Читать книгу The Man with the Double Heart - Muriel Hine - Страница 8

"More likely I was harassed with this cruel suspense." He leaned a little nearer and lowered his voice.

"You are going to help us? Tell me, don't you want to?—You've no idea how anxious I am that you should take the part."

Then, seeing her hesitate, he added with malice, "Mrs. Bying would jump at it."

"But I'm not Mrs. Bying."

Up went Cydonia's head in pride.

"Thank Heaven, no." He laughed at her voice. "I didn't mind Marie Dilke—she's such a good sort"—he went on meditatively, forgetful of his listener—"but as to kissing Mrs. Bying..."

The moment the word was out he felt, with horror, the folly of his mistake. "Pretend to,—I mean," he corrected hurriedly. "Of course in acting—it's always pretence—and in this instance—I only ... you know——"

He broke off, at a loss for words. He dared not even look at her. The ominous pause prolonged itself. He felt an insane desire to laugh.

"With any other girl"—he thought—"but this girl ... oh! hang it all!" He grabbed at a peach. Viciously he dug his fork into it, searching in his empty brain for some sensible remark. But....

"I think it's going to snow——" was all that came to him after due thought. He said it with the air of a weather expert. "It's so awfully chilly..." And then a faint laugh startled him into a side-long glance.

Cydonia's face was pink and in her smooth cheek the dimple betrayed her battle with mirth.

"Snow?" said the Bishop. "Indeed, I trust not. One hopes at this time of year the winter is getting past. Not that we have much snow at Oxton."

He turned again to Mrs. Cadell.

"A wonderful year for chrysanthemums."

They started to discuss the Temple show.

"Say I'm forgiven?" McTaggart's voice was humble.

But Cydonia had recovered. She sat bolt upright, brown eyes discreetly lowered upon her plate.

"If you don't speak to me soon—" this in tragic tones—"I'll cut my throat with a silver knife. It will be a long business—painful too..." He checked his rising mischief, trying to probe her thought.

But the fact was Cydonia was somewhat at a loss. For the first time she tasted the consciousness of power—sweet, indeed, to the schoolgirl in her opening year of life. She wanted to be dignified and she wanted to laugh. And behind it all lay a curious joy—a touch of excitement and of wonder that hurt ... She wrapped it up in silence, mistrustful of speech.

"I want you to understand," McTaggart was watching her. The little scene had gained a sudden significance. "However I might laugh—or joke, you know, I never could think of you without respect. And if you take this part I'd hate you to feel ... that you weren't quite safe with me. D'you see what I mean." He took a deep breath and plunged in again. "I might flirt with Mrs. Bying—she's fair game, you know—but you——you're different..."

He stammered on the word.

For Cydonia had looked up and in her shy eyes he read a childish gratitude and with it, sweet and deep, the dawn of a woman's comprehension of men.

Something in the absorbed attitude of the pair caught the mother's restless glance.

"Well, Cydonia," she rose as she spoke, for the Bishop had snatched a quick look at the clock—"Have you made up your mind about the Tableaux, dear?"

"I think so, Madre. I think it sounds ... nice."

"You blessed child," said McTaggart in his heart.