CHAPTER XXIII.

"_Phebe._--I have more cause to hate him than to love him: For what had he to do to chide at me?"--_As You Like It._

When Lilian's foot is again strong and well, almost the first use she makes of it is to go to The Cottage to see Cecilia. She is gladly welcomed there; the two girls are as pleased with each other as even in fond antic.i.p.ation they had dreamed they should be: and how seldom are such dreams realized! They part with a secret though mutual hope that they shall soon see each other again.

Of her first two meetings with the lovely widow Lilian speaks openly to Lady Chetwoode; but with such an utter want of interest is her news received that instinctively she refrains from making any further mention of her new acquaintance. Meantime the friendship ripens rapidly, until at length scarcely a week elapses without Lilian's paying at least one or two visits at The Cottage.

Of the strength of this growing intimacy Sir Guy is supremely ignorant, until one day chance betrays to him its existence.

It is a bright but chilly morning, one of November's rawest efforts. The trees, bereft of even their faded mantle, that has dropped bit by bit from their meagre arms, now stand bare and shivering in their unlovely nakedness. The wind, whistling shrilly, rushes through them with impatient haste, as though longing to escape from their gaunt and most untempting embraces. There is a suspicion of snow in the biting air.

In The Cottage a roaring fire is scolding and quarreling vigorously on its way up the chimney, illuminating with its red rays the parlor in which it burns; Cecilia is standing on one side of the hearth, looking up at Lilian, who has come down by appointment to spend the day with her, and who is mounted on a chair hanging a picture much fancied by Cecilia. They are freely discussing its merits, and with their gay chatter are outdoing the noisy fire. To Cecilia the sweet companionship of this girl is not only an antidote to her loneliness, but an excessive pleasure.

The picture just hung is a copy of the "Meditation," and is a special favorite of Lilian's, who, being the most unsentimental person in the world, takes a tender delight in people of the visionary order.

"Do you know, Cecilia," she says, "I think the eyes something like yours?"

"Do you?" smiling. "You flatter me."

"I flatter 'Mademoiselle la Meditation,' you mean. No; you have a thoughtful, almost a wistful look about you, at times, that might strongly remind any one of this picture. Now, I"--reflectively--"could _never_ look like that. When I think (which, to do me justice, is seldom), I always dwell upon unpleasant topics, and in consequence I maintain on these rare occasions an exceedingly sour, not to say ferocious, expression. I hate thinking!"

"So much the better," replies her companion, with a faint sigh. "The more persistently you put thought behind you, the longer you will retain happiness."

"Why, how sad you look! Have I, as usual, said the wrong thing? You _mustn't_ think,"--affectionately,--"if it makes you sad. Come, Cis, let me cheer you up."

Cecilia starts as though struck, and moves backward as the pretty abbreviation of her name sounds upon her ear. An expression of hatred and horror rises and mars her face.

"Never call me by that name again," she says with some pa.s.sion, laying her hand upon the sideboard to steady herself. "Never! do you hear? My father called me so----" she pauses, and the look of horror pa.s.ses from her, only to be replaced by one of shame. "What must you think of me,"

she asks, slowly, "you who honored your father? I, too, had a father, but I did not--no, I did not love him. Am I hateful, am I unnatural, in your eyes?"

"Cecilia," says Lilian, with grave simplicity, "you could not be unnatural, you could not be hateful, in the sight of any one."

"That name you called me by"--struggling with her emotion--"recalled old scenes, old memories, most horrible to me. I am unhinged to-day: you must not mind me."

"You are not well, dearest."

"That man, my husband,"--with a strong shudder,--"he, too, called me by that name. After long years," she says, throwing out her hands with a significant gesture, as though she would fain so fling from her all haunting thoughts, "I cannot rid myself of the fear, the loathing, of those past days. _Are_ they past? Is my terror an omen that they are not yet ended?"

"Cecilia, you shall not speak so," says Lilian, putting her arms gently round her. "You are nervous and--and upset about something. Why should you encourage such superst.i.tious thoughts, when happiness lies within your grasp? How can harm come near you in this pretty wood, where you reign queen? Come, smile at me directly, or I shall tell Cyril of your evil behavior, and send him here armed with a stout whip to punish you for your naughtiness. What a whip that would be!" says Lilian, laughing so gleefully that Cecilia perforce laughs too.

