Surrender to Sin Read Free Page B

indeed I smirked?”
    “What right have you to accuse Mr. Coleridge of making up a fairy story?” Abigail demanded huffily.
    “You’re quite right,” he murmured, though he still appeared amused rather than contrite. “I withdraw my cynical remarks. I withdraw my smirk.”
    “I should think so indeed,” said Abigail crisply, as Mr. Eldridge returned with a book.
    “Good God,” said Cary. “Blake’s Songs of Innocence, unless I miss my guess.”
    Mr. Eldridge looked at the gentleman with approval. “ Songs of Innocence and of Experience , sir. A combined volume, very rare. Mr. Blake prints them all himself, you know.”
    Abigail shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand Mr. Blake,” she said. “I read part of Heaven and Hell last winter, but it was so strange that I had to set it aside for my own peace of mind. And, you know, people say he’s not a patriot.”
    “Not a patriot?” said Cary, frowning. “What do you mean?”
    Abigail dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “During the war, he was suspected of printing seditious material, and when the soldiers came to his door and said, ‘Open in the name of the King!’ Mr. Blake answered, from behind the door, ‘Bugger the King!’ Which, I daresay, is not a very nice thing to say about one’s sovereign,” she quickly added.
    “Or anyone else’s sovereign,” Cary agreed, just managing to keep a straight face. “But the war is over now, cousin, and we are once again free to insult our betters as much as we please, without fear of reprisal. In my opinion—if you happen to be interested in my opinion?”
    “Yes, of course,” Abigail said civilly.
    “In my opinion, Mr. Blake is a visionary poet without the aid—or excuse—of opium, which is more than your Mr. Coleridge can say. But if Blake is too strong for you, cousin, there’s bound to be a little Wordsworth lying about the place.”
    Abigail was indignant. “I rather like Mr. Wordsworth!”
    His smile widened. “I suspected as much. He’s so perfectly harmless.”
    “It really is a very fine volume, madam,” interjected Mr. Eldridge, still hoping for a sale. “Nothing frightening in it at all. If nothing else, Mr. Blake is a master of the copperplate.”
    “If the tiger is good, you should buy it, cousin,” said Cary decisively, reaching for the book. “There,” he said drawing her attention to a poem entitled, “The Tyger.” At the bottom of the page was a cartoon of a muscular beast with amber eyes as big as saucers. Its fiery orange body bore irregular umber stripes, but in no other way did it resemble a tiger.
    “It appears to be smirking,” said Abigail critically. “And the poem…It’s like a nursery rhyme, isn’t it? ‘Tyger Tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night…’”
    “Remind me never to visit your nursery!” Cary said, laughing.
    Mr. Eldridge looked inquiringly at Abigail. “Madam?”
    She shook her head. “Perhaps the gentleman wants it.”
    “Excellent tiger,” said Cary. “Wish I could afford it, but I’m rather as poor as Adam at the moment. My man of affairs has ordered me to retrench. You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone looking for a house in the country, would you, cousin? I’ve got one to let, and I could certainly use the rent. It’s an old dower house, a cottage really. Only six bedrooms.”
    “Have you tried advertising?” she asked politely.
    “Good Lord, no,” he answered. “I couldn’t possibly advertise. Advertisements always draw the very worst sort of people: people who read advertisements. If you should hear of anyone interested in a place, do please send him my way,” he said, feeling about his waistcoat for a card. Finding none, he took Dulwich’s apology from her, turned it over, and scrawled rapidly on the back: “Cary Wayborn, Tanglewood Manor, Herts.” “A recommendation from my fair cousin would be enough for me,” he added with a wide smile.
    Flattered, Abigail tucked it