Missing by Mrs. Humphry Ward (sight word readers txt) 📕

Skelwith, with a gay wave of the hand to the old Rector and Farrell left behind.

Cicely's sudden scarlet ebbed in a moment, leaving her quite white. She walked on with difficulty, her eyes on the ground. Nelly dared not address her, or slip a sympathising hand into hers. And it was too late to retreat. Farrell had perceived them, and he and his companion came towards them. Cicely pulled herself rapidly together.

Nelly too had need of a minute or two's recollection before Farrell joined them. He and she were still to meet as usual, while meeting was possible--wasn't that how it stood? After all, her new plans could not be made in a moment. She had promised nothing; but he had promised--would she be able to hold him to it? Her heart trembled as he came nearer.

But he met her in a sunny mood, introducing her to the white-haired old clergyman, and watching Cicely with eyes that shewed a hidden amusement.

'The other two seemed to have some private business to discuss,' he said carelessly. 'So they've got rid of us for a while. They're walking round the other side of the tarn and will join us at the top of Red Bank. At least if you're up to a walk?'

He addressed Nelly, who could do nothing but assent, though it meant a tete-a-tete with him, while Cicely and the old Rector followed.

Mr. Stewart found Miss Farrell anything but an agreeable companion. He was not a shrewd observer, and the love-affairs especially of his fellow-creatures were always a surprise and a mystery to him. But he vaguely understood that his little granddaughter was afraid of Miss Farrell and did not get on with her. He, too, was afraid of Cicely and her sharp tongue, while her fantastic dress and her rouge put him in mind of passages in the prophet Ezekiel, the sacred author of whom he was at that moment making a special study with a view to a Cambridge University sermon. It would be terrible if Daisy were ever to take to imitating Miss Farrell. He was a little disturbed about Daisy lately. She had been so absent-minded, and sometimes--even--a little flighty. She had forgotten the day before, to look out some passages for him; and there was a rent in his old overcoat she had not mended. He was disagreeably conscious of it. And what could she have to say to Captain Marsworth? It was all rather odd--and annoying. He walked in a preoccupied silence.

Farrell and Nelly meanwhile were, it seemed, in no lack of conversation. He told her that he might possibly be going to France, in a week or two, for a few days. The Allied offensive on the Somme was apparently shutting down for the winter. 'The weather in October just broke everybody's heart, vile luck! Nothing to be done but to make the winter as disagreeable to the Boche as we can, and to go on piling up guns and shells for the spring. I'm going to look at hospitals at X---' he named a great base camp--'and I daresay they'll let me have a run along some bit of the front, if there's a motor to be had.'

Nelly stopped abruptly. He could see the colour fluctuating in her delicate face.

'You're going to X---? You--you might see Dr. Howson?'

'Howson?' he said, surprised. 'Do you know him? Yes, I shall certainly see Howson. He's now the principal surgeon at one of the General Hospitals there, where I specially want to look at some new splints they've been trying.'

Nelly moved on without speaking for a little. At last she said, almost inaudibly--

'He promised me--to make enquiries.'

'Did he?' Farrell spoke in the grave, deep voice he seemed to keep for her alone, which was always sweet to her ear. 'And he has never written?' She shook her head. 'But he would have written--instantly--you may be quite sure, if there had been the slightest clue.'

'Oh yes, I know, I know,' she said hastily.

'Give me any message for him you like--or any questions you'd like me to ask.'

'Yes'--she said, vaguely.

It seemed to him she was walking languidly, and he was struck by her weary look. The afternoon had turned windy and cold with gusts of rain. But when he suggested an immediate return to the cottage, Nelly would have none of it.

'We were to meet Captain Marsworth and Miss Stewart. Where are they?'

They emerged at the moment from the cottage grounds, upon the high road; Farrell pointed ahead, and Nelly saw Marsworth and Miss Stewart walking fast up the hill before them, and evidently in close conversation.

'What can they have to talk about?' said Nelly, wondering.

'Wouldn't you like to know!'

'You're not going to tell me?'

'Not a word.'

His eyes laughed at her. They walked on beside each other, strangely content. And yet, with what undercurrents of sensitive and wounded consciousness on her side, of anxiety on his!

At the top of Red Bank they came up with Marsworth and Miss Stewart. Nelly's curiosity was more piqued than ever. If all that Marsworth had said to her was true, why this evident though suppressed agitation on the girl's part, and these shades of mystery in the air? Daisy Stewart was what anybody would have called 'a pretty little thing.' She was small, round-cheeked, round-eyed, round-limbed; light upon her feet; shewing a mass of brown hair brushed with gold under her hat, and the fresh complexion of a mountain maid. Nelly guessed her age about three and twenty, and could not help keenly watching the meeting between her and Cicely. She saw Cicely hold out a limp hand, and the girl's timid, almost entreating eyes.

