Chapter 78
"But you will go down now and then to Lawford, Eli?" she said, and the Rector sighed.
"Yes, my dear, I will," he said; "but at present we must stay in town."
And he placed his hands behind him and walked up and down the room, wis.h.i.+ng that he could understand the Lawford people, or that they could understand him, and looking forward with anything but pleasurable antic.i.p.ations to his next visit.
Just then Julia, looking very pale and dreamy in her half-mourning, entered the room, to come and sit with and read to the invalid, a visitor being below, and her presence not being in any way missed.
Henry, Lord Artingale was the visitor, and as soon as she had left the room Julia became one of the princ.i.p.al topics, for she had seemed of late to have fallen into a dreamy state, now indifferent, now reckless, and Cynthia declared pettishly that she gave her sister up in despair.
"I don't know what to make of her, Harry," said Cynthia one morning after they had been back in town some time; "one day she will be bright and cheerful, another she seems as if she were going melancholy mad."
"Oh, no; come, that's exaggeration, little one."
"It is not," cried Cynthia, "for she is wonderfully changed when we are together."
"How changed? Why, she looks prettier than ever."
"I mean in her ways," continued Cynthia. "We used to be sisters indeed, and never kept anything from one another. Why, Harry, I don't believe either of us had a thought that the other did not share, and now I seem to be completely shut out from her confidence; and if it were not for you, I believe I should break my heart."
Of course Harry Artingale behaved as a manly handsome young fellow should behave under such circ.u.mstances. He comforted and condoled with the afflicted girl, who certainly did not look in the slightest degree likely to break her heart. He offered his manly bosom for her to rest her weary head, and he removed the little pearly tears from under the pretty fringed lids of her large bright eyes. There were four of them-- tears, not eyes--and Harry wiped them away without a pocket-handkerchief, the remains of one damaged tear remaining on his moustache when the process was over, and poor little Cynthia seemed much better.
"Well," said Artingale, "there is one comfort, Cynthy: we did scare away the big bogey. She has not seen him any more?"
"No--no!" said Cynthia softly, "I suppose not. She has never said anything about him since we were at Hastings. I have fancied sometimes that she has seen him and been frightened; but she never mentions it, and I have always thought it best never to say a word."
"Oh, yes, far the best," said
"Nonsense! she did not bolt with me, Harry. Just as if I should let a mare bolt with me. Something startled her, and she leaped the hedge, and as we were off the road, and it was a chance for a gallop, I let her go across country. But you know; I told you."
"Yes, dear," said Artingale, one of whose fingers was caught in a sunny maze. "But now, Cynthy, my pet, _revenons a nos moutons_."
"Very well, sir," she said shyly, "_revenons a nos moutons_."
"So the wedding is to be on the fourth?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, with a sigh, "on the fourth--not quite a month, Harry. Where's James Magnus?"
"Shut up in his studio, splas.h.i.+ng the paint about like a madman. He never comes out hardly. He has cut me, and spends most of his time with that barrister fellow who was to have married Sage Portlock."
"Luke Ross! Oh! Are they friends?"
"Thick as thieves," said Artingale. "I suppose they sit and talk about disappointed love, and that sort of thing."
"Do they?" cried Cynthia.
"Oh, I don't know, of course. By Jove, though, Cynthy, that Ross is a splendid fellow; no one would ever have thought he was only a tanner's son."
"I don't see what difference it makes whose son a man is," said Cynthia, demurely. "I've always noticed though that poor people's sons are very clever, and n.o.blemen's sons very stupid."
"Horribly," said Artingale, laughing. "Why, you saucy little puss!"
Matters here not necessary for publication.
"I don't want to say unkind things," said Cynthia, pouting now, "but I'm sure poor Sage Portlock would have been a great deal wiser if she had married Luke Ross; and if you were in your right senses, Harry, you would never think of marrying into such an unhappy family as ours."
"Oh, but then I've been out of my mind for long enough, Cynthy. The wise ones said I ran mad after the Rector's little daughter."
"When you might have made a most brilliant match or two, I heard," cried Cynthia.
"Yes, pet, all right," he said, laughing; "but you're in for it. I won't be pitched over."
"I'm sure the state of Cyril's home is disgraceful."
"I dare say, my darling; but we are not going to live there."
"Don't be so stupid," cried Cynthia. "But tell me, Harry, has James Magnus cut you?"
"No. Oh, no; only I am so much away now that instead of being regular chums we don't often meet. Hah! what jolly times I used to have with him, to be sure!"
"I hate him," cried Cynthia, angrily. "He's a great stupid coward."
"No, you don't, Cynthy; and you don't think he is a coward."
"Well, perhaps I don't hate him very much, and perhaps I don't think him a very great coward; but, oh! Harry, if I had been a man, do you think I would have allowed that miserable--miserable--"
"Design for a wall-paper or fresco?" suggested Artingale.
"Yes, yes, yes," cried Cynthia, laughing and clapping her hands with childlike delight. "That's it: what a grand idea! Oh, Harry, how clever you are!"
She looked up at him admiringly, and he smiled, and--Well, of course, that was sure to follow. Young lovers are so very foolish, and it came natural to them to tangle one another up in their arms, and for Cynthia's nose to be hidden by Artingale's moustache.
Then they grew _sage_, as the French call it, once more, and Artingale spoke--
"That's right, little pet, think so if you can; but I wish, for your sake, I were--"
"Were what, sir?"
"Clever. Do you know, Cynthy, I often think what a good job it was that nature had the property valued before I was launched."
"Why, you dear stupid old boy, what do you mean?"
"What I say, pet: had me valued. Then he said, 'Well, he's got no brains, and he'll never do any good for himself if he is left alone; so I'll make him a lord and give him an income.'"
"Oh, Harry, what nonsense!"
"And then, to help me on a bit farther when I had grown to years of indiscretion, she gave me, or is about to give me, the dearest and best and sweetest and most beautiful of little women to be my wife."
Which was, of course, very stupid again; and more resulted, after which Artingale said quietly--
"Cynthy, dear, you believe in me thoroughly?"