Airy Fairy Lilian

CHAPTER XXX

 
"Love laid his sleepless head
On a thorny rose bed;
And his eyes with tears were red
And pale his lips as the dead.
 
 
"And fear, and sorrow, and scorn,
Kept watch by his head forlorn,
Till the night was overworn,
And the world was merry with morn.
 
 
"And joy came up with the day,
And kissed love's lips as he lay,
And the watchers, ghostly and gray,
Sped from his pillow away.
 
 
"And his eyes at the dawn grew bright
And his lips waxed ruddy as light:
Sorrow may reign for a night,
But day shall bring back delight."
 

– Swinburne.

The strong old winter is dead. He has died slowly, painfully, with many a desperate struggle, many a hard fight to reassert his power; but now at last he's safely buried, pushed out of sight by all the soft little armies of green leaves that have risen up in battle against him. Above his grave the sweet, brave young grasses are springing, the myriad flowers are bursting into fuller beauty, the birds, not now in twos or threes, but in countless thousands, are singing melodiously among the as yet half-opened leaves, making all the woods merry with their tender madrigals. The whole land is awake and astir, crying, "Welcome" to the flower-crowned spring, as she flies with winged feet over field, and brook, and upland.

It is the first week in March, a wonderfully soft and lamb-like March even at this early stage of its existence. Archibald has again returned to Chetwoode, strong and well, having been pressed to do so by Lady Chetwoode, who has by this time brought herself, most reluctantly, to believe his presence necessary to Lilian's happiness.

Taffy has also turned up quite unexpectedly, which makes his welcome perhaps a degree more cordial. Indeed, the amount of leave Mr. Musgrave contrives to get, and the scornful manner in which he regards it, raise within the bosoms of his numerous friends feelings of admiration the most intense.

"Now, will you tell me what is the good of giving one a miserable fortnight here, and a contemptible fortnight there?" he asks, pathetically, in tones replete with unlimited disgust. "Why can't they give a fellow a decent three months at once, and let him enjoy himself? it's beastly mean, that's what it is! keeping a man grinding at hard duty morning, noon, and night."

"It is more than that in your case: it is absolutely foolish," retorts Miss Chesney, promptly. "It shows an utter disregard for their own personal comfort. Your colonel can't be half a one; were I he, I should give you six months' leave twice every year, if only to get rid of you."

"With what rapture would I hail your presence in the British army!" replies Mr. Musgrave, totally unabashed.

* * * * * * *

To-day is Tuesday. To-morrow, after long waiting that has worn her to a shadow, Cecilia is to learn her fate. To-morrow the steamer that is bringing to England the man named Arlington is expected to arrive; and Colonel Trant, as nervous and passionately anxious for Cecilia's sake as she can be for her own, has promised to meet it, to go on board, see the man face to face, so as to end all doubt, and telegraph instant word of what he will learn.

Lilian, alone of them all, clings wildly and obstinately to the hope that this Arlington may not be the Arlington; but she is the only one who dares place faith in this barren suggestion.

At The Cottage, like one distracted, Cecilia has locked herself into her own room, and is pacing restlessly up and down the apartment, as though unable to sit, or know quiet, until the dreaded morrow comes.

At Chetwoode they are scarcely less uneasy. An air of impatient expectation pervades the house. The very servants (who, it is needless to say, know all about it, down to the very lightest detail) seem to walk on tiptoe, and wear solemnly the dejected expression they usually reserve for their pew in church.

Lady Chetwoode has fretted herself into one of her bad headaches, and is quite prostrate; lying on her bed, she torments herself, piling the agony ever higher, as she pictures Cyril's increased despair and misery should their worst fears be confirmed, – forgetting that Cyril, being without hope, can no longer fear.

Lilian, unable to work or read, wanders aimlessly through the house, hardly knowing how to hide her growing depression from her cousins, who alone remain quite ignorant of the impending trouble. Mr. Musgrave, indeed, is so utterly unaware of the tragedy going on around him, that he chooses this particular day to be especially lively, not to say larky, and overpowers Lilian with his attentions; which so distracts her that, watching her opportunity, she finally effects her escape through the drawing-room window, and, running swiftly through the plantations, turns in the direction of the wood.

She eludes one cousin, however, only to throw herself into the arms of another. Half-way to The Cottage she meets Archibald coming leisurely toward her.

"Take me for a walk," he says, with humble entreaty; and Lilian, who, as a rule, is kind to every one except her guardian, tells him, after an unflattering pause, he may accompany her to such and such a distance, but no farther.

"I am going to The Cottage," she says.

"To see this Lady of Shalott, this mysterious Mariana in her moated grange?" asks Chesney, lightly.