But, the next moment, her attention was diverted to a figure slowly mounting the steep hill from Grasmere, on the top of which the cottage party were now standing, uncertain whether to push on for their walk, or to retreat homewards before the increasing rain. The person approaching was Bridget. As she perceived her, Nelly was startled into quick recollection of Cicely's remark of the morning--'Your sister seems to have grown much older.' But not only older--_different!_ Nelly could not have analysed her own impression, but it was so painful that she ran down to meet her.

'Bridget, it's too far for you to Grasmere!--and coming back up this awful hill! You look quite done. Do go home and lie down, or will you come to the cottage for tea first? It's nearer.'

Bridget looked at her coldly.

'Why do you make such a fuss? I'm all right. But I'm not coming to the cottage, thank you. I've got things to do.'

The implication was that everyone else was idle. Nelly drew back, rebuffed. And as Bridget reached the group at the top of the hill it was as though the rain and darkness suddenly deepened. All talk dropped. Farrell, indeed, greeted her courteously, introduced her to the Stewarts, and asked her to come back to the cottage for tea. But he was refused as Nelly had been. Bridget went on her way alone towards the farm. But after parting from the others she turned back suddenly to say--'There were no letters for you, Nelly.'

'What a mercy!' said Farrell, as Bridget disappeared. 'Don't you think so? I never have any forwarded here.'

'Ah, but you get so many,' said Nelly wistfully. 'But still, letters don't matter to me--now.'

He said nothing, but it roused in him a kind of fierce soreness that she would always keep the past so clearly before herself and him.

Violent rain came on, and they hurried back to the cottage for shelter. Cicely was talking extravagantly all the time. She was tired to death, she said, of everything patriotic. The people who prattled about nursing, and the people who prattled about the war--especially the people who talked about women's work--were all equally intolerable. She meant to give up everything very soon. Somebody must amuse themselves, or the world would go mad. Farrell threw at her some brotherly jibes; the old Rector looked scared; and Marsworth said nothing.

* * * * *

There were bright fires in the cottage, and the dripping walkers were glad to crowd round them; all except Cicely and Marsworth, who seemed to Nelly's watching sense to be oddly like two wrestlers pacing round each other, and watching the opportunity to close. Each would take out a book from the shelves and put it back, or take up a newspaper from the tables--crossing repeatedly, but never speaking. And meanwhile Nelly also noticed that Daisy Stewart, now that Cicely's close contact was removed, was looking extraordinarily pretty. Radiance, not to be concealed, shone from her charming childish face.

Suddenly Marsworth paused in front of Cicely, intercepting her as she was making for the door.

'Would you be an angel, Miss Farrell, and help me to find a particular Turner drawing I want to see? Willy says it's in the studio somewhere.'

Cicely paused, half haughty, half irresolute.

'Willy knows his way about the portfolios much better than I do.'

Marsworth came nearer, and leaning one hand on the table between them, bent over to her. He was smiling, but there was emotion in his look.

'Willy is looking after these people. Won't you?'

Cicely considered.

'All right!' she said carelessly, at last, and led the way.


CHAPTER XV

The studio was empty. A wood fire burnt on the wide hearth, making a pleasant glow in the wintry twilight. Cicely seated herself on the end of a sofa, crossed her feet, and took out a cigarette. But to Marsworth's intense relief she had taken off the helmet-like erection she called a hat, and her black curly hair strayed as it pleased about her brow and eyes.

'Well?' she said, at last, looking at him coolly. Marsworth could not help laughing. He brought a chair, and placed it where he could see her from below, as he lay back in it, his hands behind his head.

'Of course, you don't want to look at the portfolio,' she resumed, 'that was your excuse. You want to tell me of your engagement to Miss Stewart.'

Marsworth laughed again. Her ear caught what seemed to be a note of triumph.

'Make haste, please!' she said, breathing quickly. 'There isn't very much time.'

His face changed. He sat up, and held out his hand to her.

'Dear Cicely, I want you to do something for me.'

But she put her own behind her back.

'Have you been quarrelling already? Because if you want me to make it up, that really isn't my vocation.'

He was silent a moment surveying her. Then he said quietly--'I want you to help me. I want you to be kind to that little girl.'

'Daisy Stewart? Thank you. But I've no gift at all for mothering babes! Besides--she'll now have all the advice, and all the kindness she wants.'

Marsworth's lips twitched.

'Yes, that's true--if you and I can help her out. Cicely!--aren't you a great friend of Sir John Raine?'

He named one of the chiefs of the Army Medical Department, a man whose good word was the making of any aspirant in the field he ruled.

Cicely looked rather darkly at her questioner.

'What do you mean?'