Airy Fairy Lilian Part 70

Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm.

"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me----"

But Cyril thrusts him back.

"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you failed me when I most required them, when they might have made _her_ happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment let no one dare broach it to me again."

Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down Lilian's cheeks.

"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend?

Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of her sometimes."

"Not yet; not now," replies he, in the softest tone he has yet used, a gleam of anguish flashing across his face. "Yes, you were always true to her, my good little Lilian!" Then, sinking his voice, "I am leaving home, perhaps for years; do not forsake her. Try to console, to comfort----" He breaks down hopelessly; raising her hand to his lips, he kisses it fervently, and a second later has left the room.

For quite two minutes after the door had closed upon him, no one stirs, no one utters a word. Guy is still standing with downcast eyes upon the spot that witnessed his repulse. Lilian is crying. Lady Chetwoode is also dissolved in tears. It is this particular moment Florence chooses to make the first remark that has pa.s.sed her lips since Cyril's abrupt entrance.

"Could anything be more fortunate?" she says, in a measured, congratulatory way. "Could anything have happened more opportunely? Here is this objectionable marriage irretrievably prevented without any trouble on our parts. I really think we owe a debt of grat.i.tude to this very unpleasant husband."

"Florence," cries Lady Chetwoode, with vehement reproach, stung to the quick, "how can you see cause for rejoicing in the poor boy's misery! Do you not think of him?" After which she subsides again, with an audible sob, into her cambric. But Lilian is not so easily satisfied.

"How dare you speak so?" she says, turning upon Florence with wet eyes that flash fire through their tears. "You are a cold and heartless woman. How should _you_ understand what he is feeling,--poor, poor Cyril!" This ebullition of wrath seems to do her good. Kneeling down by her auntie, she places her arms round her, and has another honest comfortable cry upon her bosom.

Florence draws herself up to her full height, which is not inconsiderable, and follows her movements with slow, supercilious wonder. She half closes her white lids, and lets her mouth take a slightly disdainful curve,--not too great a curve, but just enough to be becoming and show the proper disgust she feels at the terrible exhibition of ill-breeding that has just taken place.

But as neither Lilian nor Lady Chetwoode can see her, and as Guy has turned to the fire and is staring into its depths with an expression of stern disapproval upon his handsome face, she presently finds she is posing to no effect, and gives it up.

Letting a rather vindictive look cover her features, she sweeps out of the drawing-room up to her own chamber, and gets rid of her bad temper so satisfactorily that after ten minutes her maid gives warning, and is ready to curse the day she was born.

The next morning, long before any one is up, Cyril takes his departure by the early train, and for many days his home knows him no more.

A mighty compa.s.sion for Cecilia fills the hearts of all at Chetwoode--all, that is, except Miss Beauchamp, who privately considers it extremely low and wretched form, to possess a heart at all.

Lady Chetwoode, eager and anxious to atone for past unkind thought, goes down to The Cottage in person and insists on seeing its sad tenant,--when so tender and sympathetic is she, that, the ice being broken and pride vanquished, the younger woman gives way, and, laying her head upon the gentle bosom near her, has a hearty cry there, that eases even while it pains her. I have frequently noticed that when one person falls to weeping in the arms of another, that other person maintains a _tendresse_ for her for a considerable time afterward.

Cecilia's lucky rain of tears on this occasion softens her companion wonderfully, so that Lady Chetwoode, who only came to pity, goes away admiring.

There is an indescribable charm about Cecilia, impossible to resist.

Perhaps it is her beauty, perhaps her exquisite womanliness, combined with the dignity that sits so sweetly on her. Lady Chetwoode succ.u.mbs to it, and by degrees grows not only sympathetic toward her, but really attached to her society,--"now, when it is too late," as poor Cecilia tells herself, with a bitter pang. Yet the friendship of Cyril's mother is dear to her, and helps to lighten the dreary days that must elapse before the news of her husband's return to life is circ.u.mstantially confirmed. They have all entreated her to make The Cottage still her home, until such unwelcome news arrives.

