Читать книгу A Woman of Samaria - Rita - Страница 7

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As day followed day Dolores grew paler and more silent. But in the stir and confusion and preparations for Cynthia's marriage no one noticed the alteration in her sister save her father. But he attributed it to sorrow at the coming parting. The sisters had always been together since childhood, naturally the one left behind would feel lonely and depressed without her companion.

Meanwhile the prospective bridegroom waxed more jubilant and devoted every clay. Presents poured in upon Cynthia, and she looked quite contented with her choice, and accepted congratulations with the "savoir faire" of one who has listened to the counsels of prudence.

One evening about a week before the wedding Mr. Lilliecrapp strolled over to the Vicarage after dinner, as was sometimes his wont. The distance from the Hall was not great. He marched along with head erect; his light-heartedness sounded in a prolonged and jubilant whistling. It broke off abruptly as a figure suddenly faced him with startling abruptness.

"Oh! it's you," he said, recovering his equanimity. "Alone?"

"Yes. I thought you would be coming over, and I wanted to speak to you."

"To speak to me?" He looked surprised. It was not often Dolores troubled him with any overtures of friendliness.

"Yes." Her voice was nervous and uncertain. She was visibly agitated. His thoughts flew to his beloved. Had anything happened to her?

"Is anything wrong? Is Cynthia——"

"Oh! Cynthia's all right. Don't look so alarmed. What I want to say has only to do with myself."

He breathed relief, and took a brotherly survey of an anxious young face in the clear primrose light. "I am all attention," he said cheerfully.

"I wanted to ask—to say—I mean Cynthia told me that you were going to give each of the bridesmaids a present."

"Certainly, my dear. It is the usual thing for one in my happy position."

"And I thought I would ask, if instead of giving me mine you would let me have its value in—in money," stammered the girl.

He looked astonished. "In money?" he repeated. "I purposed giving you each a diamond bangle, value £100. Do you mean you'd rather have the hundred pounds?"

"Yes. It must seem strange, but I want it to help someone—a friend, who is it great trouble. I know you are kind and generous, and I thought I would ask."

"Oh! I don't mind giving the money," he said. "But the bangles are ordered, you see; and it is too late to change the order. They were made to a special design. Still, I'll tell you what I'll do. You must have the bangle, or it will look strange, and I'll give you a cheque for fifty for your friend. What do you say to that?"

"You are very kind," she faltered. "I—I don't know how to thank you. If you would look upon it as a loan which I would repay——"

His laugh cut her words short.

"Loan! No, my dear. One of my maxims through life has been never to lend money, not to nobody. I'd be in Queer Street to-day if I 'adn't stuck to that. If I give I give, but I don't lend. That's how I stand to-day master of half a million, and likely to be the whole afore I give up business. There, don't look as if you were goin' to cry. Have you said your say, because I'm longin' to get a word with my Cynthy."

"I'm so grateful, pray believe it. And, oh, please, you won't say anything to Cynthia, will you? She'd be so cross if she knew I had bothered you about such a thing."

"All right, my dear. Mum's the word. It's our little secret, eh? And I'm not such a bad un to trust you'll find. A rough husk often hides a soft kernel, and Thomas Lilliecrapp had always a willing ear for a pretty girl's confidence."

They had walked on, and were now at the gates of the Vicarage. Dolores opened it, and left him to pass in by himself. "I'm going down to the village," she explained. "I'll be home to supper."

He watched her with some curiosity as she turned away.

"Queer girl," he thought; "not a bit like my bonnie bird yonder. Wonder now what she really wanted the money for. Has some village protégé got into a scrape? Well, it won't 'urt my pocket. Charity is its own reward."

Meanwhile Dolores's footsteps took her to the post office, where she went to purchase some stamps and make usual enquiries for letters if there should be any.

"A newspaper for you, miss," said the woman. "No letters this last post."

"I'll take the paper," said the girl.

When she was alone that night she opened it, and studied one advertisement attentively. She laid the paper down at last, and her lips set themselves in a hard determined line. "I will go there," she said. "It is a chance. I have only instinct to guide me. But it sounds well. I'll risk it."