Chapter Twenty Six.
A Milestone.
It was all over. Ned had gone away, and the diamond ring no longer shone on Lilias’s left hand. In a storm of tears and sobs she had declared to her mother that she neither could nor would keep true to her engagement, and Ned had received the intelligence with grave composure.
“She made a mistake!” he said quietly. “We both made a mistake. I cannot blame her, for I was in fault myself. What we thought was love, was but the attraction of youth and good spirits, which could not stand the strain of adversity. Don’t be hard on Lilias, Mrs Rendell. I should be sorry that she should suffer any more on my account. It has been a painful experience for her.”
But Mrs Rendell closed her lips in a stern silence, and had no word of pity for her daughter. It shocked her proud heart that one of her girls should have behaved in a manner so unworthy the precept which she had endeavoured to teach, for she knew well that Lilias would have felt no qualms in preparing for her marriage, if Ned’s story had been one of success instead of failure.
What Mrs Rendell thought she was accustomed to say, and Lilias came away from the important interview smarting with mortification and wounded vanity. She tried to think that the worst was over; but the bitterest moment was yet to come, when she met her father—the gentlest and most forbearing of men, who was so slow to blame that his children could count the reproofs of a lifetime on the fingers of one hand—and he looked at her with a strange, cold glance, in which was no trace of the old fond admiration.
“What’s this I hear about you, Lilias?” he asked sternly. “I’m not proud of you, my dear, not proud at all! I did not think that a daughter of mine could have behaved in such an unwomanly manner. Your affection seems good only for fair weather. Talbot is well rid of such a wife!”
It was not much, and it was the only reference to the broken engagement which she ever heard from his lips, but it pierced the girl’s heart as no other reproach could have done. The relationship between a father and a daughter is a very sacred and beautiful one, and the consciousness of his pride in her, his barely concealed satisfaction in the admiration she excited, had been one of her most cherished joys. The thought that her father was ashamed of her made Lilias wince with pain, nor did her sisters’ reception of the news help to restore her composure.
Maud’s principle in life was to say nothing, if it were impossible to say what was agreeable; but Nan made up for this silence by the candour of her denunciation. The two girls came face to face at the top of the stairs, an hour after the great news had circulated through the house, and mutually stopped to gaze in each other’s face.
“W–ell?” queried Lilias timidly. “You’ve heard! Mother has told you. What do you—what do you think about it?”
Nan closed her eyes, and tilted her chin in the air.
“Sneak!” she said shortly; and the other started back in astonishment.
“Wh–what do you say?”
“Sneak! That’s what I called you. It’s a mean, sneakish thing to desert a man just when he is in trouble and needs all the help he can—”
“It wasn’t just then. I had been thinking of it a long time. If he had stayed away a week longer, I would have spoken to mother all the same. I had made up my mind. You don’t understand what you are talking about, and you have no right to call me names. It’s vulgar and unladylike.”
“I am thankful for that!” cried Nan piously. “If your behaviour is ladylike, I’ll be as vulgar as I can. I’d rather not talk, if you please, until I have got over it a little. I’m afraid of what I may say.”
She went stalking downstairs, and Lilias turned into the porch-room and sat herself down in despair. Elsie was seated at the table engaged in informing the diary of the latest family event, and she turned a look of such sympathetic sorrow upon the new-comer, that Lilias felt that here, at last, she had found a friend in need.
“My heart is broken, Elsie!” she sobbed tragically. “Every one has turned against me. Father—mother—Nan—they are all cruel to me. Their words cut into my heart! I can never forget them—never feel the same again.”
Elsie drew a sigh so long and fluttering that it was almost worthy to be ranked as a groan.
“No—never, never! A blow like this, coming in early youth, will cloud and darken all your life. You can never be a girl again. The remembrance of all you have suffered, and of the life you have wrecked, will haunt your dreams, and make you old before your time. You feel it now, but you’ll feel it more and more, like a leaden weight pressing upon you, crushing out all your joy...”
“Dear me, Elsie, how you talk! You might be a penny novel, to prose away like that. You are a fine Job’s comforter for a poor girl to come to in her trouble! It’s hard enough for me as it is, without trying to make it worse. I shall drown myself, if this sort of thing goes on. Maud sulking, Nan raving, you croaking! What a prospect! And I shall have to endure it all my life too, for I shall never marry—now.”
