Chapter Thirteen.
Diogenes at the Window.
After a storm comes a calm. As in Nature, so in the affairs of human life, and the Rendells found another example of the truth of the old adage in the month following Lilias’s engagement. Nothing seemed to happen; even the interest which had been taken in the new occupant of the Grange died away after Mr Rendell’s failure to gain admission, and one day jog—trotted away after another in monotonous fashion.
They were dreary days to Maud, but at the end of even the longest and dreariest she acknowledged to herself that the battle was not so hopeless as she had expected. The trouble was there, the difficult moments arose, the quick stabs of pain following happy memories, but she herself was strengthened to bear them in a manner which she could not have believed possible. Maud was one of the sweet, open characters who are religious by nature; but though she had asked for God’s help every night of her life, she had never been conscious of its presence in such abundance as in this hour of trial. It almost awed her at times to realise her own strength, and this testing of the power of faith was a ray of light shining out of the darkness. Passages from the Bible which she had known all her life became suddenly instinct with new and wonderful meaning; the words of Christ went straight home to her sore heart and comforted it as no earthly power could do. The new communion had a joy and a sweetness which she had never known before, and her character grew daily stronger and deeper under the influence of sorrow nobly borne. Her mother’s tenderness, moreover, manifested itself in a hundred little schemes for her distraction, and Nan’s demonstrative affection heartened her for the fight. The world was not all lost because Ned had chosen another; and, so far from neglecting her old duties, Maud worked away more industriously than ever, finding her best medicine in a busy, occupied life.
Ned Talbot had gone back to the North, whence he could not return for two months to come, and Lilias settled down contentedly to play the interesting part of the fiancée. She did not fret for her lover, but seemed abundantly content to receive his letters, and pen lengthy answers; and though the date of her marriage was so far ahead, she began at once to make preparations for her future home. One rainy afternoon she shut herself in her bedroom, and rearranged all her belongings, leaving the lowest drawer in the wardrobe empty, and covered with fresh white paper. Then she wrote something at her desk, lingered outside the door for a minute, and finally rejoined her sisters, with a mischievous smile curving the corners of her pretty lips.
Presently Chrissie ran upstairs on some trifling errand, and came to a stand-still on the landing, uttering sharp cries of surprise; then Agatha followed to discover the cause of the excitement, and guffawed with laughter, when Nan and Elsie jumped from their chairs and ran helter-skelter in pursuit. They found the two younger girls leaning up against the wall, staring at the door of Lilias’s room, on the centre of which was tacked a square of paper, neatly lined and lettered:—
Notice!
To All Whom It May Concern.
Miss Lilias Rendell desires to inform her friends and the public generally that she has just opened a Bottom Drawer, and that every description of household goods, useful and ornamental, will be gratefully accepted towards the furnishing of her future home.
NB—Carved oak articles especially welcome!
“That’s one for me!” cried Nan, grimacing. “What is your especial fancy, my love—a side-board or a dining-room table? Don’t be bashful, pray! Aim at the sky, and you may succeed in hitting the tree. I shouldn’t wonder if I rose to a milking-stool, if you asked me nicely.”
“And I’ll work you a kettle-holder, sweet one, as soon as the sale is over, and Chrissie a—”
“Twine bag,” said Chrissie, simpering; “but until July you might as well give up the idea, Lilias. Every moment we have, we must use for sale-work, and every penny we can save in to the bargain. We can’t attend to you just yet.”
“I thought perhaps you might start me with a few contributions from the things you have made,” said modest Lilias. “The drawer looks lonesome with nothing in it, and I’ve made it so tidy! It would be a comfortable home for that little blue cushion, and the mats with the roses. And you would never miss them!”
“Wouldn’t we just? The very best things we have! It is a pity your modesty doesn’t equal your taste. I should miss the smallest thing we have made; and whenever I get low-spirited, I turn them all out of the box and gloat over the collection—eleven pin-cushions, three sets of mats, a table centre, three work-bags, two handkerchief sachets, six babies’ shoes, and a nice wool shawl! It’s not bad for a start, and there are lots of things on hand, besides Nan’s carving and brass-work. It would be like tearing my heart out of my body to give anything away, and I don’t think it would be at all a nice idea to start your collection by stealing from the poor!”
Lilias looked appalled at the suggestion, but all the same she was not too much shocked to seize on the chance of future spoils.
“Agatha, how can you? I am the last person in the world to think of such a thing. I suggested the sale, remember; you would not have had it at all but for me; but how could a little thing like a pin-cushion be called a theft? However, it’s all right; don’t give them me at present if you would rather not. After the sale there are sure to be some things left, and then—You would not mind giving them to me then, I suppose?”
