Part 55 (1/2)
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 friends.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 companions.h.i.+p 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.