The Sirdar's Oath Part 3

"If I don't. But I do--of course I do. I can't think what you're driving at."

"Oh, it's simple enough. Couldn't you manage now and then, if only for a change, to give him a civil word? Men don't like to be perpetually found fault with and hauled over the coals," p.r.o.nounced the Vicar, speaking with some feeling, moved thereto by sundry vivid recollections of his own, for he was a widower. Cynthia coloured.

"But they require it--and--it's only for their good," she answered.

"No deadlier motive could be adduced," returned her father, drily.

"Because, you see, if you use the whip too much they're apt to kick.

And I descry symptoms of such a tendency on the part of Herbert I thought I'd give you a hint, that's all. It would be a pity to lose him. His position is excellent and his prospects ditto; besides, he's a thoroughly good fellow into the bargain."

The pool beneath Blackadder Bridge was wide enough for a rod on each side, so that neither interfered with the other, but Raynier and his future sister-in-law had met with scant sport. The surroundings, however, were lovely: the soft roll of the wooded hills resounding with the joyous shout of the cuckoo, the blue haze of spring beneath the cloudless sky, and meadows spangled with myriad b.u.t.ter cups; while, hard by, skipping perkily in and out of their k.n.o.b-like nest against the h.o.a.ry mossiness of the b.u.t.tressed bridge, a pair of water-ouzels took no count whatever of their human disturbers. The bleating of young lambs was in the air, mingling with the tuneful murmur of the brown water purling out from the breadth of the deep pool into a miniature rapid.

"Well, you two? What have you got to show for yourselves?"

Raynier looked up, almost startled, so amazed was he. For the voice was Cynthia's--and it was quite pleasant, even affectionate. And there was Cynthia herself, looking exceedingly attractive in her plain, and therefore tasteful, country attire. In her hand was a basket.

"I thought I'd bring you something better for lunch than those dry old sandwiches," she said, smilingly, as she proceeded to unpack its contents. And Raynier, wondering, thought, could this be the same Cynthia whom he had last seen, acid and disagreeable, who, indeed, had scarcely had a civil word to throw to him since his arrival.

"Beastly bad luck," screamed Sylvia, from the other side, reeling in her line, preparatory to coming over to join in the lunch.

This proved quite enjoyable. What on earth had happened to Cynthia between then and breakfast time, thought Raynier. No trace of acidity was there about her now. Her manner was soft, indeed affectionate, and she looked up into his disfigured countenance quite delightfully, instead of turning from it in aversion as heretofore. Why on earth couldn't she be like this always, he thought regretfully, feeling softened and relenting, under the combined influence of the soothing surroundings and an excellent lunch.

In the afternoon sport mended, and more than once a "boil" came on the water, for a few minutes only, but so lively while it lasted that they took out trout almost with every cast, and then he noticed how carefully in the background Cynthia kept, and when he hung up his cast in that confounded elder tree just as the rise began, she it was who came to the rescue of his impatience, and so deftly and quickly disentangled the flies. Why on earth could not she always be like that? And then, during the two-mile walk home together in the glowing beauty of the cloudless evening there was simply no comparison between the delightful attractiveness of this woman, and the frowning, shrewish scold of the opening of the day, and again and again he thought,--"If only she were always like this!"

CHAPTER FOUR.

A TIMELY RECONSIDERATION.

For a few days matters ran smoothly enough. The weather was lovely, ideal May weather, in fact, and Raynier keenly appreciated the soft beauty of this typical English landscape, seen at its best at the loveliest time of the year--the fresh green of the foliage and the yellow-spangled meadows; the cool lanes, shaded with hawthorn blossoms; the snug farmhouses with their blaze of glowing flower-beds and the background of picturesque ricks; the faint hum of the mill at the end of the village, and the screech of swifts, skirring and wheeling round the church tower, seen beyond the wall of the Vicarage garden. Such homely sights and sounds appealed to him the more by contrast to the bra.s.sy skies and baked aridity for which he would so soon be bound to exchange them. For his furlough was drawing very near its end.

Strange that, under the circ.u.mstances, it should be almost entirely this that const.i.tuted his regret. Cynthia seemed to forget her chronic ill-temper, and became quite affectionate; yet the recollection of her outbursts remained. Even when at her best Raynier could not for the life of him rid his mind of such recollections. That sort of nature does not change, he told himself, and the prospect of spending his days with the life-long accompaniment of such was as a very weight. And his was not one of those easy-going, quickly-forgiving dispositions; far from it.

For one circ.u.mstance, as time went on, he felt devoutly thankful, although at first he had reproached her with it, and that was that Cynthia was not of a demonstrative temperament, and to this extent the necessity of make-believe was spared him. He observed, too, in the course of their conversations she seldom spoke of the future, or dwelt upon their life together, and, observing it, he more than met her half-way; and as they went about together, both in speech and demeanour they were more like two people of very recent and ordinary acquaintance than a betrothed couple whom a few days more were to separate by nearly half the width of the globe.

