Part 2, Chapter XI.
Lovers’ Words.
Time flies.
Not an original remark this, but perfectly true.
Decorous mourning had been worn for Frank Mallow, the invalid mother had grown more grey, and the lines in her forehead deeper, while as the Rector thought of the fate of his firstborn, and shut his ears to little bits of scandal that floated about, he sighed, and turned more and more to his daughters, for Cyril, fortunately for himself, had quite forsaken Lawford since his brother’s death, having troubles of his own to contend with, while his wife had hers.
Rue Berry’s adventure remained a secret between the sisters, and though at the weekly-meetings at the King’s Head there were a good many nods and shakes of the head as to the reason why, on the night of his death, Frank Mallow had engaged a fly and pair of horses, such matter was never openly discussed, Tomlinson sagely remarking that when a man died there was a thick black mark ruled across the page of his ledger, and it was not worth while to tot up an account that there was no one to pay.
Then, as time went on, the inquest was forgotten, and the tablet placed in the church by the Rector, sacred to the memory of Frank, the beloved son, etcetera, etcetera, only excited notice during one weekly meeting, when Fullerton wondered what had become of the fortune Frank Mallow had made in Australia.
His fellow-tradesmen wondered, and so did Cyril Mallow to such an extent that he borrowed a hundred pounds from Portlock the churchwarden to pay for investigations and obtain the money.
“Seed corn, mother,” said Portlock, grimly; “seed corn for Cyril Mallow to sow; but hang me, old lady, if I believe it will ever come to a crop.”
As soon as possible after the terrible shock Mrs Mallow had received, the Rector took her abroad, and for eight months they were staying at various German baths, changing from place to place, the Rector now and then—handsome, grey-bearded, and the very beau ideal of an English clergyman—drawing large congregations when he occupied the pulpit of the chaplain at some foreign watering-place.
It was a pleasant time of calm for him, and he sighed as he thought of returning to England; but this return was fast approaching for many reasons. One reason was the Bishop. Certainly the Rev. Lawrence Paulby was indefatigable with the business of the church, but the Bishop seemed to agree in spirit with the meeting at the King’s Head, that it was not quite right for one clergyman to draw fifteen hundred a year from a parish and not do the duty, while another clergyman only drew ninety pounds a year and did do the duty, and did it well.
Another reason was, both Lord Artingale and Perry-Morton had been over again and again, and after a decent interval had pressed hard for their marriages to take place.
The last visit had been to a popular place of resort, where poor Mrs Mallow was, by the advice of the German physician, undergoing a process of being turned into an aqueous solution; at least she was saturated daily with an exceedingly nauseous water, and soaked in it hot for so many hours per week as well. The same great authority recommended it strongly for Julia, who drank the waters daily to the sound of a band. He also advised that the Fraulein Cynthia should take a lesser quantity daily also, to the strains of the German band, at intervals of promenading; but Cynthia merely took one sip and made a pretty grimace, writing word afterwards that the “stuff” was so bad that if the servants at home had been asked to use it to wash their hands there would have been a revolt.
There were other reasons too for calling back the Rev. Eli Mallow, and he sighed, for it was very pleasant abroad, and he foresaw trouble upon his return—parish trouble, the worry of the weddings, contact with Cyril, with whom he had quarrelled bitterly by letter, refusing to furnish him with money, a fact which came hard upon Churchwarden Portlock, who bore it like a martyr, and smoked more pipes as, for some strange reason, he raked up and dwelt strongly upon every scrap of information he could obtain about the progress of Luke Ross in London, even going over to the marketplace occasionally to have a pipe and a chat with old Michael his father.
There was no help for it, and at last the luggage was duly packed, and after poor Mrs Mallow had been carefully carried down, the family started for home, and settled for the time being in one of a handsome row of houses north of the park.
“Yes, my dear, it is—very expensive,” said the Rector, in answer to a remark, almost a remonstrance, from the invalid; “but we must keep up appearances till the girls are married. Then, my dear, we shall be alone, and we will go down to the old home, and there will be nothing to interfere with our quiet, peaceful journey to the end.”
Mrs Mallow turned her soft pensive eyes up to him as he leaned over the couch, and he bent down and kissed her tenderly.
“Well, my darling, who can say?” he whispered. “If more trouble comes, it is our fate, and we will try and bear the burden as best we can.”
