CYNTHIA’S CAREER

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 17, 28 April 1906, Page 6

CYNTHIA’S CAREER

By

E. Burrowes

THE professor peered out of his window and found himself looking into a world of roses. He had only arrived late the night before, and what he had seen ul the low, rambling old farmhouse in the duskiness oi a June night —though the sky was all ablaze with a lull moon and myriads oi stars —had in no wise prepared him ior the exquisite scene belore him of velvet turf surrounded with rose bushes, old grey walls, over which roses red and creamy cia inhered prodigally, and bey ond them, in a litt.e dip. a belt oi dark iirs, beyond wnich one could see the green glimmer of the sea. Bare books and Greek tomes, musty with age, had hitherto been his chief attraction in ale; but too much study had injured ins eyes, and his medical man had ordered nun in no uncertain voice to leave woi k and go down into the country to rest. But the professor had >mugg»ed into his portmanteau a bundle oi cnoicc oid volumes smelling oi dust and antiquity, into which lie proposed to dip as soon as his eyes permitted. 1 hat the widow oi lus old friend Carmichael- once one of tile most bril.iant lights in the literary world—had at that very moment two charming rooms to dispose of in her farmhouse, was real luck. Professor Meredith seized on this happy chance, and had arrived as a l« Higer at Court Farm. He was 15 years junior in age to what Carmichael would have been, had he lived; but his 36 years sat heavily on his bowed shoulders, and he was quite accustomed to hear himself described as an <«ld fogey by men and women only a few’ years his junior. It did not trouble him much, for he lived in and for his work alone. But this June day, when it was impossible ior him to work, and when the brilliance of the sun hurt his tired eyes, the professor wondered aimlessly what on earth he was to do with himself all He walked out of the long French window on to the lawn. and. drawn by a gay voice singing behind a privet hedge, lu- came suddenly upon Cynthia, -helling peas. Now. the professor had dimly seen on the previous night the -Jim figure of a girl who had welcomed him shyly, and whom he had heard named by his old friend’s widow as “My daughter. Cynthia." But he had not taken any particular notice of her, and she had completely passed from his memory. So lie stood stock still, awkwardly, w hiloe Cynthia looked up. and smiled. He then noticed how blue were here eyes, and what lovely colouring shone in her healthy little face. He supposed she bad left scheel. for her hair was up and her -kins were about her pretty feet, signs, the professor knew vaguely, to be those of womanhood. “Would you like to help?" said Cynthia audaciously. “Eh I I l»eg your pardon!" stammered the prof<’--or. The girl laughed, swept aside the heap of pea pods which were piled up beside her on the ru-tic -eat. and openly made room for him there. “They are for y our dinner.” she said, “so y ou may a- well help to shell them. Don’t they look good - ' I’ve just picked them in the garden.” The professor -at down meekly, and obediently began shelling peas. He let

more of them tali about his feet than into the while bowl on Cynthia’s lap, and then he had to grovel on the gravel and pick them all up. That was an order issued by Cynthia at once. “Its not distinguished work,’’ she said, “but it’s better for you than trying to read fusty old books and ruining y our eyes! Why, what will you be when you re an old man if you go on like this at your age?" Hugh Meredith—be had almost forgotten his own name, so used was he to the mere formal appellation oi “professor"—stared al her stupidly. “My dear young lady, ue began, 1 “My name's Cynthia Carmichael, and a- you Knew dad so well you may as well call me Cynthia, -aid she caiin.y. “Heil, you weie going t <_» say Mereuith gaspea. liiat i am, compared with yourself" - there was aciua.ly an attempt at gallantly in iii- manner—*o.d in years. Cynthia laugned .-coiinully . “Uiu! what i- your age - ;' sue asked. “i hirty -six. Cynthia made the most charming little grimace and surveyed the prolessor shelling peas with big awkward lingers much as a moi her might survey an indulged child. “Which about corresponds to 23 in a woman.’ she said. “1 Knew you weren't such an old fogey as they made out! W by , 1 am 20 —that's quite 30 in a man, you know —and 1 dare -ay 1 know a good deal that you've never heard oi, because y ou've never taken any interest in—lots of things!" “I—l dare say," said the professor. Never in all bis professional experience bad he felt so utterly floored as by this astounding young woman with the baby face and pansy-blue eyes. He gazed at her, seeing in her a new species, perhaps —something he had certainly never seen before; and his tired eyes, worn out with, peering at cramped characters and musty volumes, found -trange pleasure in gazing upon Cynthia in her rose-pink gown and a rough straw* hat. round which she had twisted an audacious crimson scarf, perched on her siumy head. \\ hat a glorious young creature she was! "1 suppose you don’t approve of a woman having a career—a career with a big *C‘?" “I— 1 hardly know." faltered the professor: ”I—l have not given the subject any deep thought. But ” “Because you think women aren’t worth thinking about at all?" asked Cynthia. with a wicked little laugh. “But there you are <piit e wrong. Mr. Pro-fes-or! They're the making of the world and mankind, and I think they ought to be considered; if they want a career let them have it!” The professor smiled. Here, at least, was mere childish enthusiasm. What could this radiant young thing know of “I I know little of women.” he confessed. and did not notice the delighted -mile that lurked round the corners of Cynthia’s red lips; ‘‘but—what would lie your career. Miss Cynthia, if you had one?” “Literalure." she returned promptly. “I am going to have a career, and T thought you could help me if you only would.”

