Part 73 (1/2)
But Cecilia says it is a charming scheme, and sighs for its accomplishment. Whereupon a telegram is written and sent to Cyril. It is carefully worded, and, though strictly truthful in letter, rather suggests the idea that his instant return to Chetwoode will be the only means of saving his entire family from asphyxiation. It is a thrilling telegram, almost bound to bring him back without delay, had he but one grain of humanity left in his composition.
It evokes an answer that tells them he has started on receipt of their message, and names the day and hour they may expect him, wind and weather permitting.
It is night,--a rather damp, decidedly unlovely night. The little station at Truston is almost deserted: only the station-master and two melancholy porters represent life in its most dejected aspect. Outside the railings stands the Chetwoode carriage, the horses foaming and champing their bits in eager impatience to return again to their comfortable stables.
Guy, with a cigar between his lips, is pacing up and down, indifferent alike to the weather or the delay. One of the melancholy porters, who is evidently in the final stage of depression, tells him the train was due five minutes ago, and hopes dismally there has been no accident higher up on the line. Guy, who is lost in thought, hopes so too, and instantly offers the man a cigar, through force of habit, which the moody one takes sadly, and deposits in a half-hearted fas.h.i.+on in one of his numerous rambling pockets to show to his children when he gets home.
”If ever I _do_ get home,” he says to himself, hopelessly, taking out and lighting an honest clay that has seen considerable service.
Then a shrill whistle rings through the air, the train steams lazily into the station, and Guy, casting a hasty glance at the closed blinds of the carriage outside, hastens forward to meet Cyril, who is the only pa.s.senger for Truston to-night.
”Has anything happened?” he asks, anxiously, advancing to greet Sir Guy.
”Yes, but nothing to make you uneasy. Do not ask me any questions now: you will hear all when you get home.”
”Our mother is well?”
”Quite well. Are you ready? What a beastly objectionable night it is!
Have you seen to everything, Buckley? Get in, Cyril. I am going outside to finish my cigar.”
When Guy chooses, he is energetic. Cyril is not, and allows himself to be pushed unresistingly in the direction of the carriage.
”Hurry, man: the night is freezing,” says Guy, giving him a final touch.
”Home, Buckley.”
Guy springs up in front. Cyril finds himself in the brougham, and in another instant they are beyond the station railings, rolling along the road leading to Chetwoode.
As Cyril closes the door and turns round, the light of the lamps outside reveals to him the outline of a dark figure seated beside him.
”Is it you, Lilian?” he asks, surprised; and then the dark figure leans forward, throws back a furred hood, and Cecilia's face, pale, but full of a glad triumph, smiles upon him.
”You!” exclaims he, unsteadily, unable through utter amazement to say anything more, while with his eyes he gathers in hungrily each delicate beauty in that ”sweetest face to him in all this world.”
Whereupon Cecilia nods almost saucily, though the tears are thick within her lovely eyes, and answers him:
”Yes, it is even I. Are you glad or sorry, that you stare so rudely at me? and never a word of greeting! Shame, then! Have you left all your manners behind you in Amsterdam? I have come all this way, this cold night, to bid you welcome and bring you home to Chetwoode, and yet---- Oh, Cyril!” suddenly flinging herself into his longing arms, ”it is all right at last, my dear--dear--_dear_, and you may love me again as much as ever you like!”
When explanations have come to an end, and they are somewhat calmer, Cyril says:
”But how is it that you are here with Guy, and going to Chetwoode?”
”I am staying at Chetwoode. Your mother came herself, and brought me back with her. How kind she is, how sweet! Even had I never known you, I should have loved her dearly.”
This last a.s.surance from the lips of his beloved makes up the sum of Cyril's content.
”Tell me more, sweetheart,” he says, contented only to listen. With his arms round her, with her face so close to his, with both their hearts beating in happy unison, he hardly cares to question, but is well pleased to keep silence, and listen to the soft, loving babble that issues from her lips. Her very words seem to him, who has so long wearied for them, set to tenderest music. ”Like flakes of feathered snow, they melted as they fell.”