Читать книгу A Woman of Samaria - Rita - Страница 4

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"You have done nothing but mope since Cyril left. Talk of wearing one's heart on one's sleeve, why anyone could read your secret," said Cynthia, scornfully.

The tragedy of the parting was ten days old. The sisters were sitting on the grass under the old cedar tree. It was close on sunset. The air was full of warmth and fragrance. Birds chirped a last good-night to day from lilac tree and chestnut bought. Dolores turned a white face and wistful eyes to the speaker.

"I don't care," she said, slowly.

"I suppose you don't, or you wouldn't make such an exhibition of yourself."

Cynthia threw herself full length on the green sward, and clasping her hands behind her head, looked up into the soft blue depths above.

"What's it like?" she asked abruptly.

"What's what like?"

"Being in love, and melancholy over the beloved's absence, and all that. Tell me, Dolly. It will do you good to unburden your soul. 'Give sorrow words,' doesn't someone say? Well, I invite confidence. It's too bad you should take the lead of me when I'm two years older than you and ever so much better looking, but Cyril was a booby."

The white face flushed scarlet.

"How dare you say that? You know he was ever so much cleverer and—and nicer in every way than that idiot you have dangling after you. I wonder you can be civil to him."

"I'm not. That's just why he likes me so much. The worse you treat a man the fonder he gets of you. Believe me, my dear, there's no greater mistake than showing your feelings. I'm always preaching that to you."

"I don't believe you've any to show. You flirt with any male thing that comes in your way, but you couldn't care for one of them. If you love anyone it's yourself, Cynthia. You were always like that."

"Well, I'm worth loving, judging from all the love letters I get. Bobby Trevor has turned that old hollow tree by the stile into a post office for my benefit. Would you like to hear his latest effusion?"

"No. And I don't think it's a nice thing to do to read out what's only meant for yourself to some other person."

"How badly you speak, Dolly. You'll really have to attend to your education."

She glanced at a coldly averted cheek, and smiled meaningly.

"Have I hurt your feelings, dear? Never mind. We can't all have the same tastes. Though what you could see in Cyril passes my comprehension. Now, when I marry——"

"Here comes Aunt Sarah and the tea table," interrupted Dolores. "I should hold my tongue if I were you."

Cynthia sat upright. "Poor Aunt Sarah! Wouldn't she be shocked if she knew that the little god's arrows were already flying about in this sacred retreat, or that a proposal and ten thousand a year are lurking in my pocket at this very moment, waiting only for a word of three letters on father's side."

"What!" exclaimed her sister, glancing round.

"Ah! I thought I'd wake you up. I'm perfectly serious."

"But Bobby——"

"Oh, you little goose, of course it's not Bobby. Calf love and no prospects are all he has to lay at my feet. No, it's—— But never mind. I'll tell you after tea. I see dad leaving the drawing-room. How astonished he'll be to-morrow morning!"

She rose and assisted the maid to set out the tea table. The Vicar joined his sister, and they came up to the two girls. They always took tea out of doors when the weather permitted.

The talk was chiefly about parish matters—the ailments of old people, the vagaries of the young. The Vicar alluded to the forthcoming concert which Mrs. Ferrers, of the Hall, was getting up for the village schools. She was a lively elderly widow, with a large income and no family, and was so socially disposed that she always filled the hall with visitors when she was in residence there.

"Oh, by the way, I have a letter from her," said the Vicar, putting down his tea-cup and trying his pockets in succession. "She wants you to sing, Dolores. I know that is what it is about. Yes—here it is. Read it yourself, my dear. I suppose you will do as she asks. There's a sketch of the programme there, too. Her friends seem very talented. They are all doing something."

"Let me see!" exclaimed Cynthia, taking the slip from her sister's indifferent grasp.

She rattled off a string of names, with accompanying criticisms on their proposed performance. She was a great favourite of Mrs. Ferrers, and knew most of her guests by reason of meetings at luncheons and teas.

"'To Anthea,' Mr. Thomas Lilliecrapp," she read. There was a little touch of consciousness in her voice. But apparently the listening ears were not critical. "Fancy Mr. Lilliecrapp singing! Why, he doesn't know one tune from another. He has positively no ear. And as for Mrs. Ferrers, of course it's 'Luce di quest anima.' Dad, you ought to give the 'Vicar of Bray.' The sentiments don't suit, of course, but it's just your compass. Dolores, shall you appear? For goodness sake don't sing one of your doleful ditties if you do."

"I'd rather not sing at all," said the girl.

"Why, my dear? I thought you'd be pleased," said the Vicar, wonderingly. "And you have an excellent voice, you know. It will seem a little—well, a little impolite, to refuse. Especially when you consider the object for which the concert is given."

"Of course you must sing, Dolores," said her aunt, sharply. "You have no possible reason for refusing."

The girl raised her cup to her lips to hide their sudden tremor. She said no more.

