IT

CHAPTER XXIV.

I have some naked thoughts that rove 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 towards 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 from 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 dishonourably connects his name with. Cecilia's have reached his ears, and, knowing of her engagement to 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 towards Mrs. Arlington, though he is too cleanbred 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards 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.'

6

"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."

CHAPTER XXV.

Hel. How happy some, o'er other some can be!

Midsummer Night's Dream.

It is very close on Christmas; another week will bring in the twenty-fifth of December, with all its absurd affectation of merriment and light-heartedness.

Is anyone, except a child, ever really happy at Christmas, I wonder? Is it then one chooses to forget the loved and lost? to thrust out of sight the regrets that goad and burn? Nay, rather, is it not then our hearts bleed most freely, while our eyes grow dim with useless tears, and a great sorrow that touches on despair falls upon us, as we look upon the vacant seat, and grow sick with longing for the days that are no more'?

Surely it is then we learn how vain is our determination to forget those unobtrusive ones, who cannot by voice or touch demand attention. The haunting face, that once full of youth and beauty was all the world to us, rises from its chill shroud, and dares us to be happy. The poor eyes, once so sweet, so full of gayest laughter, now closed and mute for ever, gleam upon us, perchance across the flowers and fruit, and, checking the living smile upon our lips, ask us reproachfully how is it with that we can so quickly shut from them the doors of our hearts, after all our passionate protests, our vows ever to remember.

us,

Oh, how soon, how soon, do we cease our lamentations for our silent dead!

When all is told, old Father Christmas is a mighty humbug; so I say and think, but I would not have you agree with me. Forgive me this unorthodox sentiment, and let us return to our-lamb!

Archibald has returned to Chetwoode, so has Taffy. The latter is looking bigger, fuller, and as Mrs. Tipping says, examining him through her spectacles with a criticising air, more the man,' to his intense disgust. He embraces Lilian and Lady Chetwoode, and very nearly Miss Beauchamp, on his arrival, in the exuberance of his joy at finding himself once more within their doors; and is welcomed with effusion by every individual member of the household.

Archibald, on the contrary, appears rather done up, and faded; and though evidently happy at being again

in his old quarters, still seems sad at heart, and discontented.

He follows Lilian's movements in a very melancholy fashion, and herself also, until it becomes apparent to everyone that his depression arises from his increasing infatuation for her; while she, to do her justice, hardly pretends to encourage him at all. He lives in contemplation of her beauty and her saucy ways, and is unmistakably distrait when circumstances call her from his sight.

In his case 'absence' has indeed made the heart grow fonder, as he is, if possible, more imbecile about her now than when he left; and after struggling with his feelings for a few days, finally makes up his mind to tempt fortune again, and lay himself and his possessions at his idol's feet.

It is the wettest of wet days; against the window panes, the angry rain drops are flinging themselves madly, as though desirous of entering, and rendering more dismal the room within, which happens to be the library.

Sir Guy is standing at the bow-window, gazing disconsolately upon the blurred scene outside. Cyril is lounging in an easy-chair with a magazine before him, making a very creditable attempt at reading. Archibald and Taffy are indulging in a mild bet as to which occupant of the room will make the first remark.

Lady Chetwoode is knitting her one hundred and twenty-fourth sock for the year. Lilian is dreaming, with her large eyes fixed upon the fire. The inestimable Florence (need I say it?) is smothered in crewel wools, and is putting a rose-coloured eye into her already quite too fearful parrot.

"I wonder what we shall do all day,' says Guy, suddenly, in tones of the deepest melancholy. Whereupon Taffy, who has been betting on Cyril, and Ches