Читать книгу Cynthia - Merrick Leonard - Страница 6

After his friend's departure, the mother and daughter became the pivot round which the author's movements revolved. Primarily his own companionship and the novelty of Dieppe had been enough; but now he found it dreary to roam about the harbour, or to sit sipping mazagrans, alone. Reviewing the weeks before Turquand joined him, he wondered what he had done with himself in various hours of the day. Solitude hung so unfamiliarly on his hands that Miss Walford's society was indispensable.

Soon after the chocolate and rolls, he went with the ladies to the Casino, and spent the morning beside them under the awning. Mrs. Walford did not bathe: while people could have comfortable baths in the vicinity of their toilet-tables, she considered that recourse to tents and the sea was making an unnecessary confidence—and she disliked to see Cynthia swim, "with a lot of Frenchmen in the water." Whether it was their sex, or only their nationality, that was the objection was not clear. She usually destroyed a copy of a novel while Mr. Kent and her daughter talked. Considering the speed with which she read it, indeed, it was constantly astonishing to him that she could contrive to do a book so much damage. In the evening they strolled out again, and but for the afternoon he would have had small cause for complaint. Even this gained a spice of excitement, however, from the fact that it was uncertain how long Miss Walford's siesta would last, and there was always the chance, as he lounged about the hotel, smoking to support the tedium, that a door would open and cause heart-leaps.

Mrs. Walford thought that the visit to Arques would be "very jolly," and the excursion was made about a week later. Kent found the girl's concurrence in his enthusiasm as pretty as he had promised himself it would be, and when they had escaped from the information of the gardien and wandered where they chose to go, the chaperon was the only blot upon perfection.

Perhaps she realised the influence of the scene, though her choice of adjectives was not happy—the explorations "made her tired" before long. Since the others were so indefatigable, they "might explore while she rested!"

It was, as Kent had said, intensely still. The practical obtruding itself for a moment, he thought how blessed it would be to work here, where doors could never slam and the yells of children were unknown. They mounted a hillock and looked across the endless landscape silently. In the dungeons under their feet lay dead men's bones, but such facts concerned him little now. Far away some cattle—or were they deer?—browsed sleepily under the ponderous trees. Of what consequence if they were cattle or deer? Still further, where the blue sky dipped and the woodland rose, a line of light glinted like water. Perhaps it was water, and if not, what matter? It was the kingdom of imagination; deer, water, fame, or love—the Earth was what he pleased! Among the crumbling walls the girl's frock fluttered charmingly; his eyes left the landscape and sought her face.

"It's divine!" she said.

He could not disguise from himself that life without her would be unendurable.

"I knew you'd like it," he said unsteadily.

She regarded the questionable cattle again; his tone had said much more.

Kent stood beside her in a pause in which he believed that he struggled. He felt that she was unattainable; but there was an intoxication in the moment that he was not strong enough to resist. He touched her hand, and, his hear! pounding, met her gaze as she turned.

"Cynthia!" he said in his throat. The colour left her cheeks, and her head drooped. "Are you angry with me?" She was eminently graceful in the attitude. "I love you," he said—"I love you. What shall I say besides? I love you!"

She looked slowly up, and blinded him with a smile. Its newness jumped and quivered through his nerves.

"Cynthia! Can you care for me?"

"Perhaps," she whispered.

He was alone with her in Elysium; Adam and Eve were not more secure from human observation when they kissed under the apple tree. He drew nearer to her—her eyes permitted. In a miracle he had clasped a goddess, and he would not have been aware of it if all the pins of Birmingham had been concealed about her toilette to protest.

Presently she said:

"We must go back to mamma!"

He had forgotten that she had one, and the recollection was a descent.

"What will she say?" he asked. "I'm not a millionaire, dearest; I am afraid she won't be pleased."

"I'll tell her when we get home. Oh, mamma likes you!"

