Part 21 (2/2)
As I looked back on my way home I saw that Ted had fetched his rake, and was busy getting the garden into order again.
CHAPTER XX
THE CYNIC'S RENUNCIATION
Excitements tread upon each other's heels. After Barjona, the Cynic.
He appeared unexpectedly on Monday morning, and I took the long-promised photographs, which have turned out very badly; why, I don't know. He was not in his Sunday best, so the fault did not lie there; and his expression was all right, but I could not catch it on the plate, try as I might. He was very much amused, and accused me of looking haggard over the business, which was absurd. Every photographer is anxious to secure a satisfactory result, or if he is not he does not deserve to succeed. I think really I was afraid of his waxing sarcastic over my attempts at portraying his features. He is not a handsome man, as I may have remarked before, but he is not the sort that pa.s.ses unnoticed, and I wanted to secure on the plate the something that makes people look twice at him; and I failed. I took several negatives, but none of them was half as nice as the original; and yet we are told that photography flatters!
He professed an indifference which I am afraid he felt, and Mother Hubbard a.s.sured him over the dinner-table that there was not the slightest ground for anxiety. It will be a long time, I fear, before he gets the proofs. He stayed to dinner on his own invitation, and Mother Hubbard prepared one of her extra special Yorks.h.i.+re puddings in his honour. Fortunately, we had not cooked the beef on the Sunday, or he would have had to be content with the remains of the cold joint; and though I should not have minded, I know Mother Hubbard would have been greatly distressed.
He spoke quite naturally about Rose, and appeared to have enjoyed her company immensely, but he had not seen her again up to then.
When the meal was over we went out into the garden and sat down, and somehow or other the sense of quiet and the beauty of the view soothed me, and I felt less irritable than for days past. I never get tired of the dip of green fields and the stretch of moor on the far side of the wood.
”Can you spare me a full hour, Miss Holden?” he asked. ”I have come down specially to see you, princ.i.p.ally because I have had a letter from Mr. Evans which in some measure concerns you, and also because I want to continue the discussion of the parable of the marbles which we were considering the other evening.”
How pretty the landscape looked from our garden! Cloud shadows were racing each other across the pastures as I lay back and watched them, and I thought the view had never been bonnier.
”I am not overworked,” I replied, ”and I can give up a whole afternoon, if necessary. What is the news from the squire? Nothing serious, I hope; and yet it must be important to bring you down here specially.”
”I hardly know what to say. Something in his letter conveys the impression that he is far from well again, though he does not definitely say so. But it appears that he has asked you to go out to him if he becomes seriously ill. That is so, isn't it?”
”Yes,” I answered, ”and I have promised to go. It touches me deeply that he should want me.”
”I don't wonder,” he said; but whether at my emotion or the squire's proposal did not transpire.
”If and when he sends for you,” he continued, ”he wishes you to communicate with me, and he asks me to make all the business arrangements for you. I need hardly say that it will afford me much pleasure to do whatever I can. I will give you my Broadbeck and town addresses, and if you will wire me whenever you need my services I will reply at once. Please don't feel obliged to look anything up for yourself, as I will see to every detail, and provide all that is necessary for the journey in accordance with my old friend's instructions.”
”It is extremely good of you,” I said, ”and very thoughtful on the squire's part. I accept your offer gratefully. But do you think there is much likelihood of my being sent for?”
”Candidly, I think there is; equally candidly, I hope the necessity may not arise. If the end comes whilst he is abroad, a man ought by all means to be present, for there will be no end of difficulties, and it will be absolutely necessary for someone to go out. But that takes time, and meanwhile the position would not be a pleasant one for you.
I would go to him myself now but for two insuperable difficulties, one being that certain important duties keep me in London at present, and the other that Mr. Evans most distinctly does not want me.”
”I quite see what you mean,” I said; ”but if the worst happens, and I am there at the time, I shall do my best and not mind the unpleasantness.”
”I am sure of that,” he returned, ”but you don't at all realise what is involved. However, we won't discuss this further. On his account I should be heartily glad for you to go, and I am relieved that he has had the good sense to suggest it.”
”I regard him very highly,” I said.
”You do more: you love him,” he remarked, with a sharp, keen glance at my face.
”Yes, I think I love him,” I replied without confusion. ”I could easily be his daughter; we have much in common.”
He said nothing for quite a long time, during which he threw his cigarette away and lit a pipe. Then he turned to me:
”Now for my parable.”
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