her heart—Nan’s big loving heart—went out in a rush of sympathy towards the lonely sufferer. She stretched her hand towards him, and cried brokenly, “I’m sorry! Oh, I’m sorry! We knew, of course, that you were ill, but we never thought it was as bad as that.”
“We! Who are we?” Mr Vanburgh’s fingers closed over her hand, and he held it firmly in his own, while he gazed at her with a gentleness of mien before which Nan’s resolution died a sudden death.
“My—my sisters!” she stammered humbly. “Oh, Mr Vanburgh, forgive me. I’m Nan Rendell. I live in the house just across the road. I’m not an old woman at all, only a stupid girl dressed up. I never meant to come, but Chrissie dared me, and I thought I would come to the door and ring, to give her a fright. I never thought you would let me in. You had refused to see all other visitors. My father and mother called, and Mr and Mrs Maitland—”
“They did, and many others. It was very kind, but I felt too ill to receive them. With you, however, it was different, for I seemed to know you already. I had seen so much of your life through ‘my study window’—”
“Saw me! Then you knew all the time who I was? You knew—”
“I did! Yes. It was very interesting. I wondered how long you could keep it up.”
“But how—how?”
Mr Vanburgh smiled quietly.
“My couch is placed near the window, and during my long lonely days I devote a good deal of attention to the passers-by. About three o’clock this afternoon I observed a black robed figure steal out of your side gate and approach the front door. I saw her admitted by the servant. I saw her go out once again, and, like her sisters, kept watch for her return.”
“And you saw Chrissie point across to your door, and heard my ring?”
“I did. And rang myself, to give orders that you should be admitted. That is the true and authentic account of the mystery. It is not so mysterious after all, is it?”
“It’s very embarrassing!” Nan was suddenly overcome by a consciousness of how ridiculous she must have appeared in her assumed character, and collapsed into feeble laughter, “What must you think of me?”
“To tell the truth, I prefer your ordinary appearance. It is difficult to recognise you in this attire. Would you think it a liberty if I asked you to resume your ordinary guise? Please!” and he waved his hand with an appeal which had in it an element of authority, despite all its courtesy. Nan felt very small, very much like a mischievous child who has spilt the ink-bottle, and is sent upstairs to be washed and tidied; but, all the same, she was not sorry to remove the ugly trappings, and appear in her true guise once more. Bonnet, veil, spectacles, and cloak came off in succession; her dark hair curled in little rings round her forehead, and the round young throat rose like a pillar above the quaintly-cut bodice. If Lilias had been in her sister’s place, she would have reflected that her antique costume was appropriate to her surroundings, but such thoughts as these never occurred to honest Nan. She was merely concerned to see that the last remains of powder were wiped away, and, being satisfied on this point, smiled at Mr Vanburgh in friendly fashion.
“That’s better!” he said cheerfully. “I begin to recognise you again. I have seen you only from a distance so far, but I seem to know you very well. You are ‘Nan,’ you say, and you are what—number three, I suppose? The young lady who went away the other day is the elder sister, and after her comes the fair one with the golden locks.”
“Lilias! Yes; she is the beauty of the family; I come next, and then Elsie, the little one, with big, dark eyes. We call her ‘Mrs Gummidge,’ because she is melancholy, and feels things ‘more than others.’ Then comes Agatha; you know Agatha! the great big girl with the huge feet and the rosy cheeks; and Christabel, the youngest—”
“Oh yes, I know Christabel!” said Mr Vanburgh, smiling, “and her friend who comes to lessons every day: the brown-legged stork, with the red cap and the curly locks. I like that child. She looks honest and straightforward! Who is she?”
“Why, that’s Kitty!” replied Nan, in a voice of surprised reproof, for surely every one in Waybourne must know an important personage like Kitty! “Her name is really Gwendoline Maitland, but everybody calls her Kitty; and she was longing to know you, and made her mother come to call in her new spring clothes, with a promise to bring in her name at every turn of the conversation; and then, after all, you would not receive her!”
