“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.”