“But you will go down now and then to Lawford, Eli?” she said, and the Rector sighed.
“Yes, my dear, I will,” he said; “but at present we must stay in town.” And he placed his hands behind him and walked up and down the room, wishing that he could understand the Lawford people, or that they could understand him, and looking forward with anything but pleasurable anticipations to his next visit.
Just then Julia, looking very pale and dreamy in her half-mourning, entered the room, to come and sit with and read to the invalid, a visitor being below, and her presence not being in any way missed.
Henry, Lord Artingale was the visitor, and as soon as she had left the room Julia became one of the principal topics, for she had seemed of late to have fallen into a dreamy state, now indifferent, now reckless, and Cynthia declared pettishly that she gave her sister up in despair.
“I don’t know what to make of her, Harry,” said Cynthia one morning after they had been back in town some time; “one day she will be bright and cheerful, another she seems as if she were going melancholy mad.”
“Oh, no; come, that’s exaggeration, little one.”
“It is not,” cried Cynthia, “for she is wonderfully changed when we are together.”
“How changed? Why, she looks prettier than ever.”
“I mean in her ways,” continued Cynthia. “We used to be sisters indeed, and never kept anything from one another. Why, Harry, I don’t believe either of us had a thought that the other did not share, and now I seem to be completely shut out from her confidence; and if it were not for you, I believe I should break my heart.”
Of course Harry Artingale behaved as a manly handsome young fellow should behave under such circumstances. He comforted and condoled with the afflicted girl, who certainly did not look in the slightest degree likely to break her heart. He offered his manly bosom for her to rest her weary head, and he removed the little pearly tears from under the pretty fringed lids of her large bright eyes. There were four of them—tears, not eyes—and Harry wiped them away without a pocket-handkerchief, the remains of one damaged tear remaining on his moustache when the process was over, and poor little Cynthia seemed much better.
“Well,” said Artingale, “there is one comfort, Cynthy: we did scare away the big bogey. She has not seen him any more?”
“No—no!” said Cynthia softly, “I suppose not. She has never said anything about him since we were at Hastings. I have fancied sometimes that she has seen him and been frightened; but she never mentions it, and I have always thought it best never to say a word.”
“Oh, yes, far the best,” said Artingale, who was examining Cynthia’s curly hair with as much interest as if it was something he saw now for the first time. “Didn’t you say, though, that you thought she saw him that day the mare bolted with you?”
“Nonsense! she did not bolt with me, Harry. Just as if I should let a mare bolt with me. Something startled her, and she leaped the hedge, and as we were off the road, and it was a chance for a gallop, I let her go across country. But you know; I told you.”
“Yes, dear,” said Artingale, one of whose fingers was caught in a sunny maze. “But now, Cynthy, my pet, revenons à nos moutons.”
“Very well, sir,” she said shyly, “revenons à nos moutons.”
“So the wedding is to be on the fourth?”
“Yes,” said Cynthia, with a sigh, “on the fourth—not quite a month, Harry. Where’s James Magnus?”
“Shut up in his studio, splashing the paint about like a madman. He never comes out hardly. He has cut me, and spends most of his time with that barrister fellow who was to have married Sage Portlock.”
“Luke Ross! Oh! Are they friends?”
“Thick as thieves,” said Artingale. “I suppose they sit and talk about disappointed love, and that sort of thing.”
“Do they?” cried Cynthia.
“Oh, I don’t know, of course. By Jove, though, Cynthy, that Ross is a splendid fellow; no one would ever have thought he was only a tanner’s son.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes whose son a man is,” said Cynthia, demurely. “I’ve always noticed though that poor people’s sons are very clever, and noblemen’s sons very stupid.”
“Horribly,” said Artingale, laughing. “Why, you saucy little puss!”
Matters here not necessary for publication.
“I don’t want to say unkind things,” said Cynthia, pouting now, “but I’m sure poor Sage Portlock would have been a great deal wiser if she had married Luke Ross; and if you were in your right senses, Harry, you would never think of marrying into such an unhappy family as ours.”
“Oh, but then I’ve been out of my mind for long enough, Cynthy. The wise ones said I ran mad after the Rector’s little daughter.”
“When you might have made a most brilliant match or two, I heard,” cried Cynthia.
“Yes, pet, all right,” he said, laughing; “but you’re in for it. I won’t be pitched over.”
“I’m sure the state of Cyril’s home is disgraceful.”