“Certainly not. At least I am quite willing if the others are,” said Agatha, looking round inquiringly; upon which Nan and Elsie nodded assent, and Chrissie bargained, “Unless I am engaged myself by that time, when, of course, they must be equally divided,”—a contingency so remote that Lilias congratulated herself on a good morning’s work, and felt that so far as pin-cushions were concerned the future held no further anxiety.
Work for the sale had, indeed, been carried forward with great zest; and now that the days were lengthening, there was a good two hours after tea, when Kitty could join the party in the porch-room, and stitch away at some dainty task while carrying on that breathless stream of conversation which never seemed to run short, despite the daily meetings. Nan brought down her carving, and worked at a little table of her own; Elsie cut and planned with delicate, accurate fingers; and the three younger girls sewed away in characteristic fashion: Agatha bending double over the seam; Christabel, erect and stately, drawing her thread to its full length with leisurely, dignified movements; and Kitty, with her spectacles on the tip of her nose, peering over them from time to time in grandmotherly concern at the frivolity of her companions.
Nothing more had been discovered about “Diogenes,” as Mr Vanburgh had been nicknamed since his refusal to receive visitors; but on fine days his couch was wheeled close to the window, and as he lay looking out, it was inevitable that the movements of the girls in the sunny porch-room immediately opposite should attract his wandering attention. When they glanced across in their turn, he politely turned aside, and appeared engrossed in his book; but no sooner were they at work again than the tired eyes would be lifted once more, to dwell with wistful interest on the bright young faces. One afternoon in especial, as Nan sat bending over her carving, the conviction strengthened that she was observed. She peered under her eyelashes, smiled mischievously to herself, and suddenly leapt from her seat in a manner most startling to the nerves of her sisters. She hopped on one foot and waved her arms in the air; she swooped down on Chrissie’s work and threw it wildly to the ceiling; she thrust her face into Elsie’s and went off into a peal of maniacal laughter, which sent that nervous young person flying to the farthest corner. She seized a bundle of ribbons and danced an impromptu skirt dance, flourishing them to and fro, while he onlookers scuttled together like rabbits, and felt that their lives trembled in the balance. Finally, after succeeding in turning the room topsy-turvy, and raising the most powerful doubts as to her own sanity, Miss Nan tottered out on to the landing and collapsed in a breathless heap on the lowest stair, while her sisters looked on askance from a discreet distance.
“H–have some sal volatile! I’ll get it from my room. Never mind, dear, you’ll be better soon!” stuttered Elsie fearfully; but at that the crazy creature laughed afresh, though in a more restrained and natural fashion.
“Oh no; I am not mad! I did it for a purpose, my dear, as you shall hear. That poor old Diogenes was lying on his couch, looking across with such a dull, pathetic face, and I felt so sorry that the poor dear had nothing more exciting to amuse him. He must be precious dull when he takes so much interest in girls like us, and I felt grieved to think how little fun we had given him, sitting sewing day after day like so many machines. I says to myself, says I, ‘It is in your power, Margaret Rendell, to infuse some brightness into the lot of this poor lonely sufferer, and you are going to do it! He shall have some excitement before the day is over, bless him!’ Therefore, as you perceived, I executed a new and original war-dance for his benefit, and sent you all attitudinising about the room. That’s the reason of this thusness, and Diogenes is now, no doubt, full of agitation, believing that one so young and fair has suddenly lost her wits, and imagining you all occupied in binding me to the bedpost till help arrives!”
“I don’t know how he feels, but I feel extremely ill!” grumbled Elsie, her sympathy suddenly changed to resentment. “Sticking your face into mine and laughing in that crazy fashion. Never do it again! My heart is right up in my throat, and thumping like a steam-engine. I can’t work any more. I am going to recover my equanimity in the garden!”
Poor Diogenes! It was baffling to curiosity that all the actors should have disappeared at the most exciting moment of the play; and the actors themselves were fully aware of the fact, and with child-like enjoyment determined to lengthen out the mystery. The porch-room was abandoned for the afternoon, and such sequestered nooks in the garden as were invisible from the Grange were chosen as resting-places, while Kitty willingly consented to walk an extra half-mile on her way home, so as to avoid going out by the front gate. Such a reversal of the usual comings and goings would, it was hoped, give the final touch to Mr Vanburgh’s curiosity, and teach him a wholesome lesson on the folly of shutting himself up and holding no communication with the world. When Agatha suggested that the poor old dear might lie awake all night from agitation, Nan cold-bloodedly hoped that he would, since he, on his part, had been so cruel as to shut the doors of the Grange against his neighbours.
She would have been much surprised if she had known how, and for whom, those doors would first be opened!