Part 1, Chapter XXX.
A Little Narrative.
“Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about.”
“I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry.”
“That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart.”
“Now, Harry, once for all, I won’t have it,” said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. “I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don’t pay me silly, sickly compliments.”
“I’ll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live,” he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.
“Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do—well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble.”
“But would you like me to tell you all about it?”
“Every word, Harry,” said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.
For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.
“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”
“Oh, you foolish boy!”
It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.
“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”
“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”
“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”
“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”
“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.
“Yes, Harry, I like it—it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry, dear, can’t you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?”
“No.”
“You can’t!”
“No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?”
“I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry,” said the maiden, archly.
“Of course not. Well, little one, I think—no, I’m almost sure—that he has fallen in love with her already, without any making.”
“Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her.”
“Not for the world, darling.”
“And pray why not, sir?”
“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”
“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”
“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”
There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.
“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”
“No; but I feel sure he does.”
“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”
“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”
“Oh!”
“That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him, followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road, go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right into the shrubs.”
“And did you follow?” said Cynthia, excitedly.
“Didn’t I! But I couldn’t get over so quickly as he did, and when I dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my coat, for a spike had gone through it.”
“Oh, what fun,” laughed Cynthia; “how droll you must have looked.”
“I dare say I did,” he said, good-humouredly; “but it gave the rascal time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where.”
“And you did not catch him, then?”
“No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for above an hour we had to give it up.”
“Oh, what a pity.”
“Yes, wasn’t it.”
“I don’t know, though,” said Cynthia, softly; “if you had caught him he might have hurt you, too, Harry.”
“I’ll give him leave to,” said Artingale, “if I can only manage to make my mark upon him.”
“Oh, Harry, don’t look like that; you frighten me.”
“Do I?—there; but don’t you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take care of myself, and I don’t mean to rest till I’ve paid that fellow my debt.”
“Paid your debt, Harry?” said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.
“Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at Lawford!—if it is the same man,” he added.
“Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly,” cried Cynthia, excitedly.
“Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may call her little sister now?”
“Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry, dear,” she whispered, “I wish I was as big and brave as you.”
“And,” he whispered, “I wish that you were always just as you are now, so sweet and bright and loving.”
“Well, sir, go on.”
“That’s about all,” he said, “only that I owe my fine fellow for last night’s affair as well.”
“And about Mr Magnus?”
“Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap.”
“Went where?” cried Cynthia, in astonishment. “Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings.”
“No, no,” said Artingale, laughing, “I mean I went back to Perry-Morton’s.”
“Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name,” said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight.
“And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that’s about all.”
“But you’ve been to see him this morning, Harry?”
“I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia.”
“Oh!” and a pause. “And is his hurt very bad, Harry?” said Cynthia, looking now rather white. “Will it kill him?”
“Oh, no,” said Artingale, “he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and—oh, what an idiot I am!”
“No, no, Harry. I’m not so silly. I’m not going to faint. Hush, here’s Julia.”
For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room—smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.
Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night’s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.
“That fellow must be stopped,” said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. “Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must—it shall be stopped, or he’ll drive the poor child mad.”