At the actual state of things the Vicar, for his part, shrewdly guessed, but being a sensible man forebode to interfere. Cynthia was quite old enough to manage her own affairs, and so too was Raynier. Possibly, when the thing was irrevocable they would hit it off together as well as most people did under the circ.u.mstances, which, to be sure, was not saying much. Cynthia, with her faults, had her good points, and of Raynier he entertained a very high opinion. It would turn out right enough, he decided, but if he had any misgiving, the Vicar was forced to own to himself that it was not on behalf of his daughter.

"Curious thing that will of old Jervis Raynier's," he said one day, when he and his son-in-law elect were walking up and down smoking their pipes. "He left a good deal, and all to a girl who was hardly any relation at all. You only come in after her."

"Which is tantamount to not at all. But the same holds good of myself in the matter of relations.h.i.+p. I'm only a distant cousin--so distant as hardly to count."

"You're a Raynier, at any rate. But she--By the way, do you ever think about it, Herbert? My advice to you is not to. The chances are too slight. The girl is young, they tell me, and attractive. She's bound to marry, and then where do you come in?"

"Nowhere, unless I were to marry her myself," laughed Raynier. "But that's scratched now. By the bye--who is she, Vicar--?"

"Herbert! Oh, there you are," shrilled the voice of Sylvia at this juncture, followed by its owner, somewhat hot, and armed with two trout-rods. "They told me you had gone on, and I got half-way down the village before I found out you hadn't. Here's your rod. Come along.

We're losing the best part of the morning."

There was no gainsaying the crisp decisiveness of these orders, and with an apology to the Vicar, he started off. He was forced to own to himself that these expeditions with the younger girl const.i.tuted his best times. It never occurred to Cynthia to be jealous of her sister, not in the ordinary sense, although once or twice she was rather acid on the subject of his preferring so much of the latter's society. The fact was, Sylvia was lacking in feminine attractions, being plain and somewhat angular. But she was always lively and good-natured, and to that extent a positive relief from the other, albeit an effective foil to her in looks.

Sunday had come round, and Cynthia had got up in a bad temper--we have observed that upon some people the first day of the week has that effect--consequently, when Raynier hinted at the possibility of his not going to church it exploded. The idea of such a thing! Why, of course he must go, staying at the Vicarage as he was. What would be said in the parish?

"But it didn't matter what was said in the parish last Sunday. You wouldn't let me come then because I was too ugly," he urged, with a mischievous wink at Sylvia.

"Well, so you were, but your face is nearly all right again now,"

answered Cynthia, briskly, and with acerbity, for she had no sense of fun.

"Not it. You'll see it'll keep all the choir boys staring, and they can't warble with their heads c.o.c.ked round at right angles to the rest of them."

Sylvia spluttered.

"All the more reason why you should come, Herbert," she said. "I want to see that. It'll be good sport."

"If you were a boy you'd be a typical parson's son, Silly," he laughed.

"Shut up. I'll throw something at you if you call me that."

"Do, and you'll keep up the part," he returned.

Worthingham Church was in close resemblance to a thousand or so other village churches of its size and circ.u.mstance, in that it was old and picturesque, and gave forth the same flavour of mould and damp stones.

There was the same rustic choir with newly-oiled heads and clattering boots and skimpy surplices, singing the same hackneyed hymns, and the Vicar's sermon was on the same level of prosiness, not that he could not have done better, but he had long since ceased to think it worth while taking the trouble. But Cynthia Daintree, seated in the front pew, well gowned and tastefully hatted, and withal complacently conscious of the same, was the presiding G.o.ddess, at whom the rustics aforesaid never seemed tired of furtively staring--in awe, which somewhat outweighed their admiration--therein well-nigh overlooking the discoloured countenance of her _fiance_.

"Cynthia always looks as if she'd bought up the whole show," p.r.o.nounced Sylvia, subsequently and irreverently.

Raynier had answered one or two inquiries after his "bicycle accident"-- Cynthia having deftly contrived to let it be understood, though not in so many words, that such was the nature of his mishap--and they were re-entering the garden gate. Suddenly she said,--

"Where's your stick, Herbert? The malacca one. Why, you haven't used it at all this time."

It was all up now, he thought. As a matter of fact his main reason for endeavouring to avoid going to church that morning was that it would be one opportunity the less for her to miss that unlucky article.

"No, I haven't. The fact is I've lost it."

"Lost it? Oh, Herbert!"

She looked so genuinely hurt that he felt almost guilty.

"Yes. I'm awfully sorry, Cynthia. I wouldn't have lost it for anything, but even as it is I'm sure to get it back again. I'm having inquiries made, and offering rewards, in short doing all I can do.

It'll turn up again. I'm certain of that."

"But--how did you lose it, and where?"

He told her how; that being a detail he had purposely omitted in previous narration of the incident. It was but frowningly received.

"I didn't think you would attach so little value to anything _I_ had given you, and yet I might have known you better."