CHAPTER XVII.
CYRIL’S WOOING.
“Then, mother, you think I can depend upon my father’s doing something handsome for me if I were to get her?”
“Yes, my boy. I had a long talk with him last evening after you had spoken with me about it. He has taken a great fancy to May Lawrence, and he was very pleased indeed with her visit to the works the other day, and her promise to come and sing at the club some evening. He seemed just a little surprised when I spoke of your hope of winning her for a wife; but he said there was nobody he should prefer more for a daughter-in-law, and I am sure he spoke the truth.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very well; but what sort of establishment would he give me? She has a little fortune of her own. I know that, and, of course, she will come in for more when her father dies; but that may be years off still. I can’t ask a woman to marry me without having a home to offer her!”
“No, and your father will give you that. He said he would establish you comfortably in London, and allow you six hundred a year, and that, with your own earnings at the Bar, since you have now finally decided upon the law as your profession, will enable you to get along nicely. You have great talents, you know, Cyril, and we expect great things of you!”
Cyril kissed his mother, but looked a little doubtful.
“Six hundred is not a large income in London; but I think May has two or three on her marriage. We might get along in a flat. Of course I shall do all I can, but it’s precious slow work at the Bar in these days. Some clever fellows never make their way at all. I’m not sure I sha’n’t take to literature instead. If one can get into the swim it pays better.”
“With your talents and with your education and presence you are sure to get on,” said his mother, with serene confidence, and for once in his life Cyril found this complaisant admiration a little trying. He knew that money was a hard commodity to make, and he did not like it to be assumed that he would soon be making a fine income for himself and his wife.
“Well, at any rate, I can tell the old boy that I am in a position to marry; that is, if he doesn’t look for great beginnings,” remarked Cyril, after a pause; “and the Lawrences have come down in the world themselves, and have no very grand ideas, which is a comfort. May is a bit of a Radical herself, but she’ll mend of that in time. It does all very well when you’re young to be enthusiastic and sentimental over the working classes; but one grows out of that fast enough, except fellows like North, who never have an idea beyond the shop all their lives!”
“North is a very good son, and a great help to his father. It is not his fault that he has not your talents, Cyril, dear.”
“No, we can’t all be alike! I say, mater, I’m awfully hard up for loose cash just now. This London business costs more than one fancies, and I don’t like always asking the governor. A man can’t go wooing with empty pockets. Can’t you give me a little just to go on with, from the housekeeping or something?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do this time; but you’ve had all I have had to spare for some time, Cyril. Your father was rather vexed at my not getting a new winter mantle, but I managed to pacify him. You mustn’t keep me too short or there will be a fuss.”
“Oh, no, it’s only for a few trifles for May; there will be the ring, you know, and flowers, and that sort of thing. Thanks awfully, mother, you are real good sort! I daresay the governor will stump up handsome when I tell him the news, and then I’ll pay you back.”
Cyril went away well pleased with himself, and resolved to lose no more time in his wooing. It had occurred to him that it was about time he had an independent home of his own. Something in the home atmosphere had become uncongenial to him. North was cool, and rather avoided his society, and Cyril had very uneasy moments sometimes when his brother occasionally came to him with certain rather pointed questions, the drift of which he seldom altogether understood. Ray had been rather off-hand with him ever since that luckless fire, the memory of which still made his cheeks tingle, and he often fancied that his prestige in his native place had considerably gone down. Oscar’s face was a continual reproach to him. He was tired of his life in Isingford, anxious for a sphere of his own.
But a sphere implied a centre and a home, and a home meant a wife. Cyril turned matters over in his mind a few times whether or not to go out to Madeira and propose to Effie with her rich dowry, or to content himself with the much more attractive May and her smaller fortune.
In the end he decided upon the latter course. Effie’s money was certain to be tied up very tight. He had more hopes of getting things more to his liking in dealing with May’s parents. They were not business people. They would probably have easier ideas, and May was out and away a more attractive girl than Effie; besides, a delicate ailing wife would be a nuisance. Cyril wanted to be the centre of attraction in his own home, not to have to spend his time fussing after his wife.
So dressing himself very carefully in a riding suit which he greatly fancied, he ordered the best horse to be obtained at the livery stables, and rode gaily off towards Monckton Manor.
May was in the garden. The sun was shining brightly, and the birds were singing with that kind of eager rapture which is only heard in the spring. February was waning, and though the March winds were still to come, the present warmth was all the more welcome. Celandines lifted their golden cups to the caress of the sunshine, and primroses were to be found gemming the banks, whilst in garden borders crocuses made a joyous blaze, and the daffodils began to push up their bloom buds as though eager to show that they would not be much behind.
A servant came out to her from her house.
“Mr. Cossart has called and would like to see you, miss.”
May’s eyes lighted and a little flush stole into her cheek. It was not Saturday, so there must be something special in this visit. Perhaps the very fact that it was unusual helped to induce that wave of subdued excitement. Something special must have occurred. He must be wanting something from her. May turned at once and went eagerly towards the house.
A tall figure came out into the sunshine of the terrace, and suddenly all the light faded out of May’s face. She turned to the servant almost sharply.
“You said it was Mr. Cossart,” she said.
“That is the name the gentleman gave,” answered the footman, who was new to the place.
“That is Mr. Cyril Cossart. You must remember the difference in future,” said May, trying to control the irritation she felt. “I don’t believe I’d have gone in for him,” she muttered to herself. “He had no business to ask for me with mother out. But he has seen me now, so I suppose I must go for a little while. I hope he won’t stay long. I’ve such lots of things I want to do.”