"How sweet you are to me!" she says, fondly, with tears in her eyes. "At times I am more than foolish, and last night I had a terrible dream; but your coming has done me good. Now I can almost laugh at my own fears, that were so vivid a few hours ago. But my youth was not a happy one."

"Now you have reached old age, I hope you will enjoy it," says Miss Chesney, demurely.

Almost at this moment, Sir Guy Chetwoode is announced, and is shown by the inestimable Kate into the parlor instead of the drawing-room, thereby causing unutterable mischief. It is only the second time since Mrs. Arlington's arrival at The Cottage he has put in an appearance there, and each time business has been his sole cause for calling.

He is unmistakably surprised at Lilian's presence, but quickly suppresses all show of emotion. At first he looks faintly astonished, but so faintly that a second later one wonders whether the astonishment was there at all.

He shakes hands formally with Mrs. Arlington, and smiles in a somewhat restrained fashion upon Lilian. In truth he is much troubled at the latter's evident familiarity with the place and its inmate.

Lilian, jumping down from her high elevation, says to Cecilia:

"If you two are going to talk business, I shall go into the next room.

The very thought of anything connected with the bugbear 'Law' depresses me to death. You can call me, Cecilia, when you have quite done."

"Don't be frightened," says Guy, pleasantly, though inwardly he frowns as he notes Lilian's unceremonious usage of his tenant's Christian name.

"I shan't detain Mrs. Arlington two minutes."

Then he addresses himself exclusively to Cecilia, and says what he has to say in a perfectly courteous, perfectly respectful, perfectly freezing tone,--to all of which Cecilia responds with a similar though rather exaggerated amount of coldness that deadens the natural sweetness of her behavior, and makes Lilian tell herself she has never yet seen Cecilia to such disadvantage, which is provoking, as she has set her heart above all things on making Guy like her lovely friend.

Then Sir Guy, with a distant salutation, withdraws; and both women feel, silently, as though an icicle had melted from their midst.

"I wonder why your guardian so dislikes me," says Mrs. Arlington, in a somewhat hurt tone. "He is ever most ungenerous in his treatment of me."

"Ungenerous!" hastily, "oh, no! he is not that. He is the most generous-minded man alive. But--but----"

"Quite so, dear,"--with a faint smile that yet has in it a tinge of bitterness. "You see there is a 'but.' I have never wronged him, yet he hates me."

"Never mind who hates you," says Lilian, impulsively. "Cyril loves you, and so do I."

"I can readily excuse the rest," says Mrs. Arlington, with a bright smile, kissing her pretty consoler with grateful warmth.

An hour after Lilian's return to Chetwoode on this momentous day, Guy, having screwed his courage to the sticking-point, enters his mother's boudoir, where he knows she and Lilian are sitting alone.

Lady Chetwoode is writing at a distant table; Miss Chesney, on a sofa close to the fire, is surrept.i.tiously ruining--or, as she fondly but erroneously believes, is knitting away bravely at--the gray sock her ladyship has just laid down. Lilian's pretty lips are pursed up, her brow is puckered, her soft color has risen as she bends in strong hope over her work. The certain charm that belongs to this scene fails to impress Sir Guy, who is too full of agitated determination to leave room for minor interests.

"Lilian," he says, bluntly, with all the execrable want of tact that characterizes the very gentlest of men, "I wish you would not cultivate an acquaintance with Mrs. Arlington."

"Eh?" says Lilian, looking up in somewhat dazed amazement from her knitting, which is gradually getting into a more and more hopeless mess, "what is it, then, Sir Guy?"

"I wish you would not seek an intimacy with Mrs. Arlington," repeats Chetwoode, speaking all the more sternly in that he feels his courage ebbing.

The sternness, however, proves a mistake; Miss Chesney resents it, and, scenting battle afar off, encases herself in steel, and calmly, nay, eagerly, awaits the onslaught.

"What has put you out?" she says, speaking in a tone eminently calculated to incense the listener. "You seem disturbed. Has Heskett been poaching again? or has that new pointer turned out a _disappointer_? What has poor Mrs. Arlington done to you, that you must send her to Coventry?"

"Nothing, only----"

"Nothing! Oh, Sir Guy, surely you must have some substantial reason for tabooing her so entirely."

"Perhaps I have. At all events, I ask you most particularly to give up visiting at The Cottage."

"I am very sorry, indeed, to seem disobliging, but I shall not give up a friend without sufficient reason for so doing."