"And you have a father?" he added, feeling vaguely that the ideal marriage would be one between orphans, whose surviving relatives were abroad and afraid of a voyage. "Do you think they will give you to me?"

"After I've spoken to them," she said deliciously. "Yes—oh, they will be nice, I am sure, Mr. Kent!... There, then! But one can't shorten it, and it sounds a disagreeable sort of person."

"Not as you said it."

"It was very wrong of you to make me say it so soon. Are you a tyrant?... We must really go back to mamma!"

"Did you know I was fond of you?" asked Kent.

"I—wandered."

"Why?"

"Why did I wonder?"

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"No; tell me! Was it because—you liked me?"

"You're vain enough already."

"Haven't I an excuse for vanity?"

"Am I an excuse?"

Language failed him.

"Tell me why you wondered," he begged.

"Because——You're wickedly persistent!"

"I am everything that is awful. Cynthia?"

"Yes?"

"Because you liked me?"

"Perhaps; the weeniest scrap in the world. Oh, you are horrid! What things you make me say! And we are only just——"

"Engaged! It's a glorious word; don't be afraid of it."

"I shall be afraid of you in a minute. How do you think of your—your proposals in your books?"

"I've only written one book."

"Did you make it up? He didn't talk as you talk to me?

"He wasn't so madly in love with her."

"But he said the very sweetest things!"

"That's why."

"You are horrid!" she declared again. "I don't know what you mean a bit.... Mr. Kent—-"

"Who is he?"

"Humphrey—-"

"Yes—sweetheart?"

"Now you've put it out of my head." She laughed softly. "I was going to say something."

"Let me look at you till you think what it was."

"Perhaps that wouldn't help me."

"Oh, you're an angel!" he exclaimed. "Cynthia, we shall always remember Arques?"

She breathed assent. "Was this Joan of Arc's Arques?"

"No—Noah's."

"Whose?" she said.

He was penitent; he made haste to add:

"Not hers; it is spelt differently, besides."

"I believe you're being silly," she said, in a puzzled tone. "I don't understand. Oh, we must go back to mamma; she'll think we're lost!"

Mrs. Walford didn't evince any signs of perturbation, however, when they rejoined her, nor did she ask for particulars of what they had seen. She seemed to think it likely that they might not feel talkative. She said that she had "enjoyed it all immensely," sitting there in the shade, and that the gardien, who had come back to her, had imparted the most romantic facts about the château. Around some of them she was convinced that Mr. Kent could easily write an historical novel, which she was sure would be deeply interesting, though she never read historical novels herself. Had Mr. Kent and Cynthia any idea of the quantity of pippins grown in the immediate neighbourhood every summer? The gardien had told her that as well. No; it had nothing to do with the château, but it was simply extraordinary, and the bulk of the fruit was converted into cider, and the peasantry got it for nothing. Cider for nothing must be so very nice for them when they couldn't afford the wine, and she had no doubt that it was much more wholesome too, though, personally, she had tasted cider only once, and then it had made her ill.

They drove down the dusty hill listening to her. The girl spoke scarcely at all, and the onus of appearing entertained devolved upon Kent. When the fiacre deposited them at the hotel at last, he drew a sigh in which relief and apprehension mingled. Cynthia followed her mother upstairs, and he caught a glance from her, and smiled his gratitude; but he questioned inwardly what would be the upshot of the announcement that she was about to make. He perceived with some amusement that he was on the verge of an experience of whose terrors he had often read. He was a candidate for a young lady's hand. Yes, it made one nervous. He asked himself for the twentieth time in the past few days if he had been mistaken in supposing that Mrs. Walford over-estimated his eligibility; perhaps he was no worse off than she thought? But even then he quaked, for he had seen too little society since he was a boy to be versed in such matters, and he was by no means ready to make an affidavit that she had encouraged him. What was "encouragement"?