Cyril came down the steps to meet her, too much self-engrossed to observe the coolness of her greeting.
“Don’t let us go in this lovely day, Miss Lawrence. These sweet spring days are too precious to lose! May I not join you in your ramble?”
“I was not rambling, I was gardening,” answered May, but she could not exactly refuse his request, though she did not altogether approve the suggestion. She thought he was taking too much the airs of an intimate friend, and of late he had not been encouraged to intimacy at the Manor.
“I am sorry my mother is not at home,” she said, as they walked down the wide nut avenue, where she had so often paced with North, asking eager questions about his work, and forgetting everything in her interest at his replies.
“Well, it is you that I came especially to see, May,” he answered; and as she started at the sound of her name spoken thus for the first time by him, and flashed an indignant glance at him, Cyril plunged into the carefully-prepared speech he had made, faltering a little at first, but getting the thread quickly, and then going rapidly forward with gathering courage and assurance.
For the first few minutes May was simply too much astonished to speak a single word, and then a wave of hot indignation surged over her, and she was afraid to speak lest she should say something she might regret afterwards. After all, when a man proposed to a girl, he was supposed to be paying her the highest honour in his power to offer. She sought to remember this, and to curb her angry impulses; and during this time Cyril had got a long way in his speech, so that there could be no possible doubt as to his meaning.
“Oh, please stop! Please do not say any more!” cried May at length, when she felt that she could master her emotions and speak quietly. “What you want is quite out of the question! Please say no more. We had better say good-bye”—and she stopped, facing him, and held out her hand.
Cyril stood dumfoundered. He simply could not believe his ears. This was probably some girlish wile to lead him on to more impassioned declarations. He was quite ready for that, and, taking her hand in his, recommenced his protestations, but May pulled it from him, and her eyes flashed.
“Mr. Cossart, please to understand me, once and for all. What you wish is quite impossible!”
“Impossible that you should be my wife, May?”
“Quite impossible, and please not to call me that again! You have no right to do so.”
“May—Miss Lawrence—what does all this mean? Why cannot you be my wife?”
She looked him steadily in the face; her composure was coming back to her. The desire to speak the truth was upon her.
“We have always been friends,” he urged, desiring this thing the more urgently from the unexpected opposition. His pride and vanity were working hard on the same side as his affections. May looked very handsome standing there confronting him, a flush on her cheek, a light in her eyes. It was impossible for Cyril to believe her indifferent to him. He had always regarded himself as irresistible.
Once again he began to plead; once again she let him have a certain licence, and then she cut him short.
“Mr. Cossart, you have said a great deal now, let me say a very little. Perhaps you do not know what a woman most desires in the man she makes her husband. One thing is, I think, a perfect trust in him—his love, his courage, his honour!”
She spoke the last words very distinctly; Cyril’s glance wavered for a moment, then he broke out—
“I love you with all my heart, May!”
“I do not think so,” she answered, “though, perhaps, you think it yourself. Forgive me if I pain you, but you want to know the truth, you say. A woman would not like to feel that in a moment of danger her husband would lose his head, leave her, and think only of saving himself!”
“You are ungenerous,” said Cyril, with a dark flush; “I have refuted that charge once. I shall not repeat my defence.”
“No, don’t,” said May quietly; “not to someone who was there and saw and heard all!”
In the deep silence which followed, his quick angry breathing could be heard; then May spoke again in the same calm way.
“A woman wants also perfect confidence in her husband’s honour. It would not be pleasant to hear searching inquiries as to how bank-notes, for instance, which he had passed on to other people had come into his possession.”
The flush on Cyril’s face faded, and a grey pallor took its place. He took a backward step and almost gasped out—
“Miss Lawrence, what do you mean?”
“Nothing very much. Of course, no man of honour would mind such inquiries. But it seems that there is a hue and cry of some sort over a bank-note which my brother cashed some time ago. That note he changed for a friend of his who happened to be short of gold one day and asked him for it. It is rather wonderful he remembered the circumstance, but he did. As he said to me, that sort of thing was not quite pleasant, though no doubt everything could be satisfactorily explained.”
Cyril’s face was livid.
“I never asked your brother for change.”
“Did I say that you did?”
“It was implied in your speech.”
“I will not imply any more then. I tell you in plain words that it was you who asked Frank for change for the note and got it. You may have forgotten, but he has not.”
“And who has been making inquiries?” asked Cyril, with stiff pale lips.
“Never mind. It is really no affair of mine. If it is anything to you, you will hear all in good time. I think I must be going now. I have a number of things to do. Good-bye, Mr. Cossart. I will tell them to bring your horse to the door.”
She turned and left him—left him standing like a man half-stunned. That was a pretty outcome of his day’s wooing. Fear and rage wrestled for mastery in his heart as he rode away from the house, resolved never to cross that threshold again.
He had been so confident that all the trouble had blown over by this time, that nobody, not even Oscar, had been much the worse, that no strict inquiry had ever been set on foot. His face was still pale, and he felt shaken and nervous as he walked from the livery stables home. He was half afraid to enter the drawing-room lest his appearance should excite comment.
But as it happened there was another excitement on foot which quite shielded him from notice. Voices were speaking in rapid eager tones.
“What can it be? How very strange!”
“Alone too, or she would not want meeting.”
“Oscar must go, of course, but it is all very odd.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Cyril, in as easy a tone as he could master.
“Why, look there,” cried Ray, putting a telegram into his hand, “that has just come from Uncle Cossart in Madeira.”
The message ran as follows—
“Sheila returns by Dunraven Castle. Have her met.”
(To be continued.)
