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.