“Literature!’' gasped the professor, forgetting all about the peas and his task of shelling them. The one word was enough to launch Cy nthia on a flood of explanation. He listened amazed while she confided to him her literary yearnings—the fact that she bad already covered a ream of foolscap with verses and stories, and that all she wanted was honest recognition in the world of letters; that her future was bounded by a fiat in London and a latchkey, true signals of emancipation. “And your writing," he asked at last timidly, what—er—is your particular style?' “Love tales,'’ she returned. “1 write about men and women, and their affairs. The most interesting study in ihe world is that oi one's neighbours, why . you haven't done half the peas—how lazy y ou are! 1 wonder " “You wonder—what?” asked the professor, shelling away with new energy, lie was forgetting that he had anticipated pure boredom in this country spot; ne forgot that his beloved books were waiting for his eyes to get well. It was pleasant enough here m the sunshine, with Cynthia to make him forget anything else in the world. His 36 years even seemed to be rolling otf his shoulders. “1 wonder if you'd look at my writings and see what you think of them?*’ •‘1 —really 1 should be delighted,” he said feebly , “only 1 warn you. Miss Cynthia. that 1 never read much fiction, and I—l know nothing about love." Cynthia laughed. “flow you must have wasted your time!’’ she said, and picked up the bowl of peas, swept the empty pods into the skirt of her pink frock, and left him sitting there staring after her with rather a bewildered look in his tired eyes. •‘How he had wasted his time!” The words haunted him. Ten years had miraculously dropped from Professor Meredith's shoulders in the few weeks he had been at the farm. He no longer indeed thought of himself by his formal title; he was just Hugh Meredith, come to life again—thanks to C y nthia. \ et he hardly realised that But though his tired eyes had regained their lost strength, and though his brain was as clear as ever, he had no burning desire to return to the precious, musty old volumes he had hidden in his portmanteau against his doc-tor's orders. He brought them out once, to be sure, but Cynthia had instantly* confiscated them, and the reluctance with which he let her take them was more than halt assumed. Since then, he had read only some of the girl's efforts written on foolscap paper and tied up with blue ribbons, and the reading of them had opened his eyes and turned his thoughts in quite a new direction. There was a ' simple freshness about Cynthia’s ideas, and after a while he ceased to smile at the love which permeated all her stories. Instead he found himself sighing, and could not have assigned any reason for so doing. And to please the girl, and partly perhaps to please himself. he sent one of the manuscripts to an editor friend in London. asking for his opinion of it on behnlf of the author. It came promptly and eandidly, and the professor winced

