"I have some naked thoughts that roam about
And loudly knock to have their passage out."--MILTON.
It goes without telling that Lilian gains the day, Guy's one solitary
attempt at mastery having failed ignominiously. She persists in her
allegiance to her friend, and visits The Cottage regularly as ever;
being even more tender than usual in her manner toward Cecilia, as she
recollects the narrowness of him who could (as she believes) without
cause condemn her. And Sir Guy, though resenting her defiance of his
wishes, and smarting under the knowledge of it, accepts defeat humbly,
and never again refers to the subject of the widow, which henceforth is
a tabooed one between them.
Soon after this, indeed, an event occurs that puts an end to all reason
why Lilian should not be as friendly with Mrs. Arlington as she may
choose. One afternoon, most unexpectedly, Colonel Trant, coming to
Chetwoode, demands a private interview with Sir Guy. Some faint breaths
of the scandal that so closely and dishonorably connects his name with
Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement with
Cyril, he has hastened to Chetwoode to clear her in the eyes of its
world.
Without apology, he treats Guy to a succinct and studied account of
Cecilia's history,--tells of all her sorrows, and gentle forbearance,
and innocence so falsely betrayed, nor even conceals from him his own
deep love for her, and his two rejections, but makes no mention of Cyril
throughout the interview.
Guy, as he listens, grows remorseful, and full of self-reproach,--more,
perhaps, for the injustice done to his friend in his thoughts, than for
all the harsh words used toward Mrs. Arlington, though he is too
clean-bred not to regret that also.
He still shrinks from all idea of Cecilia as a wife for Cyril. The
daughter of a man who, though of good birth, was too sharp in his
dealings for decent society, and the wife of a man, who, though rich in
worldly goods, had no pretensions to be a gentleman at all, could
certainly be no mate for a Chetwoode. A woman of no social standing
whatsoever, with presumably only a pretty face for a dowry,--Cyril must
be mad to dream of her! For him, Guy, want of fortune need not signify;
but for Cyril, with his expensive habits, to think of settling down with
a wife on nine hundred a year is simply folly.
And then Cyril's brother thinks with regret of a certain Lady Fanny
Stapleton, who, it is a notorious fact, might be had by Cyril for the
asking. Guy himself, it may be remarked, would not have Lady Fanny at
any price, she being rather wanting in the matter of nose and neck; but
younger brothers have no right to cultivate fastidious tastes, and her
snubby ladyship has a great admiration for Cyril, and a fabulous
fortune.
All the time Trant is singing Cecilia's praises, Guy is secretly sighing
over Lady Fanny and her comfortable thousands, and is wishing The
Cottage had been knocked into fine dust before Mrs. Arlington had
expressed a desire to reside there.
Nevertheless he is very gentle in his manner toward his former colonel
all the day, spending with him every minute he stays, and going with him
to the railway station when at night he decides on returning to town.
Inwardly he knows he would like to ask his forgiveness for the wrong he
has done him in his thoughts, but hardly thinks it wisdom to let him
know how guilty toward him he has been. Cyril, he is fully persuaded,
will never betray him; and he shrinks from confessing what would
probably only cause pain and create an eternal breach between them.
However, his conscience so far smites him that he does still further
penance toward the close of the evening.
Meeting Cyril on his way to dress just before dinner, he stops him.
"If you will accept an apology from me so late in the day," he says, "I
now offer you one for what I said of Mrs. Arlington some time since.
Trant has told me all the truth. I wronged her grossly, although"--with
a faint touch of bitterness--"when I _lied_ about her I did so
unconsciously."
"Don't say another word, old man," says Cyril, heartily, and much
gratified, laying his hand lightly upon his shoulder. "I knew you would
discover your mistake in time. I confess at the moment it vexed me you
should lend yourself to the spreading of such an absurd report."
"Yes, I was wrong." Then, with some hesitation, "Still, there was an
excuse for me. We knew nothing of her. We know nothing still that we can
care to know."
"How you worry yourself!" says Cyril, with a careless shrug, letting his
hand, however, drop from his brother's shoulder, as he fully understands
the drift of his conversation. "Why can't you let things slide as I do?
It is no end a better plan."
"I am only thinking of a remark you made a long time ago," replies Guy,
with a laugh, partially deceived by Cyril's indifferent manner: "shall I
remind you of it? 'Samivel, Samivel, my son, never marry a widder.'"