Taking Lilian into his confidence, Cyril happens to mention to her this latter sure drawback to the success of his suit, whereupon she generously declares herself both able and willing to take Sir Guy in hand and compel him to be not only non-combative on the occasion, but an actual partisan.

At these valiant words Cyril is so transported with hope and grat.i.tude that, without allowing himself time for reflection, he suddenly and very warmly embraces his pretty colleague, calling her, as "Traddles" might have done, "the dearest girl in the world," and vowing to her that but for one other she is indeed "the only woman he ever loved."

Having recovered from the astonishment caused by this outbreak on the part of the generally nonchalant Cyril, Miss Chesney draws her breath slowly, and wends her way toward Sir Guy's private den, where she knows he is at present sure to be found.

"Are you busy?" she asks, showing her face in the doorway, but not advancing.

"Not to you," courteously. They are now on friendly though somewhat constrained speaking terms.

"Will you give me, then, a little of your time? It is something very important."

"Certainly," replies he, surprised both at the solemnity of her manner and at the request generally. "Come in and shut the door."

"It is just a question I would ask of you," says Lilian, uncomfortably, now she has come to the point, finding an extraordinary difficulty about proceeding. At length, with a desperate effort she raises her head, and, looking full at him, says, distinctly:

"Sir Guy, when two people love each other very dearly, don't you think they ought to marry?"

This startling interrogation has the effect of filling Chetwoode with dismay. He turns white in spite of his vigorous attempt at self-control, and involuntarily lays his hand upon the nearest chair to steady himself. Has she come here to tell him of her affection for her cousin?

"There must be something more," he says, presently, regarding her fixedly.

"Yes, but answer me first. Don't you think they ought?"

"I suppose so,"--unwillingly,--"unless there should be some insuperable difficulty in the way."

"He suspects me; he knows my errand," thinks Lilian, letting her eyes seek the carpet, which gives her all the appearance of feeling a very natural confusion. "He hopes to entangle me. His 'difficulty' is poor dear Cecilia's very disreputable papa."

"No difficulty should stand in the way of love," she argues, severely.

"Besides, what is an 'insuperable difficulty'? Supposing one of them should be unhappily less--less respectable than the other: would that be it?"

Sir Guy opens his eyes. Is it not, then, the cousin? and if not, who?

"Less respectable." He runs through the long list of all the young men of questionable morals with whom he is acquainted, but can come to no satisfactory conclusion. Has she possibly heard of certain lawless doings of Archibald in earlier days, and does she fear perhaps that he, her guardian, will refuse consent to her marriage because of them? At this thought he freezes.

"I think all unsuitable marriages a crime," he says, coldly. "Sooner or later they lead to the bitterest of all repentance. To marry one one cannot respect! Surely such an act carries with it its own punishment.

It is a hateful thought. But then----"

"You do not understand," pleads Lilian, rising in her eagerness, and going nearer to him, while her large eyes read his face nervously as she trembles for the success of her undertaking. "There is no question of 'respect.' It is not that I mean. These two of whom I speak will never repent, because they love each other so entirely."

"What a stress you lay on the word love!" he says, in a half-mocking, wholly bitter tone. "Do you believe in it?"

"I do, indeed. I cannot think there is anything in this world half so good as it," replies she, with conviction, while reddening painfully beneath his gaze. "Is it not our greatest happiness?"

"I think it is our greatest curse."

"How can you say that?" with soft reproach. "Can you not see for yourself how it redeems all the misery of life for some people?"

"Those two fortunate beings of whom you are speaking, for instance,"

with a sneer. "All people are not happy in their attachment. What is to become of those miserable wretches who love, but love in vain? Did you never hear of a homely proverb that tells you 'one man's meat is another man's poison'?"

"You are cynical to-day. But to return; the two to whom I allude have no poison to contend with. They love so well that it is misery to them to be apart,--so devotedly that they know no great joy except when they are together. Could such love cool? I am sure not. And is it not cruel to keep them asunder?"

Her voice has grown positively plaintive; she is evidently terribly in earnest.

"Are you speaking of yourself?" asks Guy, huskily, turning with sudden vehemence to lay his hand upon her arm and scan her features with intense, nay, feverish anxiety.

"Of myself?" recoiling. "No! What can you mean? What is it that I should say of myself?" Her cheeks are burning, her eyes are shamed and perplexed, but they have not fallen before his: she is evidently full of secret wonder. "It is for Cyril I plead, and for Cecilia," she says, after a strange pause.

"Cyril!" exclaims he, the most excessive relief in tone and gesture.

"Does he want to marry Mrs. Arlington?"

"Yes. I know you have a prejudice against her,"--earnestly,--"but that is because you do not know her. She is the sweetest woman I ever met."

"This has been going on for a long time?"

"I think so. Cyril wished to marry her long ago, but she would not listen to him without auntie's consent. Was not that good of her? If I was in her place, I do not believe I should wait for any one's consent."

"I am sure"--dryly--"you would not."

"No, not even for my guardian's," replies she, provokingly; then, with a lapse into her former earnestness, "I want you to be good to her. She is proud, prouder than auntie even, and would not forgive a slight. And if her engagement to Cyril came to an end, he would never be happy again.

Think of it."

"I do," thoughtfully. "I think it is most unfortunate. And she a widow, too!"

"But such a widow!" enthusiastically. "A perfect darling of a widow! I am not sure, after all,"--with rank hypocrisy,--"that widows are not to be preferred before mere silly foolish girls, who don't know their own minds half the time."

"Is that a description of yourself?" with an irrepressible smile.

"Don't be rude! No 'mere silly girl' would dare to beard a stern guardian in his den as I am doing! But am I to plead in vain? Dear Sir Guy, do not be hard. What could be dearer than her refusing to marry Cyril if it should grieve auntie? 'She would not separate him from his mother,' she said. Surely you must admire her in that one instance at least. Think of it all again. They love each other, and they are unhappy; and you can turn their sorrow into joy."

"Now they love, of course; but will it last? Cyril's habits are very expensive, and he has not much money. Do you ever think you may be promoting a marriage that by and by will prove a failure? The day may come when they will hate you for having helped to bring them together."

"No," says Lilian, stoutly, shaking her _blonde_ head emphatically; "I have no such unhealthy thoughts or fancies. They suit each other; they are happy in each other's society; they will never repent their marriage."

"Is that your experience?" he asks, half amused.

"I have no experience," returns she, coloring and smiling: "I am like the Miller of the Dee; I care for n.o.body, no, not I,--for n.o.body cares for me."

"You forget your cousin." The words escape him almost without his consent.

Miss Chesney starts perceptibly, but a second later answers his taunt with admirable composure.

"What? Archie? Oh! he don't count; cousins are privileged beings. Or did you perhaps mean Taffy? But answer me, Sir Guy: you have not yet said you will help me. And I am bent on making Cecilia happy. I am honestly fond of her; I cannot bear to see you think contemptuously of her; while I would gladly welcome her as a sister."

"I do not see how her marrying Cyril can make her your sister," replies he, idly; and then he remembers what he has said, and the same thought striking them both at the same moment, they let their eyes meet uneasily, and both blush scarlet.

Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the corner of her handkerchief. One--two--three----

"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly.