Chapter XX · MY LADY EXPOSTULATES.

Cyril's love for Mary Lennox was great; all the greater that his heart was an honest one, and that so much of compassion was blended with his love. He knew that when he left her for the East she would be alone—most terribly alone—if her father died; for with his life her means would pass away. So Cyril had been thinking seriously of a secret marriage, and thus making for her such a provision or position as would compel his family to support her honourably, if he fell in action, or died of those diseases which follow an army into the field.

But he felt, on consideration, that proposing or effecting such a measure would perhaps be an act of injustice both to Mary and his family, placing her, perhaps, in a false position with them in particular and the world in general.

Too well he knew that to announce openly his engagement, or a resolution, to marry the poor and penniless Mary Lennox, the daughter of a bankrupt and spendthrift, would excite the greatest opposition—perhaps a quarrel with his father and mother, whom he justly loved and respected.

On the strength of his opposition, Sir John might take very high ground and cut off his allowance; without it, could he rejoin the regiment? and if he failed to do so, on the eve of a war, where would his honour be as a soldier and a man? He felt sure that even his brother Robert would open his eyes very wide with wonder at such a matrimonial scheme; for he had studied law long enough to have imbibed something of the caution peculiar to the legal tribe.

Cyril's monetary difficulties were not trivial. He had come on leave from an expensive regiment to retrench a little, and within a few days he had lost the bay hunter, just after paying Ernescleugh for him; and with what he had lost at cards with Chesters, this made over a thousand pounds. Then he had some gambling and other debts at headquarters; but no IOU's were permitted to circulate in the Royal Fusileers, by a mess regulation of that corps, where the word of a brother officer was always deemed sufficient.

He felt worried on every hand, and once or twice his evil angel whispered that, were Mary Lennox less winning, less sweet, and more than all, less helpless, he might listen to his mother's suggestions; but no sooner was the evil idea insinuated, than the honest fellow crushed it in his heart. He could never be false to his tender, true, and secret love!

With his mind thus agitated by conflicting thoughts, it may be imagined with what patience he listened to his mother, who still retained his hand confidingly and caressingly in hers, as she seated herself by his side on a blue satin fauteuil, and began thus sententiously—

"The whole of this beautiful estate of Willowdean, when it comes to you, as in the course of events it will, burdened as it is by sundry old debts, and the allowances to your brother and Horace Ramornie, will not yield——"

"And to you, mother dear."

"Don't talk of me; I have no wish to survive my dear husband. Will not yield, I was about to say, enough for one of your expensive tastes and habits; therefore, a wealthy marriage is necessary."

"You flatter me; but I love to be independent."

"And like many independent men, may end by making a fool of yourself," she added, with more bluntness of manner than was usual with her. "Pardon me, Cyril, but perhaps you have done so already."

"How?"

"By forming some unsuitable, if not unworthy, attachment."

Cyril's handsome face flushed and grew pale under her scrutiny.

"Mother dear," said he, gently, "you never spoke to me in this strange tone before. Oh, why adopt it now? I know what you mean and wish; but do not ask me now, at least."

"Then if you will not be so attentive to your cousin as I wish, promise me one thing, Cyril."

"Twenty, if you choose, mother."

"That you form no hasty attachment elsewhere, and enter into no engagement without consulting me?"

Again he coloured perceptibly, for he felt that the keen eyes of his mother were watching him, while the earnest grasp of her soft white hand tightened upon his; but he replied, evasively, and with a laugh—

"I shall engage the Russians only. There, will that suffice you? I beg your pardon, dearest mother," he urged, "but do let us cease this most unpleasant subject: and now I'll have a quiet weed in the conservatory."

But Lady Wedderburn was not yet done with him, and said, with growing excitement—

"Am I to conclude that you are a bad, or unnatural son, Cyril, who would repay my love and anxiety with banter?"

"Because I won't propose to a woman—a girl I don't care for, and who does not care for me? By Jove! it is too absurd."

"Your interjections are not choice. If Gwendoleyne is beautiful in her eighteenth year, what will she be some time hence, in the full development of womanhood?"