A signal at the entrance to the dining-room was exciting but obscure, and there was no opportunity for inquiries before the ladies took their seats. He anathematised an epergne which to-night seemed more than usually obstructive. Cynthia was in white. He did not remember having seen her in the gown before, and the glimpse of her queenliness shook him. No mother would accord to him so peerless a treasure—he had been mad!

It was interminable, this procession of courses, relieved by glances at a profile down the table. His mouth was dry, and he ordered champagne to raise his pluck. It heated him, without steadying his nerves. The room was like a Turkish bath; yet the curve of cheek that he descried was as pale as the corsage. How could she manage it? He himself was bedewed with perspiration.

He could wait no longer. He went on to the veranda and lit a cigar. He saw Mrs. Walford come out, and, throwing the cigar away, rose to meet her. She was alone. Where was Cynthia? Seeking him? or was her absence designed?

"I hope our excursion hasn't tired you, Mrs. Walford?"

"Oh dear no!" she assured him. She hesitated, but her manner was blithesome. His courage mounted. "Shall we take a turn?" she suggested.

"Mrs. Walford, your daughter has told you what I ... of our conversation this afternoon, perhaps? I haven't many pretensions, but I'm devoted to her, and she is good enough to care a little for me. Will you give her to me and let me spend my life in making her happy?"

She made a gesture of sudden artlessness.

"I was perfectly astonished!" she exclaimed. "To tell you the truth, Mr. Kent, I was perfectly astonished when Cynthia spoke to me. I hadn't an idea of it. I—er—I don't know whether I'm particularly obtuse in these affairs—hee, hee, hee!—but I hadn't a suspicion!"

"But you don't refuse?" he begged. "You don't disapprove?"

She waved her hands afresh, and went on jerkily, with a wide, fixed smile:

"I never was more astounded in my life. Of course, I—er—from what we've seen of you ... most desirable—most desirable in many ways. At the same time—er—Cynthia's a delicate girl; she has always been used to every luxury. So few young men are really in a position to justify their marrying."

"My position is this," he said. "I've my profession, and a little money—not much; a thousand pounds, left me by a relative last year. With a thousand pounds behind us, I reckon that my profession would certainly enable us to live comfortably till I could support a wife by my pen alone." Her jaw dropped. He felt it before he turned, and shivered. "I'm afraid you don't think it very excellent?" he murmured.

She was breathing agitatedly.

"It ... I must say—er—I fear her father would never sanction——Oh no; I am sure! It's out of the question."

"A man may keep a wife on less without her suffering, Mrs. Walford. My God! if I thought that Cynthia would ever know privation or distress, do you suppose I would——"

"A wife!" she said, "a wife! My dear Mr. Kent, a man must be prepared to provide for a family as well. Have you—er—any expectations?"

"I expect to succeed," said Kent; "I've the right to expect it. No others."

"May I ask how much your profession brings you in?"

"I sold my novel for a hundred pounds," he answered. "It was my first," he added, as he heard her gasp, "it was my first!... Mrs. Walford, I love her! At least think it over. Let me speak to her again, let me ask her if she is afraid. Don't refuse to consider!"

The pain in his voice was not without an effect on her disgust. She was mercenary, though she did not know it; she was not good-natured, though she had good impulses; she was ludicrously artificial. But she was a woman, and he was a young man. She did not think of her own courtship, for she had been sentimental only when her parents approved—she hadn't "married for money," but her heart had been providentially warmed towards the one young gentleman of her acquaintance who was "comfortably off." She thought, however, of Cynthia, who had displayed considerable feeling in the bedroom an hour ago.

"I must write to her father," she said, in a worried voice. "I really can't promise you anything; I am very vexed at this sort of thing going on without my knowledge—very vexed. I shall write to her father to-night. I must ask you to consider the whole matter entirely indefinite until he comes. Immense responsibility ... immense! I can't say any more, Mr. Kent."

She left him on the veranda. His sensation was that she had shattered the world about him, and that a weighty portion of the ruin was lying on his chest.