Читать книгу A Woman of Samaria - Rita - Страница 10

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Sarah Webbe had been left a small income by her brother, also a sum in trust for his youngest daughter, and a sealed letter which he directed was to be given her, whenever she returned, or was found.

The Vicar was buried at Mentone, where he died. Then his sister came back to England to arrange about his personal belongings at the Vicarage. As soon as matters were settled she left the village, telling no one where she was going, or her plans for the future.

It was, however, generally believed that she had gone to live with her niece in London.

In truth Miss Webbe had done no such thing. She had returned to the little Cornish home which she had left at her brother's desire when his wife's death had bereft his children and himself of womanly care and help.

It was such a little out of the world nook that its name had little meaning in the ears of tourists and travellers. It was near the sea coast, and had all the beauty and vivid colour of the sweet West Country. Her little cottage was a bower of fuchsia and escallonia, of flowering myrtles and wild roses. The latticed windows faced a bay or cove, where the sea played wild pranks in winter, and was a glory of blue ripples and feathery spray in the long sunshiny days of summer.

It was an ideal retreat, and she loved it as one loves the resting place that means home. Save for a few cottagers and fisher folk, and a scattered mansion at miles of intervals, the place was very solitary. It had no attractions but its own beauty and quaintness. The nearest town was several miles away, and there was but one post daily. A small general shop supplied such homely necessaries as were exclusive of the market town. Fish, poultry, eggs, and fruit were all to be had at farms or cottages. Life was a simple idyllic thing, free of turmoil or distraction, and Sarah Webbe asked no other fate than to end her days here.

But though she asked it, she had a rooted conviction that such a request would not be granted. She had long ago set herself a duty, and never permitted herself to forget its paramount claims. She felt certain that one day Dolores would be found. She was equally certain that she would need a friend, and perhaps a home. For her father's sake she had determined that both friend and home should be at her service.

The conviction in her own mind about the girl was a conviction she had never breathed to a living soul. A chance word from her friend, Marian Sylvester, had sown the first seeds of this conviction. She had denied its possibility, but worldly wisdom in a representative woman had only nodded mysteriously, and said, "Depend upon it, it's true."

Whether true or false, nothing had been discovered to assure such suspicion until the return of Cynthia from prolonged Continental travels. She was shocked and indignant at her sister's flight, less from affection than fear of scandal in the future. The hint of a family skeleton was not one to be welcomed by the plutocrat who had honoured it with an alliance. When he heard of it he remembered the girl's strange request for money as a present instead of the bangle.

"The baggage! I'll be bound she's turned that into cash also," he said, as he told his wife of the occurrence.

Cynthia pondered. It struck her once that Cyril Gray might know something of the girl's whereabouts, might indeed have been the primary cause of her departure. She wrote and asked his father to forward the letter to his address in China.

An indignant reply came from China denying all knowledge or influence in any such extraordinary proceeding. He had been fond of his young cousin and interested in her talents, but she had given him no hint of an intention to go on the stage, or leave her home. He begged for news of her at any time if news reached the family, and desired his love and sympathy to his uncle in this great trial.

Cynthia read the effusion with an expression that would not have flattered the writer had he seen it.

"He may know nothing," she said to herself, "but all the same he cannot convince me that there was not some understanding between them, and if ever a girl was lovesick and unhappy it was Dolly after his departure for Shanghai."

She wrote no more to Cyril Gray. He had never been a favourite of hers. Gradually the interests and excitements of her new life engrossed her, and she forgot all about her sister. It was such a novelty to have money to spend, a fine house, servants, carriages, dresses, amusements, and gaieties without end. The "lovely Mrs. Lilliecrapp" became quite a person in society, and the seat in the House and the title on which she had determined were quite approaching possibilities for Mrs. Lilliecrapp's husband.

The interests and decoration of her pretty little person grew more and more important; she was of the world worldly: and a "set," made up of fast, pretty women and reckless extravagant men, caught her in their toils, and proclaimed her the fashion.

It was surprising with what rapidity she caught the tone, and followed the examples before her. Her life was a whirl, and being, as yet, a novelty, she enjoyed it amazingly. A period of enforced rest, compelled by an event which made Thomas Lilliecrapp the inordinately proud father of an heir, was also signalised by two important occurrences. They were the death of her father, and the sudden doubling of her husband's income by a marvel of mercantile luck. He realised his million, and retired from active duty. Cynthia already heard herself addressed: as "my lady."