Chapter Nine.
Ned’s Mission.
On Thursday evening, Mr and Mrs Rendell returned home from their Continental trip. The house was spick and span, the girls were blooming in pretty evening dresses, and the travellers themselves looked immensely benefited by their holiday, so that the kissings and huggings of welcome were exchanged under the happiest conditions.
Nan was thankful to feel that no shade of displeasure lurked behind the tenderness of her mother’s greeting, and before the evening was over actually screwed up courage to put a question concerning the discovery of the scattered rice.
The explanation was disappointingly simple. Mr and Mrs Rendell 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 tête-à-tête 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 tête-à-tête, 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!”