as he read it. lymiiia was gaciieriug roses outside, in the garden. “Dear Meredith”—wrote the editor, sorry 1 can do nothing with the manuscript you sent me to look -at. it is too amateurish and ordinary. 1 don't think I'd advise your little friend to take to literature seriously. She'd do better to turn to domestic life, 1 should imagine. 1 Know it s cruel uo damp ardour oi this sort, but it's the truest Kindness in tne end, both to her*, and to us persecuted mortals!—Ever yours, “Kandall Marshall." Cynthia thrust her charming head in at the door. “come out!’’ siie said; “you'll make your eyes bad again! How dare you "it s only a letter," said Meredith, “anu. Miss Cynthia, Here is your manuscript!" >ue advanced into the loom. He read disappointment m ner pretty eyes, uoouness only knew what dreams oi literary success nad haunted her for many nights! “On, ns come back, then! What did he say ?*’ “Li — well—of course, one couldn't expect a first eiiori to meet witn instant success, and ” “Huai aid ne say? Mayn't 1 see the letter?” “I d rather " “Bet me see it!” Cynthia won ner way, and there was dead silence wnile she re-ad the message oi doom. bne lolded it up quietly, and gave it back. “1 see," she said; “he doesn't believe in a career—except sewing on buttons, and making puddings! s>o like a man! 1 don't think much of him." Meredith said nothing; and after a moment s hesitation, Cy nthia pocketed ner rejected literary extort, and went back to her roses; while Meredith, with dismayed eyes, read the other letter the post nad brought him, which was an urgent recall to work. .Examination candidates waited for him at his university . He must leave to-day*. "You're not tit!” said Cynthia, when he told her the news. Her voice was a little thick, and something shone like early dew on the bunch oi pink roses in her hand, yet the sun was high and the dew in the garden was gone. It was a phenomenon over which the professor puzzled, when later in the day the train bore him swiftly away from Arc-ady. “That can’t be helped,” he said; “I must go! You see they* want me. But —1 shall come back. May 1?” “Why, on’ ctourse. you may!” said Cynthia brusquely. “And what -about your packing?” “Well, I must muddle my* things in. somehow!’* said he, with a smile. “And you have no more idea of packing than a baby, I suppose?” said Cynthia scornfully. “I had better do it for you! What helpless creatures men are!*’ The professor stood by helplessly, while she folded clothes, and wrapped up boots, and packed his portmanteau. Once she raised a lovely flushed face from her task.

"Who looks after you at home?” she asked. "A servant. He’s a very good fellow. And 1 live chiefly in the library, you see! ” Cynthia tossed her head. "Give me those books!” she commanded. "I'd like to burn them!” She bustled round him till the uart came to the door, and then she said a cheerful good-bye to him at the porch. He took with him a lasting remembrance of her slim young figure and smiling face as he was borne swiftly away; and a great sense of loss began to press upon him. He surely had not left any of his priceless Greek tomes behind him? No, he had seen them safely packed. It must be something else. He puzzled over the loss during the whole of his journey; while at the farm Cynthia was tidying up the rooms the professor had vacated, and a pair of soeks she found left behind she bore away to her own room, where, on finding a minute hole in the toe of one, she sat down to mend it, and as she mended, her eyes grew soft and tender, and she smiled to herself —till at length 'a tearfell like a diamond drop on the homely sock. Yet it was surely not the loss of a pair of socks that awoke within the professor’s heart such a hideous sense of loss? The examinations were over, and the professor hiad time once more to breathe, and to think of the Aready he had been forced to leave in such waste. The sense of loss w'as still with him; it haunted his waking hours, even when his thoughts ought to have been occupied with more abstruse matters; it came between him and his beloved books; it. drifted through his dreams. He hud most -certainly left something behind him at the farm, and as soon as he could get away he would run down there and find out what it was, 'and—see Cynthia again. The thought sued a kind of glory over his days, and he was walking in i: golden dream of a most incoherent description when he ran up against his old college friend M'assingham. Plunged at once into reminiscences of the past, the professor forgot for the moment his visions of the Aready he had left—and Cynthia. It was Massingham who recalled botli to him. "By the way, you recollect Carmichael?” he said -suddenly. The professor started. "Of course; 1 knew him well!” "1 saw his wife’s death in the paper this morning. Or, 1 should say, his widow’s. lie died, as of course you know, some years ago, and—good gracious, my dear man, what’s the matter?” "Nothing! That is, your news shocker me. I —l knew Mrs Carmichael, too!” "Any children?” "A—a daughter. Excuse me, old chap, but 1 must leave you! See you again, 1 dare say!” And like a rocket the professor vanished, leaving -his old friend to digest his sudden disappearance at his leisure. It was the work of a few minutes to hurl a few things into a bag and to drive furiously to the station. He (hardly knew what took him oil' to comfort Cynthia; he felt as if he, and he alone, had the right to d > so. The thought made his heart stand still for an instant; then it beat t’le faster. If he had only the t to —to care for 'her! The train was :.n express, yet it seemed to the man to crawl to Aready, and tin couple of hours were an eternity before he alighted at the familiar station and hurried of! on his four-mile walk to the farm, where Cyn-

