Read Ebook: The Stolen Singer by Bellinger Martha Idell Fletcher Brown Arthur William Illustrator

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Ebook has 1776 lines and 77700 words, and 36 pages

'Do you mean to say you actually did that too?' asks he, with such extreme astonishment that Susan grows actually elated.

'Oh yes,' says she, taking a modest tone, though her conceit is rising; 'it is quite easy.'

'To me it seems impossible. To do that, and only with one's fingers; it beats typewriting,' says he. 'It is twice as legible. Do you mean to say you wrote--worked, I mean--that with a common needle and thread?'

'I did indeed,' says Susan earnestly, her heart again knowing a throb of exultation. Why, if he could only see the cushion she worked for Lady Millbank's bazaar!

'It must have taken a long time,' says he thoughtfully. And then, 'And to think of you doing it for me!'

'Oh, for you,' says Susan--'you who have been so kind to us all! I'--growing shy again--'I am very glad you really like that little bag; but it is nothing--nothing. And I was delighted to make it for you, and to think of you all the time as I made it.'

'Were you, Susan?' says Crosby, as gratefully as possible, though he feels his heart in some silly way is sinking.

'I was--I was indeed!' says Susan openly, emphatically. 'So you must not trouble yourself about that.' Crosby's heart falls another fathom or two.

'I'll try not to,' says he, with a somewhat melancholy reflection of his usual lightheartedness. They have arrived at the gate now, and Susan holds out her hand to him.

'Remember you have promised to bring up the boys to-morrow for their gipsy tea,' says he, holding it.

'Yes.' She hesitates and flushes warmly. 'Might I bring Betty, too?'

'Why, of course'--eagerly. 'Give my love to her, and tell her from--my sister that we can't have a gipsy tea without her.'

'And Lady Forster?' Susan grows uncertain about the propriety of asking Betty without Lady Forster's consent.

'Now, Susan! As if you aren't clever enough to know that Katherine delights in nothing so much as young people--she's quite as young as the youngest herself--and that she will be only too pleased to see a sister of yours.'

There is emphasis on the last word.

'You think that she likes me?' Susan's tone is anxious.

'I think she has fallen in love with you.' She smiles happily and moves a step away. But his voice checks her: 'Not the only one either, Susan.'

'Oh, not Captain Lennox again! I have had one lecture.' Susan looks really saucy, for once in her life, and altogether delightful, as she defies him from under her big straw hat.

'Yes?'--gaily.

'Never mind.'

He turns and walks away, and Susan, laughing to herself at his inability to accuse her further, runs down the little avenue to her home. There is a rush from the lawn as she comes in sight.

'Oh, there you are, Susan!'

'How did it go off?'

'Were they all nice? Were you nervous?'

'Is the house lovely?'

'Oh, it is!' says Susan, now having reached a seat, and feeling a little consequential with all of them sitting round her and waiting on her words. 'You never saw such a house! Much, much more beautiful than Lady Millbank's.'

'And the people?' asks Betty impatiently; she is distinctly material.

'Very, very nice too--that is, most of them. Miss Prior was there. She--well, I can't bring myself to like her.'

'What did she do to you?' asks Dom.

'That's enough,' says Carew. 'You didn't hit it off with her, evidently.'

Susan hesitates, and as usual is lost.

'I can't bear her,' says she.

'And that lovely girl who drove home with Mr. Crosby?' asks Betty.

'Did she?'--from Betty. 'What a good thing that she likes you! If she marries Mr. Crosby she may be very useful to us.'

'I don't think she is going to marry him,' says Susan thoughtfully.

'No?'--with growing interest. 'They'--casting back her thoughts--'looked very like it on Sunday. How do you know?'

'I asked him,' says Susan simply.

'What!' They all sit up in a body. 'You--asked him?'

'Yes. Does it sound dreadful?' Poor Susan grows very red. 'It'--nervously--'didn't sound a bit dreadful when I did it. And'--desperately--'I did, any way.'

'It wasn't a bit dreadful,' says Carew good-naturedly.

'Dominick!' says Susan in an outraged tone.

Here Betty promptly catches his ear, and, pulling him down beside her, begins to pommel him within an inch of his life.

'Never mind him, Susan. He's got no brains. They were left out when he was born. Tell us more about your luncheon-party.'

'There is so little to tell,' says Susan in a subdued voice. Her pretty colour has died away, and she is looking very pale.

'What about the poet?'

'Oh, the poet! His name is Jones, of all the names in the world!'

'I don't know about that,' says Dom, who has escaped from Betty's wrathful hands and is prepared to go any length to prevent a recurrence of the late ceremonies. 'He might do worse!'

'And so the house is lovely,' says Betty, with a regretful sigh. Now if only they would ask her there; but of course nobody remembers second girls.

'Yes, lovely. The halls are all done up; and there are paintings on the walls; and as for the marbles, they are exquisite!'

'Nice simple people, apparently,' says Dom. 'Were they glass or stone, Susan? Alleys or stony taws? Did you have a game yourself? I'm afraid our education has been a little neglected in that line; but, still, I can recollect your doing a little flutter in the way of marbles about half a decade or so ago; and you won, too!'

'I suppose you think you're funny,' says Betty, which is about the most damping speech that anyone can make, but Mr. Fitzgerald is hard to damp. He gives her a reproachful glance and sinks back with the air of one thoroughly misunderstood.

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