"Adorably lovely, I know; yet I am in no mood to marry."

"No mood to marry her, perhaps." said Lady Wedderburn, with a sudden flash in her eyes. "Think of her wealth."

"I am ashamed to say that I have thought of it," said Cyril, with a sigh; "all the more that I am pretty close run for money, both here and at headquarters; but, for Heaven's sake, don't let us have a row about Gwenny."

"A 'row!' How can you talk in this slangy mode to me? How dare you, Cyril!" she added, rising. "I thought that you rather boasted of your good taste over such men as Chesters of Chesterhaugh."

"'Pon my soul, you go beyond old Colonel Bahawder, of the depôt battalion! But, my lady mother," said he, kissing her hand with playful respect, and caressing the braids of her black hair, which was now becoming seamed with white, "like some of the well-fed perch in yonder pond, I am content to coquette with the sweets and crumbs that come my way, even as Gwenny is now throwing them in; but as for matrimony, that I leave to a sober-sided fellow like Robert, or a melancholy-eyed Romeo like Horace: and now that I think of it, she changes colour so visibly when Horace speaks to her, that I begin to suspect——"

"That he is in love with her?"

"No."

"What then?"

"By Jove! that she is in love with him," replied Cyril, quietly selecting a cigar from a handsome case (embroidered for him by some confiding garrison beauty), and preparing it for smoking by carefully biting off the end, and heedless that his mother's eyes were sparkling with resentment.

"Are you aware that what I urge is also your father's wish?" she asked.

"Likely enough," replied Cyril, with growing annoyance. "There are Baronets as well as Knights of the Golden Calf, and both are more numerous than the Knights of the Golden Fleece."

"Go on, sir, go on; though I never before heard you sneer at your good papa."

"How you pervert my words! I do not sneer; but in all this matter has poor Gwenny no right to be consulted?"

"Not much; she is so young, she is our ward, whom we are to see properly bestowed in marriage; and where could she be given more properly than to one whom we have known from his boyhood."

"And a little earlier," said Cyril, laughing outright.

"You may—nay, you must win her, if you will only try, Cyril."

"But I don't want her. By Jove! think of a fellow going in for matrimony and the corps having got its letters of readiness. I might be telegraphed away from the very altar—have to make a halt of it, a half-married man. There would be a little melodrama for you! The whole thing is absurd, mother."

"Well, when you return?"

"Who can count on returning? There are such things as shot and shell, shipwreck, camp-fever, frost and starvation, and so forth," was the gloomy response. "I may be taken prisoner by the Russians, and never heard of again."

"Do not talk so, Cyril, I implore you. Marry Gwenny and get on the staff. If you will still soldier, let it be at home."

"If I do, may I be—cashiered, that is all!"

Usually, Lady Wedderburn's manner had all the perfect serenity and unruffled calmness peculiar to good and gentle breeding, but now her brow, wont to be so smooth, became clouded over; wrinkles actually appeared where none had been visible before; her fine mouth became compressed, and an expression, almost of baleful spite, stole into her clear, dark grey eyes, as she drew herself up to her full height, and said, with half-averted face—

"I know to whom I am indebted for this steady opposition to my wishes."

"To whom, mother?"

"That artful girl at Lonewoodlee. Ah! servants will talk, and local gossips too!" and with a scornful sweep of her skirts, she glided from the boudoir, even as she did so repenting that she should leave in wrath the Absalom she had so nearly lost by a terrible fate!

"So, so, it's out at last! Local gossips have been busy with Mary's name—curse them!" muttered Cyril. "Mamma has opened the trenches with a vengeance! Well, I am not a boy, though she seems disposed to treat me as such. What is to be done now? See my poor Mary about it, at all hazards."

As he glanced round his mother's luxurious boudoir, with its blue satin and silver hangings, its Aubusson carpet of pale green studded with beautiful bouquets, its marble busts and alabaster vases, and tiny tables glittering with a crowd of handsome and elegant trifles, and thought of Mary's gloomy home, his heart felt sick and sore; he sighed deeply, and entering the lofty and stately conservatory, lit his cigar, and threw himself on a sofa, to think over his plans for the future.