Odd as it may sound, he has never yet been face to face with Cecilia. Her determined seclusion and her habit of frequenting the parish church in the next village, which is but a short distance from her, has left her a stranger to almost every one in the neighborhood. Archibald is indeed aware that The Cottage owns a tenant, and that her name is Arlington, but nothing more. The fact of her never being named at Chetwoode has prevented his asking any idle questions and thereby making any discoveries.

When they have come to the rising mound that half overlooks The Cottage garden, Lilian comes to a standstill.

"Now you must leave me," she says, imperatively.

"Why? We are quite a day's journey from The Cottage yet. Let me see you to the gate."

"How tiresome you are!" says Miss Chesney; "just like a big baby, only not half so nice: you always want more than you are promised."

As Chesney makes no reply to this sally, she glances at him, and, following the direction of his eyes, sees Cecilia, who has come out for a moment or two to breathe the sweet spring air, walking to and fro among the garden paths. It is a very pale and changed Cecilia upon whom they look.

"Why," exclaims Chesney, in a tone of rapt surprise, "surely that is Miss Duncan!"

"No," – amazed, – "it is Mrs. Arlington, Sir Guy's tenant."

"True," – slowly, – "I believe she did marry that fellow afterward. But I never knew her except as Miss Duncan."

"You knew her?"

"Very slightly," – still with his eyes fixed upon Cecilia, as she paces mournfully up and down in the garden below them, with bent head and slow, languid movements. "Once I spoke to her, but I knew her well by sight; she was, she is, one of the loveliest women I ever saw. But how changed she is! how altered, how white her face appears! or can it be the distance makes me think so? I remember her such a merry girl – almost a child – when she married Arlington."

"Yes? She does not look merry now," says Lilian, the warm tears rising in her eyes: "poor darling, no wonder she looks depressed!"

"Why?"

"Oh," says Lilian, hesitating, "something about her husband, you know."

"You don't mean to say she is wearing sackcloth and the willow, and all that sort of thing, for Arlington all this time?" in a tone of astonishment largely flavored with contempt. "I knew him uncommonly well before he married, and I should think his death would have been a cause for rejoicing to his wife, above all others."

"Ah! that is just it," says Lilian, consumed with a desire to tell: she sinks her voice mysteriously, and sighs a heavy sigh tinctured with melancholy.

"Just so," unsympathetically. "Some women, I believe, are hopeless idiots."

"They are not," indignantly; "Cecilia is not an idiot; she is miserable because he is – alive! Now what do you think?"

"Alive!" incredulously.

"Exactly so," with all the air of a triumphant raconteur. "And when she had believed him dead, too, for so long! is it not hard upon her, poor thing! to have him come to life again so disagreeably without a word of warning? I really think it is quite enough to kill her."

"Well, I never!" says Mr. Chesney, staring at her. It isn't an elegant remark, but it is full of animated surprise, and satisfies Lilian.

"Is it not a tragedy?" she says, growing more and more pitiful every moment. "All was going on well (it doesn't matter what), when suddenly some one wrote to Colonel Trant to say he had seen this odious Mr. Arlington alive and well in Russia, and that he was on his way home. I shall always" – viciously – "hate the man who wrote it: one would think he had nothing else to write about, stupid creature! but is it not shocking for her, poor thing?"

At this, seemingly without rhyme or reason (except a depraved delight in other people's sufferings), Mr. Chesney bursts into a loud enjoyable laugh, and continues it for some seconds. He might perhaps have continued it until now, did not Lilian see fit to wither his mirth in the bud.

"Is it a cause for laughter?" she asks, wrathfully; "but it is just like you! I don't believe you have an atom of feeling. Positively I think you would laugh if auntie, who is almost a mother to you, was dead!"

"No, I should not," declares Archibald, subsiding from amusement to the very lowest depths of sulk: "pardon me for contradicting you, but I should not even smile were Lady Chetwoode dead. She is perhaps the one woman in the world whose death would cause me unutterable sorrow."

"Then why did you laugh just now?"

"Because if you had seen a man lie dead and had attended his funeral, even you might consider it a joke to hear he was 'alive and well.'"

"You saw him dead!"

"Yes, as dead as Julius Cæsar," morosely. "It so happened I knew him uncommonly well years ago: 'birds of a feather,' you know," – bitterly, – "'flock together.' We flocked for a considerable time. Then I lost sight of him, and rather forgot all about him than otherwise, until I met him again in Vienna, more than two years ago. I saw him stabbed, – I had been dining with him that night, – and helped to carry him home; it seemed a slight affair, and I left him in the hands of a very skillful physician, believing him out of danger. Next morning, when I called, he was dead."

"Archie," – in a low awe-struck whisper, – "is it all true?"

"Perfectly true."

"You could not by any possibility be mistaken?"

"Not by any."

"Then, Archie," says Lilian, solemnly, "you are a darling!"