“No,” said Elsie judiciously, “I suppose not. Not for love, at least. Perhaps, by and by, after years and years, when you are middle-aged, you may make a marriage de convenance, to some old man who could give you a comfortable home. People often do that in books, I notice, when they have had an unfortunate affair in youth. And look at Mrs Bailey! Her lover was killed in the Crimea, and when she was fifty-two she married that nasty old man with the snuff on his beard, and—”
But the rest of the sentence was spoken to the air, for Lilias had fled. The prospect of the old man with snuff on his beard was too much for her composure, and she rushed into the garden, to see if there, at least, she might find the much-desired solitude.
No, not yet! for the summer-house towards which she sped had already been occupied by the three schoolgirls, and there they sat staring at her with big solemn eyes, as if, forsooth, a girl who had broken off her engagement was a new and extraordinary freak of humanity.
Good-natured Agatha made room for the new-comer by her side, and glanced sympathetically at the tear-stained face, but, as usual, her remarks were not the most tactful in the world.
“Was it really your doing, Lilias?” she inquired, “or was Ned tired of you too? Kitty says he was, and feels sure he will not mind much.”
That opened Lilias’s eyes with a flash of anger, but Kitty had the courage of her opinions, and said stolidly—
“I never considered from the beginning that he was really in love. I’ve seen lots of engaged people, and he wasn’t a bit like them. He used to ask us to go about with you, and be quite disappointed if we wouldn’t, and most couples like to be alone, and make faces at one another when they think you are not looking, to say they wish you would run away. I’ve had experience, for last summer we stayed two months in a hydropathic.”
“Perhaps he really did care for you at first, but was disappointed when he got to know you better!” This from Christabel; while Agatha chimed in with an eager—
“But you are glad, dear, aren’t you, to think he is not heart-broken? It makes it easier for you when he doesn’t care!”
Plainly there was no comfort forthcoming for Miss Lilias from the members of her own family!
Meanwhile Jim was seeing his friend off at the railway station, and administering such sympathy as was deserved for Ned’s business reverses, while eclipsing his sisters in candour on the subject of the broken engagement.
“If you would be a fool, you must be prepared to suffer for it. Never was more surprised in my life than to hear of it, when it first came off. Thought you had gone off your head. When I was at home with you last, there was no sign of such nonsense. Can’t think what on earth possessed you!”
“She was so pretty and charming, and seemed so much interested in all I did! Vanity was at the bottom of it, I suppose. I was flattered and interested, just when I was down on my luck, and needed it most. I—I—I must make a clean breast of it, Jim, and tell you the truth! Of course, it was Maud I cared for first; I can see now that I have loved her all through, but she was so reserved with me, and kept me at such a distance, that I thought she wanted to show me that I had no chance. Then Lilias came home, and I was captivated by her lovely face and pretty ways. She seemed to turn to me for advice and sympathy, to be so pleased to see me, so sorry when I left, that—that—ah, well, you know the rest! I was a fool, as I daresay many a man has been before me; and though I was miserable enough, I never discovered why, until Lilias herself pointed it out. She accused me of caring for Maud more than for her—in Maud’s presence, too—when we three were alone together!”
Jim’s lips met in a significant whistle.
“The little wretch! She ought to be shaken! My poor old Maud, that was rough on her. What did she do or say?”
“Begged me to take no notice, and pleaded for Lilias, like the angel she is. But I was knocked completely over, didn’t know what I was doing, and told her straight out that it was true. Perhaps I should not have done it, but I could not help myself, and she gave me one look, just one! Oh, Jim, old man, if this crash has shown me the awful mistake I was making, it will be indeed a blessing in disguise. I will work like ten men, I will laugh at difficulties, I will do anything and everything, if only, only I can win Maud in the end. You will be my friend, won’t you? You will help me, and tell her what I hope?”
“Not if I know it!” returned Jim, with masculine candour. “You have done quite enough mischief for the time, old chap, and had better lie low until things have blown over. I’ve a great deal too much respect for Maud, to suggest that she should adopt you as her lover the moment you are dropped by Lilias. Wait a year or two until you have made your position, and then come down and ask her yourself—”
“A year or two! And meantime she might think I had changed again, and had forgotten all about her—That’s too much to expect! I don’t ask you to say anything just yet, but in time to come you might drop a hint, or let her see one of my letters, show her in any indirect way you like that I know my own mind at last, and am working towards an end. It isn’t much to ask from an old chum—I’d do as much for you if I were in your place.”
