After a moment or two, this train of thought being found unsatisfactory, another forces its way to the surface.
By the bye, why should she not be her sister, – that is, the widow's? Of course; nothing more likely. How stupid of him not to have thought of that before! Naturally Mrs. Arlington has a sister, who has come down with her to see that the place is comfortable and well situated and that, and who will stay with her until the first loneliness that always accompanies a change has worn away.
And when it has worn away, what then? The conclusion of his thought causes Cyril an unaccountable pang, that startles even himself. In five minutes – in five short minutes – surely no woman's eyes, however lovely, could have wrought much mischief; and yet – and yet – what was there about her to haunt one so?
He rouses himself with an effort and refuses to answer his own question. Is he a love-sick boy, to fancy himself enthralled by each new pretty face he sees? Are there only one laughing mouth and one pair of deep gray eyes in the world? What a fool one can be at times!
One can indeed!
He turns his thoughts persistently upon the coming season, the anticipation of which, only yesterday, filled him with the keenest delight. But three or four short weeks to pass, and the 12th will be here, bringing with it all the joy and self-gratulation that can be derived from the slaying of many birds. He did very well last year, and earned himself many laurels and the reputation of being a crack shot. How will it be this season? Already it seems to him he scents the heather, and feels the weight of his trusty gun upon his shoulder, and hears the soft patter of his good dog's paws behind him. What an awful sell it would be if the birds proved scarce! Warren spoke highly of them the other day, and Warren is an old hand; but still – but still —
How could a widow of forty have a sister of twenty – unless, perhaps, she was a step-sister? Yes, that must be it. Step – Pshaw!
It is a matter of congratulation that just at this moment Cyril finds himself in view of the house, and, pulling out his watch, discovers he has left himself only ten minutes in which to get himself ready before starting for the station to meet Miss Chesney.
Perforce, therefore, he leaves off his cogitations, nor renews them until he is seated in the detested carriage en route for Trustan and the ward, when he is so depressed by the roof's apparent intention of descending bodily upon his head that he lets his morbid imagination hold full sway and gives himself up to the gloomiest forebodings, of which the chief is that the unknown being in possession of such great and hitherto unsurpassed beauty is, of course, not only beloved by but hopelessly engaged to a man in every way utterly unworthy of her.
When he reaches Trustan the train is almost due, and two minutes afterward it steams into the station.
The passengers alight. Cyril gazes anxiously up and down the platform among the women, trying to discover which of them looks most likely to bear the name of Chesney.
A preternaturally tall young lady, with eyes like sloes and a very superior figure, attracts him most. She is apparently alone, and is looking round as though expecting some one. It is – it must be she.
Raising his hat, Cyril advances toward her and makes a slight bow, which is not returned. The sloes sparkle indignantly, the superior figure grows considerably more superior; and the young lady, turning as though for protection from this bad man who has so insolently and openly molested her in the broad daylight, lays her hand with an expression of relief upon the arm of a gentleman who has just joined her.
"I thought you were never coming," she says, in a clear distinct tone meant for Cyril's discomfiture, casting upon that depraved person a glance replete with scorn.
As her companion happens to be Harry Bellair of Belmont, Mr. Chetwoode is rather taken aback. He moves aside and colors faintly. Harry Bellair, who is a young gentleman addicted to huge plaids, and low hats, and three or four lockets on his watch chain, being evidently under the impression that Cyril has been "up to one of his larks," bestows upon him in passing a covert but odiously knowing wink, that has the effect of driving Cyril actually wild, and makes him give way to low expressions under his breath.
"Vulgar beast!" he says at length out loud with much unction, which happily affords him instant relief.
"Are you looking for me?" says a soft voice at his elbow, and turning he beholds a lovely childish face upturned somewhat timidly to his.
"Miss Chesney?" he asks, with hesitation, being mindful of his late defeat.
"Yes," smiling. "It is for me, then, you are looking? Oh," – with a thankful sigh, – "I am so glad! I have wanted to ask you the question for two minutes, but I was afraid you might be the wrong person."
"I wish you had spoken," laughing: "you would have saved me from much ignominy. I fancied you something altogether different from what you are," with a glance full of kindly admiration, – "and I fear I made rather a fool of myself in consequence. I beg your pardon for having kept you so long in suspense, and especially for having in my ignorance mistaken you for that black-browed lady." Here he smiles down on the fair sweet little face that is smiling up at him.
"Was it that tall young lady you called a 'beast'?" asks Miss Lilian, demurely. "If so, it wasn't very polite of you, was it?"
"Oh," – with a laugh, – "did you hear me? I doubt I have begun our acquaintance badly. No, notwithstanding the provocation I received (you saw the withering glance she bestowed upon me?), I refrained from evil language as far as she was concerned, and consoled myself by expending my rage upon her companion, – the man who was seeing after her. Are you tired? – Your journey has not been very unpleasant, I hope?"
"Not unpleasant at all. It was quite fine the entire time, and there was no dust."
"Your trunks are labeled?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you had better come with me. One of the men will see to your luggage, and will drive your maid home. She is with you?"
"Yes. That is, my nurse is; I have never had any other maid. This is Tipping," says Miss Chesney, moving back a step or two, and drawing forward with an affectionate gesture, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman of about fifty-five.
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Tipping," says Cyril, genially, who does not think it necessary, like some folk, to treat the lower classes with studied coldness, as though they were a thing apart. "Perhaps you will tell the groom about your mistress's things, while I take her out of this draughty station."
Lilian follows him to the carriage, wondering as she goes. There is an air of command about this new acquaintance that puzzles her. Is he Sir Guy? Is it her guardian in propria persona who has come to meet her? And could a guardian be so – so – likable? Inwardly she hopes it may be so, being rather impressed by Cyril's manner and handsome face.
When they are about half-way to Chetwoode she plucks up courage to say, although the saying of it costs her a brilliant blush, "Are you my guardian?"
"I call that a most unkind question," says Cyril. "Have I fallen short in any way, that the thought suggests itself? Do you mean to insinuate that I am not guarding you properly now? Am I not taking sufficiently good care of you?"
"You are my guardian then?" says Lilian, with such unmistakable hope in her tones that Cyril laughs outright.
"No, I am not," he says; "I wish I were; though for your own sake it is better as it is. Your guardian is no end a better fellow than I am. He would have come to meet you to-day, but he was obliged to go some miles away on business."
"Business!" thinks Miss Chesney, disdainfully. "Of course it would never do for the goody-goody to neglect his business. Oh, dear! I know we shall not get on at all."
"I am very glad he did not put himself out for me," she says, glancing at Cyril from under her long curling lashes. "It would have been a pity, as I have not missed him at all."
"I feel intensely grateful to you for that speech," says Cyril. "When Guy cuts me out later on, – as he always does, – I shall still have the memory of it to fall back upon."
"Is