thia would be alone with her grief. His heart swelled at the thought. The sight of the girl in her black dress, her face a little pale, but quite calm, gave him a horrible shock, and the words of sympathy he would have spoken stuck in his throat. “1 came/ he stammered; "I—l felt 1 must! Dear Miss Cynthia, if there is anything i can do—” She shook her head. ”1 have arranged everything,” she said, "and the doctor has been so kind! But it was good of you —very good of you to come! She —she would have been glad! it was very sudden, you know, but she died very quietly, and—there was no pam. iam glad when 1 think of that!” The professor stayed for the iuneral; and a day later he walked up from the inn where he (had put up to the farm. Cynthia received him in the garden, and they walked up and down tnere where they had spent many happy hours together. "What are you going to do?” he asked. “I should like to stay on here if 1 can,” she said, wistfully. “I could not bear to leave this dear place; but the lawyer seems to think 1 must. You see, mother’s pension died with her! 1 have very little to live on, but 1 shall be all the more able to carve out the career i always wanted. Not literature, perhaps,’ she added, with a faint smile, "but something else! 1 must get something to do!” “A —a situation?” The professor’s voice was a little shaken. A bewildering, blinding knowledge Iliad come to him—there in tllie sunshine. He knew quite suddenly what it was he had left behind him in Aready! "Yes! Do—do you know anything that would suit me? 1 would not mind being a companion to a—a nice person. But 1 know beggar’s mustn't be too particular!” "I know of something/’ he said, very slowly; "sit here, Cynthia, and I will tell you. It’s not distinguished work, but 1 think you might care for it in time. Just a companion—there would be a little sewing, perhaps, and a little (housekeeping; but you should have happiness, if you could give some of your time to an old fossil.” Cynthia laughed faintly. "And who is she? 1 would endeavour to do my best.” "It is a man who—who wants the companion!” "Oh. but perhaps I wouldn’t suit!” "No one else would! Don’t you understand. Cynthia? Y’et you told me 1 wanted looking after. Dearest, 1 want you to love me, and to sew on my buttons. and order my house, and be my help through life! I love y T ou so much —could you ever think of such a tilling, Cynthia? 1 would be good to you!” Colour flamed to her cheeks, and she stared at him dumbly for a minute. "It isn’t a great career,"’ he said humbly, "but it might make for our (happiness—if there was love, Cynthia! I never knew of sudh things till you taught me. and then 1 understood what I had never so much as thought of before! Will you try to love me a little? Even though 1 am an old fossil!” "Do you really mean it? I thought it was only books you cared for!” "So did 1! That was one of my many- mistakes. Now I know it has been you ever since 1 first came here. I knew I had left something behind me when I went away. It was my (heart—with you! Cynthia, are you going to take pity on the old fossil?” "No, I am not,” she whispered; "because 1 love you, and there is no pity in that! And you are not an old fossil, and—” The rest was lost in his coat.

“You left those behind you—as well as your heart!” she said later; and gave him the pair of socks she had mended and then carefully put away. He looked at the neat mending, and drew her to him fondly. “And the career, Cynthia—you’ll not regret that?” "Haven’t I found the best in the world for a woman?” she answered; and he was well content. They kept on the old farm, and when his professorial work is over they fly down there for rest, and Cynthia, in her own domain, routs him out of his study, and confiscates his books, and has made iliiin a young man instead of an old fossil. And as to her career —she finds it the most satisfying of any a woman eould choose. (The End.)