“I don’t know. He has never said so. Did you think that yourself, Sheila?”
It had not entered Sheila’s head till Effie’s own words had suggested it; but certainly Cyril had paid a good deal of attention to Effie, and had seemed anxious to see more of her.
“I’ve never seen people in love,” she answered; “I don’t know what they do, or how they look. Do you think you would like to marry Cyril, Effie?”
Effie blushed, but looked up with a sparkle of defiance in her eyes.
“He’ll have to fall in love with me first, and then I’ll perhaps think about it. You don’t suppose I’m going to care for anybody in that way if he doesn’t care for me? I’m the heiress of Cossart Place—you heard Cyril say so himself. I believe I shall have a very big fortune some day. You don’t suppose I’m going to be had just for the asking—not even by Cyril!”
Sheila held her peace; her ideas about love and marriage were very elementary and immature, but she did not see that what persons had could make very much difference. It was whether they cared for each other, she thought.
The following weeks were rather amusing ones for Sheila and Effie. Cyril had taken up in earnest his plan for getting Effie to ride again; and Mr. Cossart had been talked over when he found that the doctor approved and that Effie’s heart was set upon it.
Cyril was the master of the ceremonies throughout. He first hired for her a trained circus pony, who would obey at a word, and who carried Effie patiently round and round the sweep of the drive till she had regained some of her former aptitude for the saddle. Meantime he was scouring the neighbourhood in search of a suitable cob for her future use; and when he had heard of a likely animal, he would call for Sheila to accompany him to the place, because, as he said, though she might not know whether the creature were sound or not, she could give a very good opinion as to whether its paces were easy and comfortable, and whether it was the kind of creature Effie would like.
These rides were a source of great enjoyment to Sheila. She found Cyril a delightful companion, and he seemed to find her the same. It was a relief to get away from the atmosphere of Cossart Place for a few hours—away from Effie’s companionship, and the feeling of irritation and constraint which she often experienced there.
“I suppose it is my fault,” she sometimes said to Cyril, if he chanced to find her in one of her stormy moods. “I want to be nice to Effie; but she does aggravate me sometimes! When she is ill, I am really very sorry for her. It must be dreadful to feel as though you couldn’t breathe. But I do think she would be better if she wasn’t always talking and thinking about her symptoms. It’s partly Aunt Cossart. She is always asking her about them. But—oh, dear, I do get so tired of it! And then if I am cross, I get into such disgrace!”