“That was very sad! I am afraid I must have appeared churlish; but, as a matter of fact, I came down to Waybourne to avoid old friends, rather than make new ones. I am too ill to be sociable. It is a trial to me, nowadays, to meet strangers.”
“And yet—”
“And yet I wished to see you! That seems rather a contradiction, does it not? But I have always been fond of young people, and I seemed to have made your acquaintance in spite of myself. Perhaps you are hardly aware how plainly one can see into your sitting-room from here.”
Nan smiled and bent forward to look across the street, in response to a wave of the invalid’s hand.
The porch-room was exactly opposite, and the three-sided windows did indeed allow an extraordinarily clear view of the interior. The girls had always believed themselves out of range of vision when they were seated at the table; but at this moment Nan could distinctly discern four anxious faces scanning the opposite house, catch Agatha’s craning movements, and Lilias’s waving hands. The sight provoked an irresistible chuckle of amusement, and Mr Vanburgh’s eyes turned towards her in wistful scrutiny.
“You seem very merry together, you young people. Life is full of happiness to you!”
“Oh, we have our trials!” said Nan quickly. “We are awfully happy together; but still, of course, it isn’t all as we should wish. Each one of us has a grievance, and could talk about it for hours at a time, if we had a chance. Sometimes we have dreadful fits of dumps. Elsie has them chronically, but the rest of us are up and down. I’m generally up myself; but still, I have my moments!”
“I should think they are very rare! Would it be indiscreet to ask what is your peculiar cross?”
Nan pondered with raised brows and an expression which grew more and more uncertain.
“It’s rather difficult to say straight off, isn’t it? There is something, I know, but I forget what it is. I am always making stupid mistakes for one thing, and that is so awkward, now that I am supposed to be grown up. I’m eighteen, so I ought to know better. I went out to my first dinner-party this winter, and the most awful thing happened. A stupid male creature took me in, with a collar about a foot high, and such an affected drawl that I could hardly understand a word he said. However, I talked away and tried to be pleasant. I have a habit of waving my hands when I talk; we all have—perhaps you have noticed it! I was telling a story, and came to a point where it seemed necessary to lift my hand suddenly, to give emphasis to what I was saying. Well, I did it, and at that crucial moment if the waiter didn’t go and hand a sauce-bowl over my partner’s shoulder! My hand met the bowl, and ... Maud was sitting opposite, and she said that never in all her life had she seen anything so appalling! The bowl flew up in the air, turned a somersault, and the sauce rained down in showers upon his knees! He had his serviette spread open, of course, but still it was bad enough. There was silence all round the table. He sat stock still, staring at his hands, all brown and dripping; then he said, in a very small, exhausted voice, ‘I think I had bettaw—go up-sta-ahs!’”
Mr Vanburgh lay back against his cushions and pressed his hands to his mouth. His shoulders heaved, and a curious muffled sound emerged from his lips. He tried to strangle it, tried to frown, to choke the inclination in his throat, but it was of no avail: laugh he must, and laugh he did, his slight form shaking with merriment, the tears rising in the tired eyes and streaming down his cheeks. Nan laughed afresh at the comical spectacle, and as she looked a door behind the couch was pushed gently open, and a startled face peered round the corner. It was the face of the dark-skinned foreigner who was the invalid’s attendant, and his master greeted him with affectionate freedom.
“Yes, Pedro! Yes! It is quite true! I was laughing! It is a long time since you have heard such a sound from my lips. No wonder you are startled. It is this young lady who has wrought the miracle.”
The dark eyes rested on Nan’s face with a glow of gratitude which made the girl’s heart beat fast with pleasure. The eloquent Southern glance conveyed many meanings, but he said simply, “The signorina is welcome! I hope the signorina comes again!” and left the room in the same quiet, unobtrusive manner in which he had entered.