The conversation went on. Cynthia had always plenty to say, and loved the sound of her own voice. She was a gay butterfly of a girl, totally unlike her sister, still more unlike either father or mother. She adored her own small, pretty person, and flirted promiscuously with all and sundry who were flirtable. She had long ago made up her mind that a rich marriage and a position in society were to be her portion in life, and already had achieved their possibility. They took the form of a middle-aged admirer, a friend of Mrs. Ferrer's, who had done great things in the manufacturing line, and patented a certain British industry which had led to fortune.

That he was ugly and commonplace and coarse and stupid were trifles of no importance to the soulless little beauty. He was 45 years of age, and, she hoped apoplectic. He would serve her purpose admirably, and he was quite besottedly in love with herself. She had his proposal in her pocket, and had authorised him to call on the Vicar the next morning. It was little wonder she had no sympathy to spare for her sister's woebegone face and lovelorn listlessness. They were so immeasurably foolish that she could not even take them seriously as a point of discussion.

The swing of the garden gate came as an interruption to the conversation. Miss Webbe looked round. "A gentleman," she said, peering into the distance with short-sighted eyes.

Cynthia turned her head. "Why, it is Mr. Lilliecrapp!" she exclaimed. "He must have come about the concert."

A short, thick-set man, with a red face and iron-grey hair, came towards the group. The Vicar knew him slightly, but that fact made no difference to his greeting. Cynthia's welcome was tinged with a little conscious blush, and Dolores simply shook hands, with a conventional remark, ere retiring into the background.

It appeared Mr. Lilliecrapp had come about the concert. They were anxious to get the programme printed, and Mrs. Ferrers had commissioned him to secure the two young ladies of the Vicarage for "something." Perhaps Miss Cynthia would play and Miss Dolores sing? He gave the message, looking ardently at Cynthia.

"We were just trying to make up our minds when you appeared," she said. "At least I was trying to make up my sister's mind for her. I see you are going to sing 'To Anthea.'"

"I was about to request the favour of your accompanying me. You play so well."

"It is a very difficult accompaniment," observed the Vicar. "And a fine song," he added, "though the sentiment has always appeared to me somewhat exaggerated."

"Love," observed Mr. Lilliecrapp, "cannot be exaggerated when it is real."

His face grew redder, he rumpled his iron-grey hair in sudden confusion, and pronounced the weather "very 'ot indeed for the season." Cynthia rushed into a discussion on the programme, and endeavoured to include her sister. But Dolores was evasive. She would not promise anything.

Presently the visitor evinced an admiration for the garden that impelled his host to suggest further inspection; and they strolled off together, followed by a suspicious glance from Cynthia. Nature had formed her coquette, despite all rules of heredity and example. She knew she had limited her opportunities now by choice of one among her victims. The reflection caused her some uneasiness. She felt she had been hurried, and already saw the Vicar puckering an honest brow in wonderment.

Of course Lilliecrapp would seize the opportunity, and equally of course would confess himself authorised to do so by the lady of his desire. At this stage her thoughts wandered to Aunt Sarah, and took a tinge of triumph. She became less critical respecting the favoured swain, and revelled in pictures of splendid successes and social elegance.

The tea things were removed, and Dolores went indoors. Cynthia remained with her aunt, and awaited events with pardonable impatience.

The world was her golden apple. Lilliecrapp would be the ladder by whose means the fruit might be reached. Once reached she would make him a sharer in her triumph's. He must go into Parliament. He would win a title. "Sir Thomas and Lady Lilliecrapp," had a pleasant-sounding flavour about it. She murmured it over, and the name seemed less homely, and smacked less of manufactures, or licensed victualling.

"My dear Cynthia, I have spoken to you three times," exclaimed her aunt. "What are you thinking about? I want you to take those flannel petticoats to old Mrs. Babbage. They are quite ready and,——"

The future Lady Lilliecrapp rose impatiently. "Oh, bother Mrs. Babbage! I don't want to go down to the village this evening. Send Dolly. I'll tell her."

Aunt Sarah looked dignified. "In my young days——" she began.

"Here comes papa. If he wants me, tell him I'm in the drawing-room."

A lapwing, a swallow, anything airy and graceful, gave its likeness to her swift flight as a pair of infatuated eyes watched it.

"I have your permission to claim her, then?" was murmured rapturously.

"You say she has accepted you, conditionally to my approval. It seems to me that means—everything," answered the Vicar. "I am a little bewildered. It had not dawned upon me that my children were grown up—marriageable, in fact. But if you are so deeply attached to her, and your position is all that you have stated, I cannot offer any objection except that of youth."

"A lovely fault!" said the enamoured swain, "and one I am only too willing to overlook. Then I may tell her you consent?"

"I—I suppose so."

If Cupid ever lends wings to middle-aged feet, his aid was apparently invoked, for the last words were addressed only to vanishing coat-tails.