“Humph!” quoth Jim concisely; but his grey eyes sent out a kindly gleam, and Ned Talbot went away comforted by the knowledge that his friend would be kinder in deed than in word, and that his message would not fail to be delivered.
He had another friend at court to whom he gave less thought, but whose loyalty was at least as strong as that of her brother. Nan had her own dreams of the future, of which she breathed no word to a living soul, but she set herself to work to clear away such difficulties as lay in Ned’s path, with her accustomed energy and daring.
“If I were a nice old gentleman with heaps of money and nothing to do, I would give a good situation to a young fellow who was miserable and ill-treated!” she announced to Mr Vanburgh, at the conclusion of the story of the broken engagement; and that gentleman chuckled with enjoyment as he listened.
“Would you, indeed? And in what capacity? I don’t quite see what situations I have to offer which would meet Mr Talbot’s requirements. There is a good deal of machinery of one sort and another involved in the work of a house like this, but I fear it is hardly the kind which he is accustomed to superintend.”
“Don’t snub me, please. I’m too reduced. I don’t mean in this house, but somewhere else where there are Works like his own. If you would just write to the people and say how clever he is, and what a good manager, and that you are sure they would like him!”
“But how can I be sure? I know nothing about Mr Talbot’s business capacities, and should hardly recognise him if I met him in the street!”
“But I tell you! You can trust my word; and every one likes Ned, for he is so good and noble. He didn’t want to go into the Works at all, for he is one of those quiet, studenty sort of men, who are never so happy as when they are in the country, alone with their books and their thoughts. He wanted to be a literary man, but his brother died, and there was no one else to help his father, so he gave up his own plans for the sake of the family. That seems to me very hard—to be unselfish and take up uncongenial work, and then to meet with nothing but failure and disappointment! I should expect to be rewarded by making piles of money, but poor old Ned has lost almost all he has. Dear, sweet, kind Mr Vanburgh, find him another opening—do!”
The old man smiled, and laid his worn fingers caressingly over the girl’s hand.
“I would do a great deal to please you, Nan, if I could find the way, but my word is not so powerful as you imagine. I am afraid the managers of the great factories would pay very little attention to my recommendation; but if Mr Talbot is not set on continuing a business life, it is possible that something else might be found. I have a good deal of land which will come to Gervase in his turn, and meantime, as he engages my stewards for me and takes in hand most of the arrangements, you had better speak to him on the subject.”
“Oh-oh!” cried Nan, and turned towards the young man with hands clasped together in supplication. “Oh! do you—do you? Then one of them is a bad steward, isn’t he? I am sure he is! You want a new one; I am sure you do! Ned would make a beauty, for he loves nothing so much as a country life. He is a splendid shot. Jim saw him knock over twelve rocketers running, last time they were out together, and he goes in for all kinds of sport. His father had a beautiful country place when they were rich, and he is always talking of what he used to do. He looks so sweet in gaiters, too! He would make a lovely steward!”
Both men shook with laughter, but Nan’s earnestness could not be shaken. She was pleading for Maud’s future, for Maud’s happiness, and neither ignorance nor bashfulness had power to check her. She insisted on the wickedness of the present steward with such determination, that Gervase was forced to come to his defence.
“Indeed, Nan, he is a most capable and clever fellow. I’ve not a word to say against him, except that perhaps he is too clever to stay with us much longer. Lord Edgeworth has been advertising for a steward, and I think it more than likely that he will get the post. If he should—”
“He will! He will!” cried Nan excitedly. “I feel a conviction. He will get it, and you will offer Ned his place. It would be defying Providence to do anything else. Oh, how happy I am—how pleased he will be! And is it a pretty house in a garden, big enough for us all to go down and stay with him? How soon will it be settled, so that I can tell them at home?”
So determinedly confident did she appear as to the success of her scheme, that it seemed an ungenerous act to pour cold water on such generous enthusiasm, and each man registered a mental vow to satisfy her, if it were within the bounds of possibility.
As his custom was, Gervase escorted the visitor on a tour of inspection round the garden before she took her departure, and took advantage of the tête-à-tête to express a more ardent sympathy with the home trouble than he had cared to show in his uncle’s presence. The broken engagement had been no surprise to him, for he had summed up the character of Miss Lilias too accurately to have any trust in her stability; but it had evidently come as a shock to Nan’s unsuspecting mind.