"Am I?" grimly. "I thought I was a demon who could laugh at the demise of his best friend."

"Nonsense!" tucking her hand genially beneath his arm; "I only said that out of vexation. Think as little about it as I do. I know for a fact you are not half a bad boy. Come now with me to The Cottage, that I may tell this extraordinary, this delightful story to Cecilia."

"Is Cecilia Miss Duncan?"

"No, Mrs. Arlington. Archie," – seriously, – "you are quite, utterly sure you know all about it?"

"Do you imagine I dreamed it? Of course I am sure. But if you think I am going down there to endure hysterics, and be made damp with tears, you are much mistaken. I won't go, Lilian; you needn't think it; I – I should be afraid."

"Console yourself; I shan't require your assistance," calmly. "I only want you to stay outside while I break the good news to her, lest she should wish to ask you a question. I only hope, Archie, you are telling me the exact truth," – severely, – "that you are not drawing on your imagination, and that it was no other man of the same name you saw lying dead?"

"Perhaps it was," replies he, huffily, turning away as they reach the wicket gate.

"Do not stir from where you are now," says she, imperiously: "I may want you at any moment."

So Archibald, who does not dare disobey her commands, strays idly up and down outside the hedge, awaiting his summons. It is rather long in coming, so that his small stock of patience is nearly exhausted when he receives a message begging him to come in-doors.

As he enters the drawing-room, however, he is so struck with compassion at the sight of Cecilia's large, half-frightened eyes turned upon him that he loses all his ill humor and grows full of sympathy. She is very unlike the happy Cecilia of a month ago, still more unlike the calm, dignified Cecilia who first came to Chetwoode. She is pale as the early blossoms that lie here and there in soft wanton luxuriance upon her tables; her whole face is eager and expectant. She is trembling perceptibly from head to foot.

"What is it you would tell me, sir?" she asks, with deep entreaty. It is as though she longs yet fears to believe.

"I would tell you, madam," replies Chesney, respect and pity in his tone, taking and holding the hand she extends to him, while Lilian retains the other and watches her anxiously, "that fears are groundless. A most gross mistake has, I understand, caused you extreme uneasiness. I would have you dismiss this trouble from your mind. I happened to know Jasper Arlington well: I was at Vienna the year he was there; we met often. I witnessed the impromptu duel that caused his death; I saw him stabbed; I myself helped to carry him to his rooms; next morning he was dead. Forgive me, madam, that I speak so brusquely. It is best, I think, to be plain, to mention bare facts."

Here he pauses, and Cecilia's breath comes quickly; involuntarily her fingers close round his; a question she hardly dares to ask trembles on her lips. Archibald reads it in the silent agony of her eyes.

"I saw him dead," he says, softly, and is rewarded by a grateful glance from Lilian.

Cecilia's eyes close; a dry, painful sob comes from between her pallid lips.

"She will faint," cries Lilian, placing her arms round her.

"No, I shall not." By a great effort Cecilia overcomes the insensibility fast creeping over her. "I thank you, sir," she says to Archibald: "your words sound like truth. I would I dared believe them! but I have been so often – " she stops, half choked with emotion. "What must you think me but inhuman?" she says, sobbingly. "All women except me mourn their husband's death; I mourn, in that I fear him living."

"Madam," replies Archibald, scarcely knowing what to say, "I too knew Jasper Arlington; for me, therefore, it would be impossible to judge you harshly in this matter. Were you, or any other living soul, to pretend regret for him, pardon me if I say I should deem you a hypocrite."

"You must believe what he has told you," says Lilian, emphatically: "it admits of no denial. But, to-morrow, at all events, will bring you news from Colonel Trant that will compel you to acknowledge its truth."

"Yes, yes. Oh, that to-morrow was here!" murmurs Cecilia, faintly. And Lilian understands that not until Trant's letter is within her hands will she allow herself to entertain hope.

Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home.

* * * * * * *

At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame.

"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize."

"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to come to us."

The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday.

"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. 'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last fact my blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran warmly, comfortably. It was not the man I had feared to see. I drew my breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his name.

"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name Arlington?'

"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say violently.

"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, I am one of the happiest.'

"My new friend stared. Then he gave way to an irrepressible laugh, and shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"'My good fellow,' said he, 'be reasonable. Take yourself back again to the excellent asylum from which you have escaped, and don't make further fuss about it. With your genial disposition you are sure to be caught.'

"At this I thought it better to offer him some slight explanation, which so amused him that he insisted on carrying me off with him to his hotel, where we dined, and where I found him a very excellent fellow indeed."

In this wise runs his letter. Cecilia reads it until each comforting assertion is shrined within her heart and doubt is no longer possible. Then an intense gratitude fills her whole being; her eyes grow dim with tears; clasping her hands earnestly, she falls upon her knees.

