At Chetwoode they are all assembled in the drawing-room,—except Archibald, who is still confined to his room,—waiting for dinner: Cyril alone is absent.

"What can be keeping him?" says his mother, at last, losing patience as she pictures him dallying with his betrothed at The Cottage while the soup is spoiling and the cook is gradually verging toward hysterics. She suffers an aggrieved expression to grow within her eyes as she speaks from the depths of the softest arm-chair the room contains, in which it is her custom to ensconce herself.

"Nothing very dreadful, I dare say," replies Florence, in tones a degree less even than usual, her appetite having got the better of her self-control.

Almost as she says the words the door is thrown open, and Cyril enters. He is in morning costume, his hair is a little rough, his face pale, his lips bloodless. Walking straight up to his mother, without looking either to the right or to the left, he says, in a low constrained voice that betrays a desperate effort to be calm:

"Be satisfied, mother: you have won the day. Your wish is fulfilled: I shall never marry Mrs. Arlington: you need not have made such a difficulty about giving your consent this morning, as now it is useless."

"Cyril, what has happened?" says Lady Chetwoode, rising to her feet alarmed, a distinct pallor overspreading her features. She puts out one jeweled hand as though to draw him nearer to her, but for the first time in all his life he shrinks from her gentle touch, and moving backward, stands in the middle of the room. Lilian, going up to him, compels him with loving violence to turn toward her.

"Why don't you speak?" she asks, sharply. "Have you and Cecilia quarreled?"

"No: it is no lovers' quarrel," with an odd change of expression: "we have had little time for quarreling, she and I: our days for love-making were so short, so sweet!"

There is a pause: then in a clear harsh voice, in which no faintest particle of feeling can be traced, he goes on: "Her husband is alive; he is coming home. After all,"—with a short unlovely laugh, sad through its very bitterness,—"we worried ourselves unnecessarily, as she was not, what we so feared, a widow."

"Cyril!" exclaims Lilian; she is trembling visibly, and gazes at him as though fearing he may have lost his senses.

"I would not have troubled you about this matter," continues Cyril, not heeding the interruption, and addressing the room generally, without permitting himself to look at any one, "but that it is a fact that must be known sooner or later; I thought the sooner the better, as it will end your anxiety and convince you that this mesalliance you so dreaded,"—with a sneer,—"can never take place."

Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm.

"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me——"

But Cyril thrusts him back.

"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you failed me when I most required them, when they might have made her happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment let no one dare broach it to me again."

Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down Lilian's cheeks.

"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend? Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of her sometimes."

"Not yet; not now," replies he, in the softest tone he has yet used, a gleam of anguish flashing across his face. "Yes, you were always true to her, my good little Lilian!" Then, sinking his voice, "I am leaving home, perhaps for years; do not forsake her. Try to console, to comfort——" He breaks down hopelessly; raising her hand to his lips, he kisses it fervently, and a second later has left the room.

For quite two minutes after the door had closed upon him, no one stirs, no one utters a word. Guy is still standing with downcast eyes upon the spot that witnessed his repulse. Lilian is crying. Lady Chetwoode is also dissolved in tears. It is this particular moment Florence chooses to make the first remark that has passed her lips since Cyril's abrupt entrance.

"Could anything be more fortunate?" she says, in a measured, congratulatory way. "Could anything have happened more opportunely? Here is this objectionable marriage irretrievably prevented without any trouble on our parts. I really think we owe a debt of gratitude to this very unpleasant husband."

"Florence," cries Lady Chetwoode, with vehement reproach, stung to the quick, "how can you see cause for rejoicing in the poor boy's misery! Do you not think of him?" After which she subsides again, with an audible sob, into her cambric. But Lilian is not so easily satisfied.

"How dare you speak so?" she says, turning upon Florence with wet eyes that flash fire through their tears. "You are a cold and heartless woman. How should you understand what he is feeling,—poor, poor Cyril!" This ebullition of wrath seems to do her good. Kneeling down by her auntie, she places her arms round her, and has another honest comfortable cry upon her bosom.

Florence draws herself up to her full height, which is not inconsiderable, and follows her movements with slow, supercilious wonder. She half closes her white lids, and lets her mouth take a slightly disdainful curve,—not too great a curve, but just enough to be becoming and show the proper disgust she feels at the terrible exhibition of ill-breeding that has just taken place.

But as neither Lilian nor Lady Chetwoode can see her, and as Guy has turned to the fire and is staring into its depths with an expression of stern disapproval upon his handsome face, she presently finds she is posing to no effect, and gives it up.

Letting a rather vindictive look cover her features, she sweeps out of the drawing-room up to her own chamber, and gets rid of her bad temper so satisfactorily that after ten minutes her maid gives warning, and is ready to curse the day she was born.

The next morning, long before any one is up, Cyril takes his departure by the early train, and for many days his home knows him no more.

* * * * * * *

A mighty compassion for Cecilia fills the hearts of all at Chetwoode—all, that is, except Miss Beauchamp, who privately considers it extremely low and wretched form, to possess a heart at all.

Lady Chetwoode, eager and anxious to atone for past unkind thought, goes down to The Cottage in person and insists on seeing its sad tenant,—when so tender and sympathetic is she, that, the ice being broken and pride vanquished, the younger woman gives way, and, laying her head upon the gentle bosom near her, has a hearty cry there, that eases even while it pains her. I have frequently noticed that when one person falls to weeping in the arms of another, that other person maintains a tendresse for her for a considerable time afterward. Cecilia's lucky rain of tears on this occasion softens her companion wonderfully, so that Lady Chetwoode, who only came to pity, goes away admiring.

There is an indescribable charm about Cecilia, impossible to resist. Perhaps it is her beauty, perhaps her exquisite womanliness, combined with the dignity that sits so sweetly on her. Lady Chetwoode succumbs to it, and by degrees grows not only sympathetic toward her, but really attached to her society,—"now, when it is too late," as poor Cecilia tells herself, with a bitter pang. Yet the friendship of Cyril's mother is dear to her, and helps to lighten the dreary days that must elapse before the news of her husband's return to life is circumstantially confirmed. They have all entreated her to make The Cottage still her home, until such unwelcome news arrives.

Colonel Trant's friend has again written from Russia, but without being able to add another link to the chain of evidence. "He had not seen Arlington since. He had changed his quarters, so they had missed, and he had had no opportunity of cross-examining him as to his antecedents; but he himself had small doubt he was the man they had so often discussed together. He heard he had gone south, through Turkey, meaning to make his voyage home by sea; he had mentioned something about preferring that mode of traveling to any other. He could, of course, easily ascertain the exact time he meant to return to England, and would let Trant know without delay," etc.

All this is eminently unsatisfactory, and suspense preying upon Cecilia commits terrible ravages upon both face and form. Her large eyes look at one full of a settled melancholy; her cheeks grow more hollow daily; her once elastic step has grown slow and fearful, as though she dreads to overtake misfortune. Every morning and evening, as the post hour draws nigh, she suffers mental agony, through her excessive fear of what a letter may reveal to her, sharper than any mere physical pain.

Cyril has gone abroad; twice Lilian has received a line from him, but of his movements or his feelings they know nothing. Cecilia has managed to get both these curt letters into her possession, and no doubt treasures them, and weeps over them, poor soul, as a saint might over a relic.

Archibald, now almost recovered, has left them reluctantly for change of air, in happy ignorance of the sad events that have been starting up among them since his accident, as all those aware of the circumstances naturally shrink from speaking of them, and show a united desire to prevent the unhappy story from spreading further.

So day succeeds day, until at length matters come to a crisis, and hopes and fears are at an end.