“She says now that she has been thinking of it for some time, and he says he was dissatisfied; yet neither of them spoke a word, but went drifting on and on, waiting upon chance. I suppose they would have married each other if this crash had not come, and regretted it for the rest of their lives. I can’t understand such behaviour. If I feel a thing, I can’t bottle it up, I simply cannot; out it must come, whatever is the consequence. And when it comes to pretending to love a person when you don’t, and to be happy when you are not, that is worse than anything else. It’s positively wicked!”
“I agree with you. I have always maintained that absolute honesty should be practised in these affairs between a man and a woman, and that far less trouble would arise if each side spoke out plainly as to what was in their hearts. I go perhaps a little further in my views than most people, but long ago I made myself a promise that when my own hour came I would act up to my convictions, and I am not going to draw back now. Months ago, Nan, you walked into my uncle’s room to meet me, and I knew—I think I knew almost as soon as I met your eyes—that here was a new specimen of her kind, a woman who would play a great part in my life. I had never known that feeling before, but it has grown in strength ever since that day, until now it is difficult to imagine my life without it. You have engrossed all my thoughts—all my hopes—”
Nan stood still and stared at him. The colour had left her cheeks, and her eyes were wide and startled. She laid her hand on her throat and gave a little choking gasp.
“Do you mean that you—that you are—in love—with me?”
The amazement in her tone, the incredulity of that “me” was touching in its humility, and Gervase’s smile was very tender as he replied—
“I think I am. I am, at least, travelling very fast in that direction. Does that alarm you so very much? Does it distress you? Have you no feeling of friendship to offer me in return?”
“Friendship! Oh yes, but not,”—Nan gulped over the word in wild embarrassment—“the other thing! It’s too soon. I have just left the schoolroom—I have just put up my hair. I couldn’t think of such a thing for years and years, until I am old, and have got some sense!”
Gervase laughed softly.
“You have more sense now than any girl I know; but don’t be frightened, dear, I am not asking for my answer yet. You must have time, but I wanted you to know from the beginning what my feelings were. As you grow older and go into society, and meet other men, I want you to remember that there is one man who has already given his heart to your keeping, and is waiting in the hope that yours may be given to him in return. You are not bound-to me in any way. If you meet some one whom you can care for more than for me, I will wish you God-speed; but until that day comes I will wait in hope. I will not trouble you by referring to the subject again at present; for a year to come I will promise not to allude to it, but by that time you will be twenty, and will have had twelve whole months to think me over. You will not forbid me to speak to you again next July, Nan?”
“N–no!” sighed Nan dubiously, “I suppose not. You are very kind, but I am—frightened. Suppose I said ‘Yes,’ and then changed my mind like Lilias! That would be dreadful, yet how can one be sure? I like you very much, better than any other man, but still—”
“You must never say ‘Yes’ unless you have no doubt in your heart. No amount of liking will do. If the day ever comes when you feel that your whole heart goes out to me, as mine does to you, when you would choose poverty with me rather than riches with another man, then come to me, darling, but never till then. You and I are not the sort to be satisfied with a half-and-half happiness, and we will not risk failure. I want to make your life beautiful, not to wreck it!”
The tears rose slowly in Nan’s eyes, and her lips trembled.
“You are very good to me; but I feel as if I must be a hypocrite to have deceived you so. I’m not worth it. I’m not, indeed. If you only knew what a wretch I am, you couldn’t think of me any more. There are such lots of nice girls. If you would only choose somebody proper and sensible and accomplished and clever—”
“Oh, Nan, I don’t want her. Don’t force her on me, please. I’ve met her such scores and scores of times, and she bored me so unutterably. I want just you, and no one else; but don’t trouble your head about me for another year. Live your own bright life. I would not for the world shorten your girlhood or make you old before your time. It won’t be a very depressing thought, dear, will it, that somewhere a hundred miles away a man is loving you, and trying to live a better life because of his love?”
Nan could not answer, could only shake her head in a mute dissent. No; it was far from depressing—it was beautiful, inspiring—but, oh, what a responsibility! Gervase might say that he would not willingly shorten her girlhood, but, alas! had he not already done so? To feel that another heart leant on her own, another life depended on her for happiness—was this not a reflection to sober the most careless and most light-hearted of natures? Nan knew full well that this short interview was as a milestone in her life, and that at one step she had left behind the careless days of youth.