CHAPTER XXXI

 
"How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere!"
 

– Shakespeare.

So Lady Chetwoode goes down to The Cottage in her carriage, and insists upon carrying Cecilia back with her, – to which, after a slight demur, Cecilia gladly assents.

"But how to get Cyril," says practical Lilian, who is with them.

"He is in Amsterdam," answers Cecilia, with some hesitation. "Colonel Trant told me so in his letter."

"Colonel Trant is the most wonderful man I know," says Lilian; "but Amsterdam of all places! What on earth can any one want in Amsterdam?"

At this they all laugh, partly because they are still somewhat nervously inclined, and partly because (though why, I cannot explain) they seem to find something amusing in the mere thought of Amsterdam.

"I hope he won't bring back with him a fat vrouw," says Miss Chesney. And then she runs up-stairs to tell Kate to get ready to accompany her mistress.

Turning rather timidly toward Lady Chetwoode, Cecilia says:

"When Cyril returns, then, – you will not – you do not – "

"When he returns, my dear, you must marry him at once, if only to make amends for all the misery the poor boy has been enduring. But," – kindly – "you must study economy, child; remember you are not marrying a rich man."

"He is rich enough for me," smiling; "though indeed it need not signify, as I have money enough for both. I never spoke of it until now, because I wished to keep it as a little surprise for him on – on our wedding-day, but at Mr. Arlington's death I inherited all his fortune. He never altered the will made before our marriage, and it is nearly four thousand a year, I think," simply: "Colonel Trant knows the exact amount, because he is a trustee."

Lady Chetwoode colors deeply. This woman, whom she had termed "adventuress," is in reality possessed of a far larger fortune than the son she would have guarded from her at all hazards; proves to be an heiress, still further enriched by the priceless gifts of grace and beauty!

To say the very least of it, Lady Chetwoode feels small. But, pride coming to her rescue, she says, somewhat stiffly, while the pleasant smile of a moment since dies from her face:

"I had no idea you were so – so – in fact, I believed you almost portionless. I was led – how I know not – but I certainly was led to think so. What you say is a surprise. With so much money you should hesitate before taking any final step. The world is before you, – you are young, and very charming. I will ask you to forgive an old woman's bluntness; but remember, there is always something desirable in a title. I would have you therefore consider. My son is no match for you where money is concerned." This last emphatically and very proudly.

Cecilia flushes, and grows distressed.

"Dear Lady Chetwoode," she says, taking her hand forcibly. "I entreat you not to speak to me so. Do not make me again unhappy. This money, which up to the present I have scarcely touched, so hateful has it been to me, has of late become almost precious to my sight. I please myself with the thought that the giving of it to – to Cyril – may be some small return to him for all the tenderness he has lavished upon me. Do not be angry with me that I cherish, and find such intense gratification in this idea. It is so sweet to give to those we love!"

"You have a generous heart," Lady Chetwoode answers, moved by her generous manner, and pleased too, for money, like music, "hath charms." "If I have seemed ungracious, forget it. Extreme wonder makes us at times careless of courtesy, and we did not suspect one who could choose to live in such a quiet spot as this of being an heiress."

"You will keep my secret?" anxiously.

"I promise. You shall be the first to tell it to your husband upon your wedding-day. I think," says the elder lady, gracefully, "he is too blessed. Surely you possessed treasure enough in your own person!"

* * * * * * *

So Cecilia goes to Chetwoode, and shortly afterward Lady Chetwoode conceives a little plot that pleases her intensely, and which she relates with such evident gusto that Lilian tells her she is an intrigante of the deepest dye, and that positively for the future she shall feel quite afraid of her.

"I never heard anything so artful," says Taffy, who has with much perseverance wormed himself into their confidence. In fact, after administering various rebuffs they all lose heart, and confess to him the whole truth out of utter desperation. "Downright artful!" repeats Mr. Musgrave, severely. "I shouldn't have believed you capable of it."

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 fashion 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 passenger 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 assurance 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."

"I have so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin. Do you know you are to escort me to a ball at Mrs. Steyne's next week? No? why, you know nothing; so much for sojourning in Amsterdam. Then I suppose you are ignorant of the fact that I have ordered the most delicious dress you ever beheld to grace the occasion and save myself from disgracing you. And you are to be very proud of me, and to admire me immensely, or I shall never forgive you."

"I am pretty certain not to deserve condign punishment on that score," fondly. "Darling, can it be really true that we are together again, that all the late horrible hopelessness is at an end? Cecilia, if this should prove a dream, and I awoke now, it would kill me."

"Nay, it is no dream," softly. Turning up her perfect face, until the lips are close to his, she whispers, "Kiss me, and be convinced."