Part 22 (1/2)
”I do not think so. I have seen a good deal of the world in my time, but never gained anything from it except--sorrow.”
She sighs heavily; again the shadow darkens her face and dims the beauty of her eyes.
”It must have caused you great grief losing your husband so young,” says Cyril, gently, hardly knowing what to say.
”No, his death had nothing to do with the trouble of which I am thinking,” replies Mrs. Arlington, with curious haste, a quick frown overshadowing her brow. Her fingers meet and clasp each other closely.
Cyril is silent, being oppressed with another growing conviction which completely routs the first and leads him to believe the dead and gone Arlington a miserable brute, deserving of hanging at the very least.
This conviction, unlike the first, carries consolation with it. ”I am sorry you would not let my mother call on you,” he says, presently.
”Did Sir Guy say I would not see her?” asks she, with some anxiety. ”I hope he did not represent me as having received her kind message with ingrat.i.tude.”
”No, he merely said you wished to see no one.”
”He said the truth. But then there are ways of saying things, and I should not like to appear rude. I certainly do not wish to see any one, but for all that I should not like to offend your mother.”
There is not the very smallest emphasis on the word ”your,” yet somehow Cyril feels flattered.
”She is not offended,” he says, against his conscience, and is glad to see his words please her. After a slight pause he goes on: ”Although I am only a stranger to you, I cannot help feeling how bad it is for you to be so much alone. You are too young to be so isolated.”
”I am happier so.”
”What! you would care to see no one?”
”I would care to see no one,” emphatically, but with a sigh.
”How dreadfully in the way you must have found me!” says Cyril, straightening himself preparatory to departure. ”The rain, I see, is over.” (It has been for the last ten minutes.) ”I shall therefore restore you to happiness by taking myself away.”
Mrs. Arlington smiles faintly.
”I don't seem to mind you much,” she says, kindly, but with a certain amount of coldness. ”Pray do not think I have wished you away.”
”This is the first kind thing you have ever said to me,” says Cyril, earnestly.
”Is it? I think I have forgotten how to make pretty speeches,” replies she, calmly. ”See, the sun is coming out again. I do not think, Mr.
Chetwoode, you need be afraid any longer of getting wet.”
”I'm afraid--I mean--I am sure not,” says Cyril, absently. ”Thank you very much for the shelter you have afforded me. Would you think me very _exigeant_ if I asked you to give me that rose you have been ill-treating for the last half hour?”
”Certainly not,” says Mrs. Arlington, hospitably; ”you shall have it if you care for it; but this one is damaged; let me get you a few others, fresher and sweeter.”
”No, thank you. I do not think you _could_ give me one either fresher or sweeter. Good-evening.”
”Good-bye,” returns she, extending her hand; and, with the gallant Marshal firmly clasped in his hand, Cyril makes a triumphant exit.
He has hardly gone three yards beyond the gate that guards the widow's bower when he finds himself face to face with Florence Beauchamp, rather wet, and decidedly out of temper. She glances at him curiously, but makes no remark, so that Cyril hopes devoutly she may not have noticed where he has just come from.
”What a shower we have had!” he says, with a great a.s.sumption of geniality and much politeness.