“I dare say, my darling; but we are not going to live there.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” cried Cynthia. “But tell me, Harry, has James Magnus cut you?”
“No. Oh, no; only I am so much away now that instead of being regular chums we don’t often meet. Hah! what jolly times I used to have with him, to be sure!”
“I hate him,” cried Cynthia, angrily. “He’s a great stupid coward.”
“No, you don’t, Cynthy; and you don’t think he is a coward.”
“Well, perhaps I don’t hate him very much, and perhaps I don’t think him a very great coward; but, oh! Harry, if I had been a man, do you think I would have allowed that miserable—miserable—”
“Design for a wall-paper or fresco?” suggested Artingale.
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Cynthia, laughing and clapping her hands with childlike delight. “That’s it: what a grand idea! Oh, Harry, how clever you are!”
She looked up at him admiringly, and he smiled, and—Well, of course, that was sure to follow. Young lovers are so very foolish, and it came natural to them to tangle one another up in their arms, and for Cynthia’s nose to be hidden by Artingale’s moustache.
Then they grew sage, as the French call it, once more, and Artingale spoke—
“That’s right, little pet, think so if you can; but I wish, for your sake, I were—”
“Were what, sir?”
“Clever. Do you know, Cynthy, I often think what a good job it was that nature had the property valued before I was launched.”
“Why, you dear stupid old boy, what do you mean?”
“What I say, pet: had me valued. Then he said, ‘Well, he’s got no brains, and he’ll never do any good for himself if he is left alone; so I’ll make him a lord and give him an income.’”
“Oh, Harry, what nonsense!”
“And then, to help me on a bit farther when I had grown to years of indiscretion, she gave me, or is about to give me, the dearest and best and sweetest and most beautiful of little women to be my wife.”
Which was, of course, very stupid again; and more resulted, after which Artingale said quietly—
“Cynthy, dear, you believe in me thoroughly?”
“Thoroughly, Harry.”
“You know I love you with all my heart?”
“Yes, Harry,” she replied, with her hands in his.
“Then you will not think me strange if I say to you I don’t want to be married yet?”
“N-no,” said Cynthia, with just a suspicion of hesitation.
“Then I’m going to speak out plainly, darling. I’m stupid in some things, but I’m as sharp as a needle concerning anything about you, and I couldn’t help seeing that the Rector and mamma thought that our wedding might take place at the same time as Julia’s.”
“Ye-es,” faltered Cynthia.
“Well, then,” said Artingale, “I would rather for several reasons it did not.”
He waited for a few moments, but Cynthia did not speak.
“I’m not going to talk nonsense about being like brothers,” he continued, “and loving James Magnus; but, Cynthy, dear, I never yet met a man whom I liked half so well, and—and I’d do anything for poor old Jemmy. Well,” he continued, “for one thing, it seems horrible to me to make that the happiest day of my life which will be like that which kills his last hope.”
Cynthia did not speak, but nestled closely to him.
“Then it gives me a sensation like having a cold douche to think of going up the church with that fellow, for I know he’ll be dressed up like a figure in an old picture, with his sisters and friends like so many animated pre-Raphaelites in an idyllic procession attending the funeral of a fay.”
“I say, Harry,” cried Cynthia, “that’s not your language, sir. Where did you pick it up?”
“Oh, out of Perry-Morton’s new poems, as he called them. ’Pon my word, you know, I should feel as if it was a sort of theatrical performance. Oh, Cynthy, I should like to have you in white, and take you by the hand, and walk into some out-of-the-way little church in the country, where there was a nice, pleasant old parson, who’d read the service and say God bless us both; and then for us to go away—right away, where all was green fields and flowers, and birds singing, and all the confounded nonsense and fuss and foolery of a fashionable wedding was out of my sight; and Cynthy, darling, let’s make a runaway match of it, and go and be married to-morrow—to-day—now; or let’s wait till poor Julia has been sold. There, pet, hang it all! it makes me wild.”
He jumped up and began to pace the room, and Cynthia went up to him and put her arm through his.
“Harry, dear,” she said softly, “you’ve made me very happy by what you have told me. Let’s wait, dear. I should not like to be married then. I should like—should like—” she faltered, with her pretty little face burning—“our wedding to be all happiness and joy; and on the day when Julia is married to Perry-Morton, I shall cry ready to break my heart.”