Colonel Trant's friend has again written from Russia, but without being able to add another link to the chain of evidence. "He had not seen Arlington since. He had changed his quarters, so they had missed, and he had had no opportunity of cross-examining him as to his antecedents; but he himself had small doubt he was the man they had so often discussed together. He heard he had gone south, through Turkey, meaning to make his voyage home by sea; he had mentioned something about preferring that mode of traveling to any other. He could, of course, easily ascertain the exact time he meant to return to England, and would let Trant know without delay," etc.

All this is eminently unsatisfactory, and suspense preying upon Cecilia commits terrible ravages upon both face and form. Her large eyes look at one full of a settled melancholy; her cheeks grow more hollow daily; her once elastic step has grown slow and fearful, as though she dreads to overtake misfortune. Every morning and evening, as the post hour draws nigh, she suffers mental agony, through her excessive fear of what a letter may reveal to her, sharper than any mere physical pain.

Cyril has gone abroad; twice Lilian has received a line from him, but of his movements or his feelings they know nothing. Cecilia has managed to get both these curt letters into her possession, and no doubt treasures them, and weeps over them, poor soul, as a saint might over a relic.

Archibald, now almost recovered, has left them reluctantly for change of air, in happy ignorance of the sad events that have been starting up among them since his accident, as all those aware of the circ.u.mstances naturally shrink from speaking of them, and show a united desire to prevent the unhappy story from spreading further.

So day succeeds day, until at length matters come to a crisis, and hopes and fears are at an end.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"Love laid his sleepless head On a th.o.r.n.y rose bed; And his eyes with tears were red And pale his lips as the dead.

"And fear, and sorrow, and scorn, Kept watch by his head forlorn, Till the night was overworn, And the world was merry with morn.

"And joy came up with the day, And kissed love's lips as he lay, And the watchers, ghostly and gray, Sped from his pillow away.

"And his eyes at the dawn grew bright And his lips waxed ruddy as light: Sorrow may reign for a night, But day shall bring back delight."

--SWINBURNE.

The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to rea.s.sert his power; but now at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above his grave the sweet, brave young gra.s.ses are springing, the myriad flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and brook, and upland.

It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness.

Taffy has also turned up quite unexpectedly, which makes his welcome perhaps a degree more cordial. Indeed, the amount of leave Mr. Musgrave contrives to get, and the scornful manner in which he regards it, raise within the bosoms of his numerous friends feelings of admiration the most intense.

"Now, will you tell me what is the good of giving one a miserable fortnight here, and a contemptible fortnight there?" he asks, pathetically, in tones replete with unlimited disgust. "Why can't they give a fellow a decent three months at once, and let him enjoy himself?

it's beastly mean, that's what it is! keeping a man grinding at hard duty morning, noon, and night."

"It is more than that in your case: it is absolutely foolish," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly. "It shows an utter disregard for their own personal comfort. Your colonel can't be half a one; were I he, I should give you six months' leave twice every year, if only to get rid of you."

"With what rapture would I hail your presence in the British army!"

replies Mr. Musgrave, totally unabashed.

To-day is Tuesday. To-morrow, after long waiting that has worn her to a shadow, Cecilia is to learn her fate. To-morrow the steamer that is bringing to England the man named Arlington is expected to arrive; and Colonel Trant, as nervous and pa.s.sionately anxious for Cecilia's sake as she can be for her own, has promised to meet it, to go on board, see the man face to face, so as to end all doubt, and telegraph instant word of what he will learn.

Lilian, alone of them all, clings wildly and obstinately to the hope that this Arlington may not be _the_ Arlington; but she is the only one who dares place faith in this barren suggestion.

At The Cottage, like one distracted, Cecilia has locked herself into her own room, and is pacing restlessly up and down the apartment, as though unable to sit, or know quiet, until the dreaded morrow comes.

At Chetwoode they are scarcely less uneasy. An air of impatient expectation pervades the house. The very servants (who, it is needless to say, know all about it, down to the very lightest detail) seem to walk on tiptoe, and wear solemnly the dejected expression they usually reserve for their pew in church.

Lady Chetwoode has fretted herself into one of her bad headaches, and is quite prostrate; lying on her bed, she torments herself, piling the agony ever higher, as she pictures Cyril's increased despair and misery should their worst fears be confirmed,--forgetting that Cyril, being without hope, can no longer fear.

Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, turns in the direction of the wood.

She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely toward her.

"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, but no farther.

"I am going to The Cottage," she says.